St. Liam’s Beach

A minute before the change

The waves rhythmically licked the dry sand of the beach in an hypnotic motion, back and forth, back and forth. The sea was still shy because it was morning and therefore the tide was low.

The man crouched and put a hand through the fine and clean sand, taking some and letting it flow down right after. It was not an hourglass, but those sands of time still projected the man’s past life in his pupils.

Blood.

Wars.

Empire.

Hero.

Jacob.

Many images superimposed on each other, each barely giving the previous time to tell a story. And so, the man stared at the sand he was picking up and letting flow down.

“That was unexpected,” the man laughed to himself and shook his head.

“I should be a bit angrier, I guess.”

He put the sand-free hand through his glorios red hair, while he got up.

Around him was a mosty empty beach. There were small beach resorts that had yet to open, but that had clearly started the preparation for the summer season. He could see half-painted white fences trying to shield the place from the tarred filthy streets, a little slice of paradise when civilization wanted to forget they had polluted the world.

He looked around for someone, but the only person he could see was a jogger in the distance. Very far from him, stomping the white sand and trying to sweat it out during a morning workout.

He patted at his clothes, finding himself in a white shirt, a very expensive suite and even a little backpack by his side.

A very weird heaven, I guess.

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The man tried to summon his powers, finding nothing. He was fully human again, and not a cultivator anymore.

In a way, it was refreshing. The last wars he had fought had completely drained him of his energy. Even his usually bubbly personality had started faltering after all the people he had seen die.

Waging wars right and left had brought him to fight humanity, in the end. And that had not been pretty. Oh, that had not been pretty at all. He had sorely wished he could go back, that he could maybe fix some of his mistakes. But he knew that the only way was forward. There had been many moments he had regretted his actions, that he wished he had been more cautious.

His subordinates had done despicable things behind his back, telling him he had been to nice with the enemies. They even released Charybdes in a town, at some point. And he had run there to save them as soon as he knew and later he had killed his subordinates without flinching.

But that bloody life had started because he knew it had to be done, because he knew it was the right thing to do, the right wars to wage. In the end, however, he had lost. Humanity, too, had lost.

He felt relived in the last moments of his life, seeing only then what could have been if he had doubted himself a little more and if he had braked a couple times instead of sprinting straight toward an intercontinental war.

He bent over and searched the elegant, black-leathered backpack.

It contained some expensive toiletries and a stack of documents for some deal.

This is…

It had been a long time since he had last seen anything like that. Before the apocalypse, he had been making these deals. He had been rich in a past life, before becoming truly powerful. But his charms, manners and wits had brought him an even larger fortune than his family could have given him.

He had made almost everything alone, not even twenty-seven by the time he had crossed the hundredth million in his bank.

And he hadn’t been a person capable of complaining of such a beautiful life. He didn’t even work as much as they thought he did. He took long vacations, spent time travelling the world and generally enjoying himself.

You needed it when you swum among sharks all the time.

But these papers he was holding, they meant something else completely.

This wasn’t Singapore, not even close.

And if he was holding the same documents, he had had at the start of the Change in his past life…

Did I come back in time? And is this It—

The man keeled forward and vomited everything he had in his stomach, while a black film was being excreted by his skin’s pores. That went on for a good half a minute before he could breathe properly again.

“I hate this part,” the man stood up shakily but with a big grin in his eyes.

With a hand’s flicker, he was now gripping a massive flame spear.

The flames were a deeper red than normal fire, they were a bloodier color, something denser that burned stronger.

Vermillion.

The Vermillion Tyrant cleaned the last traces of vomit from his mouth with a bottle of water he had in his backpack. Then, he slung the bag on his shoulders and started walking.

In the distance, a dog-shaped tentacled monstrosity with more teeth than God should have allowed was now chasing the jogger.