Chapter 1 - The Last Battle
"Men, get in formation! I don't care if he's a Grade 9 mage at the Grandmaster level—he's still just one guy!"
The man in fancy blue robes yelled, his voice shaking. Maybe from old age, maybe from fear—hard to tell which. He stuck his palm out while thirty mages quickly shuffled behind him like nervous ducks in a row.
With a dramatic wave of his free hand, he shouted: "Roaring Thunderstorm!"
A bright magic circle burst to life in front of his palm. Spinning lines, floating symbols, ancient runes that looked like someone's geometry homework had exploded and started glowing. The air buzzed with power.
From the center of the circle, a massive tornado formed, roaring like an angry god as it spun toward the lone man standing across from them.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even flinch.
Just stood there with his hood covering half his face, arms hanging at his sides like this was just another boring Tuesday.
"What's he doing? Is he frozen or something?"
"No way. He's a Grandmaster. Those guys don't freeze up."
"But this is a high-level spell! Even one of the Five Great Magi wouldn't just stand there!"
The whispers grew louder as the tornado howled, tearing up chunks of earth and rocks as it got closer. The blue-robed commander squinted, trying to read the hooded figure's face.
Then—finally—he moved.
With a tired sigh, the hooded man raised one hand.
A second magic circle appeared above his palm. This one was quieter, simpler, but it glowed with a deep, dangerous light. The runes spun slowly, confidently, like they knew they were better than everyone else's magic.
He muttered something under his breath.
The tornado hit his circle.
Then it just... vanished.
Poof. Gone. Like someone had blown out a candle.
The entire battlefield went dead silent.
All thirty mages just stared. One guy dropped his staff with a clatter. Another started mumbling prayers to a goddess he didn't believe in until about five seconds ago.
The hooded man lowered his hand.
"That was cute," he said, his voice calm and deep, but with a hint of annoyance. "Anyone else want to waste my time?"
The blue-robed leader took a shaky step backward. "But—but the report said you were injured! You're supposed to be dying!"
A small, cold smile crept across the hooded man's lips.
"I am dying," he said. "Just not fast enough for you to matter."
The mages froze like someone had hit a pause button. Even their commander, who'd been shouting orders a moment ago, looked like he was trying to remember which spell book had the "run away really fast" chapter.
The hooded man took one step forward.
Just one.
The ground under his foot cracked like glass.
A low humming sound started echoing across the field—not from any spell they recognized, but from him. From his very presence.
"No backup plan? No other tricks?" he asked, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I expected better from the Empire's finest. Or did you really think I'd just keel over because some fortune teller said today was my day to die?"
Now he raised both hands.
Two enormous magic circles ignited behind him like twin suns, spinning slowly and washing the battlefield in red and violet light. The air itself seemed to bend around them.
"Men—fall back! RUN!" the commander screamed.
But it was way too late.
The circles released a silent shockwave of pure magical energy. Grass turned to ash instantly. Trees bent backward like they were bowing. The soldiers' armor started humming, and their swords trembled in their sheaths.
And the Magus just stood there in the center of it all, completely calm, like the storm was his obedient pet.
"You came here for my last breath," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "So let me return the favor."
He brought his hands together with a sharp clap.
BOOM.
A cascade of light erupted skyward—threads of lightning, ribbons of fire, and something darker that made the air taste like metal and fear. The mages didn't have time to scream. They didn't even have time to think.
Just light.
Blinding, overwhelming light.
Then silence.
The explosion shook the heavens themselves. When the dust and smoke finally cleared, the entire hilltop was gone. Not destroyed—gone. Like someone had reached down and scooped it out of existence with a giant spoon.
The hooded man stood alone in the center of the crater, swaying slightly on his feet.
"That... took more out of me than I thought," he muttered, coughing. Blood trickled down his chin, glowing faintly with leftover magic.
He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds slowly part as if making room for something greater to pass through.
"So this is it, huh?" He smiled to himself—tired, but strangely peaceful. "After everything I've done, all the battles I've fought... I guess even monsters like me get to rest eventually."
He dropped to one knee, staring down at the massive crater his final spell had carved into the earth. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear more soldiers coming. Always more soldiers.
Let them come, he thought. I'm done running.
But then something strange happened.
A magic circle appeared beneath him—not one of his own.
It glowed red, but not the angry red of destruction. This was different. Warmer. Like sunrise, like new beginnings. The symbols were completely unfamiliar, written in a language that wasn't from his world.
"Oh, come on," he groaned, frowning down at the circle. "What now?"
Then he felt it—a pulling sensation, like invisible hands grabbing his soul and yanking it somewhere else entirely.
"Oh, perfect. Reincarnation magic. Now it decides to kick in?"
The ground began cracking apart around him, light wrapped around his body like chains made of starfire, and with one final, deeply annoyed grunt, he muttered:
"Please don't let me be a goblin this time."
The light consumed everything.
And then there was nothing.