** Unknown 'You' in the heart of Tir na Mriya**

“In the end, I messed up my second life too. Everything I thought I could protect? Gone, like a sandcastle hit by a wave. Swept away by people smarter and craftier than I’ll ever be.

“And there I was, front row seat, watching as one by one, they got pulled under. Drifting off to a place I can’t reach, even though I’ve wanted nothing more.

“Regrets? Please. I’ve moved past those. All those mistakes I tried to fix from my first go-around. All the ridiculous dreams I sold them on, knowing full well they were just that—dreams. They didn’t mean a thing. The dreams I filled their heads with, the secrets, the lies… It was all for nothing.

“It’s my fault. Every last bit of it.

In the end, I’m the problem. Always have been.”

You pause, the weight of his confession pressing down on you, his despair seeping into your soul like dark ink staining your thoughts.

“Ah, you have chosen to delve into the pages without my guidance?” Her voice, soft and musical, wraps around you like a lullaby from a world long forgotten.

She appears out of nowhere, as if forming from stardust, like a memory coming to life. “What draws your gaze, I wonder? Is it the tale of the Plum Blossom Consort that has ensnared your thoughts?” Her golden hair, radiant and shimmering like a halo, catches the ethereal light as she bends to sit beside you.

As She settles, a small group of violet ghost-like butterflies flutters by. Delicate wings casting a faint, ethereal glow. One butterfly breaks off from the group. It flutters towards you, and lands gently on the open page. A light presence, almost non-existent. Wings shimmer in the soft light.

Squirming under her all-consuming stare, you feel small. Exposed. The book seems to pulse with significance, its contents more daunting under her gaze.

“Ah, you have discovered him at last,” She murmurs, her gaze warm and knowing. “When the heart stirs, a path often reveals itself. But remember, not all journeys are as they seem. It is your choice to follow where curiosity leads.”

She pauses. Her gaze drifts to the sea of stars, where the constellations shift and dance to a rhythm only she understands. “And how could it be otherwise? He set a bar that touches the heavens, a path only the boldest would dare to tread. Do you feel the weight of his legacy? Yet, perhaps within his tale lies the solace you seek.”

Legacy? Solace? Sure, if by ‘solace’ she means more guilt. But what choice do you have? She is probably right. She usually is.

“It is an unfinished tale.” She smiles faintly, a touch of sadness hidden in her eyes. “But is a story ever truly finished, or does its echoes continue, reshaping the paths we walk? Perhaps it is in the pauses, the spaces between, where the greatest wisdom hides.”

You try to nod, but it is more like floating around, since you do not really have a body here. Just a little glowing light. Weightless and free. A mote of light surrounded by an ancient library within a colossal oak tree, its shelves holding stories saved from oblivion. Some spines worn and faded, others glowing with untold energy.

These are no ordinary books. It is a repository of forgotten tales, ancient wisdom, and the echoes of countless lives. Here, amidst the scent of old parchment and stardust, every book holds the story of a life lived, a journey taken.

And it is the domain of She. The Goddess of Stories, Dreams, and Lost Souls. A guardian of the forgotten, a collector of hopes that slipped through the cracks of time. The lost souls of those who wandered too far, the dreams that never found their way back. All find solace in her care.

This library always feels too big, too full of things you will never understand. But right now, it is just the book that matters. His story—it’s the only thing keeping you going.

You turn back to the book. The violet butterfly flutters its wings lightly before taking off, and you continue his story...

~~~~

Funny thing about death, it’s never as final as I’d like. At least not when one's lived through it twice already. And now with this third... Third time’s the charm, they say. But for me, it’s more like third time’s the burden. The weight of two failures hangs over me, and this time, I’m not sure I can carry it.

Well, I don't want to think about it.

But it is ironic how something as final as the end can also be the beginning. Reincarnation. Turns out it's not as rare as one might think. But for me, that detail is about as useful as a sword without an edge. What really matters is that my first life, soaked in arrogance and self-interest, came to a screeching halt on that cursed mountain top.

I always figured I'd go out in battle. It wasn’t some grand revelation. Seemed inevitable. I accepted it, even played it out in my head a thousand times since the war with those Demon Cult bastards dragged on and on. But when it actually happened, I was... I don’t know, empty? Numb? It felt hopelessly pointless, like a bad joke without a punchline.

My legs were barely holding me up, my vision was a damn blur, and the blood… I might as well have been standing in a river of it. But I had to keep standing. I wasn’t done. Not yet. For he was not dead.

The bodies of my comrades lay scattered around me, their faces frozen in that final, agonizing mix of fear and defiance. My lungs were filling with blood, but I kept moving. Because at the end of this nightmare stood the one who caused all of it—Cheonma, the Heavenly Demon, the mastermind behind the slaughter. A bastard who had appeared out of nowhere, spouting grandiose claims about being a god and ruling the world.

He stood there, untouched, like the chaos around him was a mere inconvenience. Blood, death, despair. It all flowed around him like water around a rock. He looked perfect. His white robes pure.

Except for one thing. My sword buried in his dantian.

He met my gaze, and for a split second, I thought I saw something there. Amusement? Frustration? Shock? Hell if I know. It didn’t matter back then. I’d finally reached him, and with his core shattered, he was as mortal as the rest of us.

And the bastard actually smiled. Blood trickled from his lips, but he had the audacity to smile, like this was some cosmic joke only he got.

“So, your sword finally reached me,” Cheonma said, his tone calm, almost bored, like we were chatting about the weather. That smug look on his face made me want to laugh and scream at the same time.

“Congratulations, Sword Saint—or was it Sword Demon?” he continued, his voice making me tremble. “But you still don’t get it, do you? This body? It’s nothing. Just a puppet. A vessel for my will. You can’t win. This is heaven’s decree. I’ll return, and when I do, this world will be cleansed. You and your kind? You all are simply obstacles in destiny’s path.”

His words were like poison, but I wasn’t about to let them sink in. My hands were numb from the cold creeping through my veins, but I still had enough strength to rip my sword out of him. Cheonma didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring at me with that damned smirk.

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"Puppet, huh?” I snarled, grabbing a fistful of his hair, yanking his smug face closer. “Real or not, you’re going to feel what it’s like when a ‘lowly human’ cuts you down. And quick? Nah, that’d be too easy.” I let a grin twist my face, something dark, vicious. “Let’s see if gods bleed like the rest of us.”

So, I made him suffer. I tortured the demon who thought he was untouchable. The demon who stood above us all, I dragged him down and made him feel every ounce of rage and darkness he’d unleashed. Didn’t matter that he didn’t scream, didn’t groan, didn’t cry out. Not that he could. I made sure to break his jaw and vocal cords before he could spout more nonsense.

When he was nothing more than a bloody mess, I whispered a few parting words before cutting off his head.

Watching as his head rolled down the hill, I wished I could’ve drawn it out longer, but I could feel death’s icy grip tightening around me. No pain. Just cold. I knelt, my sword the only thing holding me up. The cold was seeping in, wrapping around me like a shroud. My vision started to fade, the world closing in. The last thing I saw were the bodies of my sect brothers and sisters, and the few righteous idiots who stood with us, scattered like broken dolls. Blood, carnage, failure.

My hands trembled. Not from fear. From rage. It was all a worthless sacrifice.

Reality blurred with memories—my early life, a child dumped at the Sect’s doorstep. The mischief, the rebellion, the annoyance with how slow the world moved. And regret. So much regret. If I had just trained harder. If I had listened more, bullshitted less. If. If. If. But ‘if's’ are about as useful as pissing into the wind and expecting to stay dry.

Pointless. All of it, so damn pointless. A stupid, ridiculous death. Hero, my ass. If I were a hero, someone—anyone—would’ve made it off that mountain alive. If I were truly a hero…

Then she appeared. Amidst the carnage, hazy and ghost-like, yet more real than Cheonma ever was. Her blonde hair was brilliant, and her violet dress ethereal as it fluttered around her pale legs.

She stood before me, her feet untouched by the blood-soaked ground. Her fingers were warm as she lifted my chin, forcing me to look into her dark, forest green eyes.

“Your regret called me here, child,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “Tell me, what is it you want?”

And then—nothing. My memory just blanks out, a big, empty slate. Whatever I said to her, whatever bargain I struck to get that second chance, it’s gone. Wiped clean, like it never happened. I didn’t even remember her or the bargain until the very end.

So began my second life, ignorant of the fact that I was the one who had tossed myself headlong into hell. What a mess. I thought maybe with a fresh start, I’d get it right. But the arrogance of my first life was too strong, pulling me back into the same old traps.

And that second life? That’s what this story is about. To be honest, all this is me trying to figure it all out. But let me save you the suspense. It’s not a tale of redemption. No, this is a tragic comedy at best. A dark, twisted farce where I play the fool, thinking I can outsmart fate.

Waking up then? Not exactly the peaceful fade-out I got this last, third time around. No, this was more like getting drop-kicked back into existence, with pain and blinding light as my welcome party. Lucky me. Drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Like waking up from the hangover to end all hangovers, minus the booze and with zero clues as to what kind of disaster you got into the night before.

Wish I could say it was a one-time thing, but waking up in strange places, confused and disoriented, is a recurring theme in my life. It's practically a hobby at this point.

I found myself in an unfamiliar, dimly lit room with the faint scent of incense. Groaning, I attempted to sit up. A sharp pain in my side and right arm hindering me.

“Where... where the hell am I?” I muttered, my voice hoarse and cracking. Before I could even start worrying about my new, pubescent voice, the memories hit me like a charging bull.

Memories of my last moments flooded back—fighting to the bitter end, comrades falling, the searing pain of fatal wounds. Again, nothing about that woman or the deal I had made.

A soft, worried voice cut through my throbbing headache. “Quinming, you’re awake!" I squinted through the blur. An unfamiliar woman rushed over, looking at me like she was afraid I might fall apart on the spot. “You’ve been out for days. You need to rest.”

Xiuying. A beautiful courtesan whose strength and wisdom I would later come to respect.

I glared at her. "Rest? I don’t have time for that. Where are the demons? Where’s Huashun?”

She blinked, taken aback. “Demons? Huashun? Quinming? What are you... do you mean those demon cultists from the Demon Wars? It's been one hundred and fifty years since cultists have been seen. My word, what sort of stories has Lian been teasing you with that you had such dreadful nightmares?”

My heart didn’t just sink. It plummeted. Like a stone thrown into a bottomless pit.

"No... no way," I stammered, feeling the weight of the years crash down on me. The room spun, mocking me with its stability.

One hundred and fifty years? Could I really have been gone that long? Everything I knew, everyone I fought alongside... gone.

Not that there were many left in the end. Everyone had already kicked the bucket on that cursed mountain top.

But what about the sect?

Only children and decrepit elders had remained.

"What about Mount Hua? Huashun?” I demanded, my voice cracking under the weight of desperation.

She shook her head, confusion etched all over her face. It felt like a second blow to the gut.

“I’m sorry, Quinming. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My heart dropped. How could it not?

Mount Hua? Gone? Huashun? Forgotten? Everything I bled for, everything I died for... erased like it never even mattered.

The room spun, the walls closing in. I had to get out, had to find out what happened. I ignored the searing pain and forced my legs over the side of the bed, driven by sheer desperation.

“Quinming, stop! You’re not well enough to move!” Xiuying's voice was panicked, but I shoved her away with what little strength I had left.

I had to go. I had to know.

My vision blurred. Legs buckling. Every step was agony. Opening the door, a riot of colors, scents, and noise hit me all at once—lanterns blazed, perfumes and incense choked the air. It was a sensory assault after the suffocating quiet of the room.

I staggered into the hallway, almost colliding with a servant. The clatter of porcelain echoed, amplifying the chaos in my disoriented mind.

“Quinming!” Xiuying’s voice called after me, but I ignored it, pushing through the chaos. I needed to find the exit, to escape this waking nightmare.

My vision swayed. People stared as I stumbled past, some reaching out, others gawking. Their faces blurred together, mere obstacles in my escape.

I slammed into a wall of muscle and flesh, nearly toppling over. “Watch it, kid!” a man barked, his voice a distant roar in my ears.

I saw a staircase ahead and felt a surge of desperate hope. I half-ran, half-stumbled, gripping the banister to keep from collapsing. Each step down was torture. I tripped halfway, tumbling down like a ragdoll, and crashed into a heap at the bottom. Pain flared in my side and arm, but sheer desperation drove me to my feet. I must have been a pathetic spectacle.

I staggered through the common area, the room a blur of movement and noise. Laughter and voices blended into a cacophony I barely registered. My focus locked on the main door, my only hope of salvation.

Xiuying’s voice was closer now, a desperate plea. “Quinming, please! You’ll hurt yourself even more!”

My vision darkened. My body on the verge of collapsing. As my strength waned, a soft but firm grip caught my arm, steadying me. I reached for the door, my trembling fingers just inches away.

Images of Mount Hua filled my mind—jagged peaks, like the fingers of a giant stabbing into the sky, a sea of clouds enveloping the ancient temple, brilliant red plum blossoms drifting on the breeze.

Mount Hua's beauty mocked my desperation, a cruel reminder of all I had lost. The cool mountain breeze, replaced by stifling air and gaudy colors, only deepened my longing.

And the more I clung to memories, the quicker they slipped away, like petals on the wind.

Darkness crept in, time stretching out. A soft scent of vanilla wafted from the one who held me as the brothel's doors shrank to a distant pinprick of light. And then...

~~~

And then, just before the world faded away, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth touched his cheek. Like a promise, or a curse. His last thoughts were a whirlpool of despair, grasping at the remnants of a shattered past.

Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months. His body healed, but the nightmares remained. An ever constant reminder of his past failures.