The sun hung low in the sky, casting a sickly orange glow over the once-glorious city of Eryndor. Its towering spires, once symbols of strength and prosperity, now stood as hollowed remnants, half-destroyed by the relentless onslaught of the Demon Lord and his army of abominations. The city had been a beacon of light in a world darkened by war, a place where mages, soldiers, and scholars had gathered to push the boundaries of magic and science. But now, it was little more than a graveyard, its streets slick with the blood of its fallen.
Alaric stood amidst the carnage, his body battered and bruised, but it was not the physical pain that tormented him. It was the crushing weight of failure. His people, his kingdom, had been torn asunder, and he had done nothing to stop it. In the face of overwhelming darkness, his Essence Sage class had proven utterly useless.
He had always known that his skills were seen as weak. Essence Extraction—the ability to draw out the magical essence from creatures, objects, and even the very land itself—was slow, tedious, and had little immediate combat application. Essence Infusion, the process of imbuing that extracted power into objects or beings, was even more cumbersome. Most considered it a class for healers or scholars, not warriors.
Where others wielded raw elemental forces, like the raging inferno of fire mages or the unyielding defense of paladins, Alaric had been relegated to the sidelines. His skills took time to build, to create something meaningful, and in a world where the Demon Lord's armies were knocking on the gates of his city, there was no time for subtlety or preparation.
But in the quiet moments between battles, Alaric had always dreamed of proving his worth. He had believed that if given the chance, his skills would shine, that the delicate balance of essence could change the tide of any conflict. He had spent years refining his craft, harvesting the power of fallen beasts, of ancient trees, of magical relics, hoping to find the perfect blend of essences that could turn the tide of war. Yet, when the battle truly mattered, his best efforts were nothing more than whispers in the wind.
Alaric had known this moment would come—the fall of Eryndor. The signs had been there for years. The Demon Lord had raised armies of darkness, corrupted the land, and crushed nations with cruel efficiency. Eryndor had tried to stand strong, but Alaric had always known that, despite the strength of his people, their time was limited. The Demon Lord had played the long game, and now his forces were at the gates.
As the final assault began, Alaric had thrown himself into the fray, doing what he could, healing wounded soldiers, fortifying the last of the city's defenses, and infusing every weapon he could find with whatever magical energy he could muster. But his power was nothing compared to the relentless wave of darkness that crashed over them. His enemies were too strong, too fast, and his spells too slow.
The cries of the dying echoed in his ears. He could hear the screams of women and children as the demons ravaged the city, tearing through its defenses like paper. His friends, comrades, generals—each one fell in battle, their bodies lying scattered across the streets, their essences dissipating into the air. And yet, despite it all, Alaric's abilities had done nothing to turn the tide. His Essence Extraction pulled the strength of fallen heroes, but it was too little, too late. His Essence Infusion had brought small bursts of hope, but they were snuffed out by the unrelenting demon horde.
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Alaric had always been a patient man, believing that mastery over essence was a slow, meticulous art. But now, with the end drawing near, he realized that patience was no longer a luxury. The world was crumbling, and with it, all his dreams.
In the distance, the Demon Lord—a towering figure of dark magic and shadow—loomed over the battlefield. His eyes glowed with the fire of destruction, and his laughter echoed across the ruins of Eryndor. Alaric’s heart clenched in despair. The Demon Lord had come not only to destroy Eryndor but to break the spirit of its people. And he had succeeded.
As the final assault reached its peak, Alaric knew that his time had come. He stood amidst the carnage, his body shaking with the weight of his failure. The last of the soldiers were falling, and the city’s defenses were breached. The Demon Lord’s legions were sweeping through the streets, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. There was no more hope.
But then, in that final, desperate moment, something changed.
In the midst of the chaos, Alaric saw the bodies of fallen warriors—the strongest of his people—strewn across the ground. Their lives were gone, their essence scattered to the wind. But in that essence, Alaric saw an opportunity. An opportunity to do what his class had never been able to do before: to take that power and use it to change the fate of the world.
With trembling hands, Alaric activated Essence Extraction. He reached out, not just to the magic of the fallen, but to the very souls of the dead warriors. He drew their essence into himself, feeling their strength, their anger, their regret. The essence of fallen soldiers surged into him, filling him with unimaginable power. He had never used his skills like this before, and the strain was excruciating. His body screamed in agony as the stolen power began to warp his soul, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
In his final, desperate attempt to protect his world, Alaric combined the stolen essences into a singular, volatile power. He fused them together into a Hybrid Skill Regression, a forbidden act that, if successful, would allow him to go back in time, to undo the destruction and reclaim the future. It was a skill that had never been attempted, a gamble with fate itself.
The energy surged within him, but the cost was far greater than he could have ever imagined. His body buckled under the pressure, his mind splitting under the weight of the collected essences. As the Demon Lord’s forces closed in, Alaric collapsed to the ground, his soul wracked with pain. With one final cry, he cast the skill, knowing that he would never see the result.
And then, the world around him shattered. The battlefield, the city, the very fabric of reality itself bent and twisted, as Alaric’s soul was cast backward in time, twenty years into the past.
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When Alaric awoke, he was no longer lying in the ashes of Eryndor. He was in his younger body, his hands still steady, his heart still full of hope. The memories of the future—of the fall of his city, of the death of his people—burned in his mind like a flame that would never go out. The faces of the fallen warriors, the screams of the dying, and the laughter of the Demon Lord echoed in his ears.
But he was alive. And he had been given a second chance.
The question now was, what would he do with it?
The world had not yet been lost. But it was heading toward destruction, and Alaric knew that the fate of Eryndor—and perhaps the world itself—lay in his hands. He could not let the same mistakes happen again. This time, he would master his class. This time, he would save his people. This time, he would make sure the Demon Lord’s reign of terror would never come to pass.
And so, Alaric took his first steps into a future that had already been written, with a heart full of regret and a soul burdened with the weight of what he had seen. The road ahead would not be easy, but Alaric had learned one thing in the ruins of Eryndor: that even in the darkest of times, hope was a power worth fighting for.