The world was gone.
Not in the way cities fall or empires erode, but truly, completely gone. The sky was a wound—a jagged, bleeding thing torn open by forces far beyond mortal comprehension. The earth beneath him cracked and groaned, reduced to a skeleton of itself. Air, thick with ash and the stench of melted steel, clung to the ruins like a final shroud.
He lay in the center of it all.
A man—or what was left of one.
His right arm was no more. Only a twisted stump remained, charred and blackened to the bone. Blood had long stopped flowing from the wound. Perhaps his body had simply run out of it. His skin was caked in soot, his lips cracked open like scorched earth, and his chest rose only slightly, struggling for breath that barely existed.
He couldn't remember his name.
There had been a time, not long ago, when he was more than this broken vessel. A player. That was what the system had called him. Player —Active. He had been strong, once. Faster than a normal man, sharper than any beast, wielding powers that bent the laws of reality. The system had pushed him beyond human limits—upgrading, challenging, refining.
But now?
Now the system was silent.
All around him, silence reigned. No more battles. No monsters left to slay. No comrades to protect. No voices, no footsteps, no cries. Everyone was dead. The world was dead.
So why was he still alive?
A bitter laugh escaped his throat, dry as dust. "Because I was a player?" he rasped aloud, voice broken by the weight of despair.
But then, a thought struck him. If everyone had been a player like me… wouldn't they have survived too?
His breath caught. Not from pain—he had transcended that long ago. From doubt. Doubt that seeped deeper than any wound.
Was I the only one? Did the system choose only me?
Why? Why him?
He was no hero. He had failed as many as he had saved. Watched allies fall, watched cities burn. And now, in the last hours of the last day, he had no strength left. Not even to stand. Not even to cry.
His vision dimmed. He welcomed it. Death had stalked him for too long. Perhaps now, finally, it would be a release.
Then it came.
[DING.]
A soft chime—clear, unnatural, foreign. Like a whisper from a machine that should no longer exist.
He forced open his crusted eyes.
And there it was.
Floating before him in the dim, apocalyptic air: a translucent blue interface, pulsing gently. His heart gave a weak stutter.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: Player
Status—CRITICAL]
[Final Protocol Initiated]
[One last choice remains.]
He stared, vision flickering.
[OPTION 1: Return to a New Timeline]
Your consciousness will be transferred to a new worldline. You will lose all physical attributes, abilities, and acquired knowledge. Re-entry will begin at zero. Rebuilding required.
[OPTION 2: Terminate Session]
Your death will be final. Your name shall be etched in the annals of history as the Last Player. This world shall remember you.
Two buttons.
Two fates.
He blinked. Slowly. Painfully.
A part of him—what was left of his pride—wanted to press the second. To let it end. To be remembered. He had fought harder than any. Lost more than most. Maybe the world owed him that.
But… what world? There was no one left to remember.
What use is a legacy if no one remains to carry it?
And the first option… it was cruel. To return stripped of everything. To start again, not as a warrior, not even as a man, but as a ghost with no form, no power, no certainty.
But still… it was life.
If there was even a single chance. Even a single person waiting in that new world. I want to find them. I want to live again. Not as a hero. Not as a player. But as a man who remembers what we lost.
His finger—barely moving—trembled toward the screen.
And he chose.
[OPTION 1 SELECTED]
The interface shimmered brighter now, humming with energy.
[Processing Player's Return…]
The last thing he saw was the light consuming the world around him.
And then—nothing.
.
.
.
He woke to the sound of a voice.
Soft. Female. Annoyed.
"Lin! Wake up already!"
His eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the pale morning light filtering through faded curtains. The ceiling was plain white, a subtle crack running across its length. For a moment, he simply stared at it, stunned by its sheer… normalcy.
(No ashes. No blood. No smoke. Just a ceiling.)
He sat up. A plain bed beneath him. The sheets were a little wrinkled, but clean. The air smelled faintly of detergent and warm dust. He looked around. A small desk stood against the far wall, holding a stack of schoolbooks. Posters of unfamiliar games and half-torn schedules decorated the room. A shelf with a few trophies. Soccer? Debate?
Everything was arranged. Lived-in. Safe.
(Where am I? Is this… real? Did I truly return to a new timeline?)
He moved his arm.
It moved.
Whole. Untwisted. No pain. No burns. Just skin—pale, soft, untouched by war.
(And this body… it's not mine. Not the one I remember.)
He stumbled out of bed, legs shaky, as though he'd never walked in them before. The floor was cold against his feet. He made his way to the small mirror above a dresser and froze.
A stranger stared back at him.
The boy in the mirror was slim, almost delicate, with an angular jaw that hadn't yet matured. His black hair was tousled, falling slightly over wide, dark eyes. His frame was narrow, his shoulders lacking the strength he once wielded. No scars. No battles etched into flesh. Just a sixteen-year-old with the look of someone who hadn't yet seen the world—let alone lost it.
(I truly lost everything.)
Then came the sound.
[DING.]
The interface burst to life like a ghost from the past—translucent blue, still sharp and polished against the soft morning haze.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: Welcome back, Player.]
You have used 1 Rebirth Crystal.
consciousness has been successfully transferred to a new worldline.
Your real world, as you once knew it, is gone.
Grow. Grind. Level up. Conquer.
Become the Player you once were.
He stood frozen, staring at it.
(So it wasn't a dream… The world really ended. Everyone—gone. And I'm here, breathing in a new life, in a new timeline. With nothing. No strength. No weapons. No memories of my former power stored in muscle or bone. Just… me.)
(But I'm alive.)
[PLAYER STATUS: — Level 1]
HP: 120/120
MP: 60/60
Strength: 5
Agility: 6
Intelligence: 7
Endurance: 4
Luck: 3
Skills: None
Title: "Reborn One"
Inventory: Empty
Equipment: Basic Cotton Pajamas
Currency: 0 Coins
A low, bitter chuckle escaped him.
("Basic cotton pajamas," huh? Fitting. I once held weapons that could split mountains. Now I'm barely more than a child with a soft pillow and mismatched socks.)
He closed the interface with a mental flick just as his door clicked and pushed open.
"Lin!"
A woman stepped in—mid-twenties maybe—her hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She wore a black blazer and pencil skirt, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she balanced a thermos in one hand and her handbag in the other.
"I've been shouting your name for five minutes," she sighed, removing the phone for a second. "Seriously, you okay? You're not usually this slow in the mornings."
He blinked. "Lin…?" He scratched his head, feigning confusion. (That's my name now?)
"Yeah, unless you want me to start calling you 'His Royal Highness the Oversleeper.'" She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I'm heading to work. I've got to cover two shifts today, so I might not be back until late."
She walked over to the small fridge in the corner and opened it, sliding a neatly packed lunchbox onto the top shelf.
"I made breakfast and lunch. Toast, eggs, and that leftover stew you like. It's in the blue container—don't microwave it in the metal bowl again, please."
He stared at her like she was a creature from another universe.
(She's not armed. No aura. No battle scars. Just a… normal woman. Corporate, tired eyes, working double shifts, and still taking care of someone like me.)
"Are you sure you're okay this morning?" she asked, noticing his stare.
"Y-Yeah. Totally fine," he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… a slight morning headache. Nothing major."
She narrowed her eyes, skeptical. "If you're sick, take the day off. I left some meds in the bathroom cabinet."
He smiled faintly. "Got it."
"Alright then," she said, walking to the door. "Lock up behind me. And don't forget to eat."
She paused in the doorway. "Oh—and don't get all existential while staring into the mirror again. It's creepy."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
He stood in the silence she left behind.
(So this is my new life. A weak body. A stranger's name. A sister I didn't have in my last life.)
He turned toward the mirror again, looking into his younger face.
(But the System is back. And with it… the path.)
(If there's still a path to power—if there's a chance to stop what happened before… I'll walk it. Even if I have to crawl through hell again.)
(Starting from nothing doesn't scare me. Dying did. Once.)
He flexed his fingers slowly, adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation of soft skin and untouched muscle.
(Let's begin again, then.)