Blood. Flames. Pain so agonizing it ripped a scream from his throat, even before the monster finished him off. Teeth, the size of tombstones, closed around him, and that should have been it. Oblivion. An end to five brutal years of endless struggle.

Instead, Jason sat bolt upright, gasping. Cold sweat mingled with the scent of cheap disinfectant stinging his nostrils. But this wasn't the charred battlefield of his final moments. Instead, a flickering fluorescent bulb cast harsh light on a cramped concrete room, the familiar sterile space of a pre-apocalypse emergency clinic. It stank of helplessness and cheap bleach – a throwback to the world's naivete before the rifts had torn reality open.

"Initializing Regression Protocol. Time Displacement: Five years, four months, seventeen days."

The mechanical voice jolted through him, sending waves of vertigo and an onslaught of memories into his skull. The System Apocalypse. His climb as a Candle Mage, a class everyone wrote off as useless until he made it deadly. The triumphs, the agony, the faces of both allies and enemies flickering past his inner eye. It was all there, all of it culminating in that hopeless last stand.

And yet, now...he stared down at his hands. Smaller, lacking the calluses and scars honed by countless battles. He leaped towards a chipped sink, cracked mirror revealing an echo of his older self. This face was younger, unscathed, but the coldness was already in his eyes – a mark the apocalypse had burned into his very soul.

Knowledge retention at one hundred percent. Physical form regressed.

All his skills were regressed too, back down to what he started with. Gone was the honed physique of a survivor. Yet, muscle memory and years of brutal combat experience remained embedded in his being. Even this weaker body was familiar enough to weaponize.

A bitter chuckle rasped in his throat. The Regression Protocol, an enigma even amidst the world's sudden transformation. But here he was, a ghost from a doomed future, flung back to the start. This time, he wouldn't simply play the game the System had dealt; he'd rig it from the opening move.

Jason knew exactly where he was. This forgotten rural town was ground zero, the first rift site. Where the world blinked out of existence as he once knew it and ushered in chaos.

A grim countdown pulsed on a nearby monitor, seconds bleeding away towards the start of the System Apocalypse. The rest of the world was still blissfully blind, their petty concerns about jobs and bills laughably trivial in the face of the coming carnage. They wouldn't have the luxury of time to adapt.

This time, they wouldn't just be blindsided. He'd make sure of that.

No mercy. He refused to go through that hell again because someone hadn't taken a threat seriously enough. Survival of the fittest was the only law now, and those unfit didn't deserve his concern. The weak would die, a lesson hammered into his bones under the punishing light of the System.

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The System's blue text overlay in his vision was almost comforting in its heartless familiarity.

Welcome, Survivor.

Class Selection in Progress…

The countdown had reset, an ethereal timer counting down minutes until the first class assignment lotteries began. This time, he wouldn't play their rigged game. His mind pulsed with possibility, every path branching with strategic consequences. But before grand schemes, he needed immediate tools.

With ruthless, regimented motion, Jason began tearing strips from the bedsheets. Every second mattered. He twitched in eager anticipation. The path through the inferno hadn't changed, only his foresight had. His enemies could stumble blindly toward their doom, but with every ounce of ruthlessness his past life forged, Jason would carve an empire from the ashes.

This time, domination wasn't simply a goal. It was his birthright.

The scent of the clinic wasn't just bleach. There was dust, clinging to stale air, and beneath that, a hint of mold from disuse. This place was meant for broken bones and childhood fevers, not whatever cataclysm the System was about to unleash.

Jason ignored the trembling in his younger hands. It wouldn't be his skills saving him today. No, the memories of techniques would have to suffice. It would be clumsy, weak... But with his knowledge, even that was better than nothing.

The town square erupted in screams. In his past life, the very moment the countdown hit zero had been relatively... calm. A few startled shouts, confused murmurs. There had been moments of terrified stillness before the first true monster clawed its way from a shimmering rift.

That hesitant pause – gone. It was as if the System itself had learned from those early missteps. This time, the monsters didn't hesitate. Jason didn't either.

An inhuman shriek punctuated the pandemonium. Jason whirled, a grotesque blur of warped flesh and dripping teeth tearing through a terrified teenager. The scent of copper hung heavy in the air.

Class selection complete. Congratulations, you have been assigned the class: Candle Mage.

The countdown display reflected in the grimy mirror mocked him. Minutes left until the world shattered. Did he feel any guilt for what he was about to unleash? His reflection, hardened despite its youth, remained impassive. Five years of the apocalypse did monstrous things to a soul. Guilt was a luxury he long ago lost.

And maybe...maybe a sliver of savage satisfaction crept through his gut. Let them fumble in the dark, just as he had once done. His future knowledge was the ultimate ruthlessness.

One minute until System Apocalypse initialization.

His final preparations were crude. Simple cloth wound around his forearms, forming makeshift padding. Not perfect, but something at least. It wouldn't be fancy wax blades today. But he could fight. He could hurt. And more importantly, he knew how to survive.

The world wasn't ready. Its inhabitants were mere cattle awaiting slaughter.

But he was.

He was born anew in the belly of the fire, tempered and hungry. Jason, survivor, conqueror, predator. And this time, he'd be sitting on the bloody throne when the dust settled.

Let the apocalypse begin.

Wax seeped out, invisible yet always ready. In his first life, it took agonizing trial and error to refine a technique dismissed as useless. It had cost him dearly. Now? His will bent reality effortlessly. Each strip of linen pulsed lightly, reinforced by wax. Not yet razor-sharp, but they'd do for now. He needed tools, a starting point, and time was the enemy.