Four white eyes
That was all Etharell could see—four white eyes. It was a strange sensation. Wherever this place was, being here felt both comforting and terrifying. It was like being in heaven and hell at the same time. Cold, yet warm. He felt as if he could do everything—yet also nothing at all. It was as if he existed... and yet didn't. In short, he was experiencing everything in its most extreme form—or not experiencing anything at all.
Then, in the next moment, a blinding white light engulfed him—and he woke up with an unbearable pain in his head.
Wait… his head? Pain?
Etharell blinked and looked around in confusion. What he saw shocked him. In front of him, a group of nobles, several knights, a few clerics, and some advisors were all kneeling with their heads bowed.
It was a sight he recognized.
The very same scene he had witnessed the first time he reincarnated into this world.
His pupils dilated as he tried to grasp the unbelievable situation he found himself in. Hadn't he just died?
He could still feel the stabbing pain from the traitorous knights who had turned on him.
So how was he back here again?
"Damn it… what the hell is going on?!"
The harsh and furious words of their king made everyone in the room tense. With a heart pounding like the ringing of a bell, Etharell slowly scanned his surroundings.
He remembered the daggers, could still feel the burning they had left in his flesh. And yet… there was nothing.
His wounds were gone, his skin unbroken. Even his clothes looked new—untouched.
"Is this… the beginning?"
His breathing was uneven. His lungs were working, but not as they should.
A heavy silence hung over the room.
Before taking even a single step, he looked down at his hands. They were trembling. His fingers… yes, they were still there. Still his.
But he had once used those same hands to hold back the blood pouring from his throat. He had washed those hands in the warm blood of betrayal.
A soft clink came from a knight's shoulder plate, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Everything felt real.
Too real. So real, in fact, that it felt too sharp to be reality.
"Your Majesty… are you all right?" asked the head knight, Sir Caelen.
Etharell didn't answer.
Instead, he took a step forward.
Then another.
He remembered these silver pillars.
This hall.
These people… Yes. He remembered it all. That first day—the day his reincarnation began.
What did it mean?
Had he been granted a second chance within his second life?
Or was he trapped in some kind of cycle?
Suddenly, a thought struck him.
What if… every time he died, he returned to this very moment?
Could he truly possess such a power?
But why?
Why would such a power be given to him?
Who was he, really?
He had always been a nobody.
Why would someone like him be worthy of such a gift?
"…Maybe it's just a onetime thing," he thought.
Etharell didn't fully understand what was happening.
And neither did anyone else in the room.
He noticed the curious and concerned stares directed at him. Straightening his posture and hardening his expression, he reclaimed the presence of a king.
"I don't feel well. I'll retire to my chambers for now," he said calmly, and walked out of the throne hall with steady steps.
---
The moment Etharell entered his chamber, he dropped the role of a king and let himself fall flat onto the ground. He had no time to care about the cold floor.
He was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
As if reincarnation hadn't been strange enough, now he had returned to the past after dying.
"Or maybe… maybe all of this is just a dream? Maybe I'm still dreaming right now?"
As that thought began to consume his mind, Etharell shook his head sharply.
The greatest mistake someone in his position could make would be to dismiss reality.
Especially in a life as dangerous as his, such thoughts served no purpose.
Yes, it was entirely possible that everything was just a dream.
But it was just as possible that it wasn't.
And since he had no way of proving either, the best thing he could do was reject those doubts.
If a hypothesis couldn't be proven, then denying it was the only kindness he could offer himself.
For now, he didn't know how or why he had returned to the past.
But as long as he was alive again, his focus needed to be on one thing: preventing his own death.
He had a strong sense of being observed. What if he was a lab rat or something? Etharell decided to put that frightening possibility out of his mind for the time being.
Even behind closed doors, it felt as though an invisible gaze was piercing through his skin.
Lying on the ground with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he sighed.
This world...
This second beginning...
Nothing about it felt miraculous.
If anything, even this chance felt like a threat.
He found himself wondering who had betrayed him.
Was it one of his subordinates?
Had he fallen victim to some secret organization?
Or perhaps it had been an assassination orchestrated by the Empire.
But the men who killed him didn't seem like soldiers trained by imperial forces.
Suddenly, he recalled something one of them had said:
*"This decision was made for the survival of the Kingdom"*
What was that supposed to mean?
Why would his very existence go against the interests of his kingdom?
Still, the key detail in those words was that the leader of his killers was either trying to save Tannurad—or pretending to.
But Etharell couldn't pinpoint a specific culprit.
From what he remembered, there were certain people who hated him...
But most of them weren't even in the capital anymore.
He let out a long, painful breath.
As if pushing back the imperial army and trying to be a decent king weren't enough, now he had to play detective, too.
But no matter what, he would find the ones who killed him—and he would have his revenge.
Luckily, those who murdered him had shown their faces before delivering the final blow.
"Hah... How could they have possibly known I'd return to the past?"
Even if he had a rough idea of what they looked like, finding them wouldn't be easy.
Etharell sat up slowly, the chill of the damp stone floor clinging to his bones.
In his ears, silence buzzed—an eerie rhythm that blended with the pounding of his heart.
He could hear even the hidden breath of the palace behind thick walls, tapestries, and locked doors, as if the entire building was struggling to accept his rebirth.
He had ten days.
Ten days to uncover the traitors and cut off their heads.
Ten days to prepare the city for war.
When Etharell stood, it wasn't as a king, but as a man risen from the ashes of a burnt kingdom.
His fingertips still trembled slightly, and the voices humming on the edges of his mind refused to fall silent.
But now was the time to draw a line between doubt and truth.
Ten days.
Only ten days.
And ten days were cruelly short to reverse a fate woven with betrayal.
He walked to the desk in the corner of the room.
He pulled out a thick, leather-bound notebook and opened it.
The pages were blank—but his hands, now steadier than in the past, held the pen with newfound purpose.
He dipped the quill in ink and began sketching, as best he could, the six men who had killed him.
His drawing skills weren't exceptional, but he began putting their faces to paper, piece by piece.
In the end, he wasn't satisfied with the drawings.
So he added detailed descriptions of each one.
He didn't remember all of them clearly—but two of them were burned into his memory with crystal clarity.
When he finished, he placed his hands on the edge of the desk.
Took a deep breath.
And then his eyes turned to the darkness. He swore to take his revenge.