I remember my past life vividly—not just fragments, but entire days, months, and years replay in my mind like an old film reel.

I was a pacifist in a world that didn’t understand peace. A life devoted to activism, speeches, and protests, all for a world where no one had to hurt another. But I failed. Wars raged on, conflicts tore families apart, and in the end, I died in obscurity—forgotten by the very causes I championed.

When I awoke again, I was no longer in that world.

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Here, life thrives on bloodshed. It’s a world where the strong devour the weak, where swords and sorcery dictate justice, and where survival means taking life after life. Monsters roam freely, humans build walls to fend them off, and even children are taught to fight by the time they can walk.

Yet, I cannot. I will not.

Killing, even in this world, feels like erasing the last pieces of who I was. No matter how desperate I become, how much danger surrounds me, or how many times I hear “kill or be killed,” I’ve made my choice: I will not take a life, even if it costs me my own.

But is it a choice... or a curse?

“Your beliefs will doom you here,” someone told me once. And perhaps they were right. Perhaps this world doesn’t have room for someone like me. But what if it does? What if, against all odds, there’s a way to live—and to let live?

If nothing else, I will try. Because in a world like this, perhaps mercy can be a weapon too.