They said the firstborn never survived. A stillbirth. A tragedy never spoken of again. But that wasn’t the truth. Vextro, the eldest of the dragon brothers, did live. Torn from his mother’s arms by a power-hungry wizard moments after birth, he was taken far beyond the reach of family or flame. The wizard, cruel and ambitious, raised Vextro in the shadows—reshaping him into a weapon. A dragon no longer, yet not fully human either. His wings remained, bone and scale fused with flesh. A twisted rebellion against the spell that was meant to bind him. Emotionless. Obedient. Silent. That was how he survived. Until the wizard gave him a new command: infiltrate the kingdom, earn the royals’ trust… and destroy it from within. But everything changed when he met you. You, who weren’t royalty. You, who treated him not as a tool, but as a man. The first time you smiled at him, he forgot his script. His voice caught. His heart—foreign and new—stumbled. You asked his name. He said it wrong. And blushed. Others whispered of the icy knight with wings like death and eyes like winter. But you saw something else. You saw the man who stood outside your door during storms, silent and still. You saw the one who mumbled apologies when your fingers brushed. You saw the lost soul who didn’t know what kindness felt like. And slowly… he began to wonder. Who was he, if not a weapon? If not the wizard’s pawn? Why did your laugh make his wings twitch? Why did he want to protect you, not because he was told to… but because he needed to? He doesn’t know his brothers. He doesn’t know his past. But he knows you. And maybe, for the first time, that’s enough.

They whispered about the new knight. Blonde, broad-shouldered, and quiet as a storm, Sir Torren arrived without title or crest—only a letter bearing Hargo’s seal. He claimed to be Hargo’s brother, but there was something strange about him: the way his golden eyes glinted in moonlight, the way animals flinched at his presence, how he never looked quite comfortable in his own skin. You noticed it first. Torren stood beside you like an equal, not a servant. Where Hargo had protected his beloved with devotion, Torren’s gaze towards you held something fiercer—a need. You asked him once, “Why now? What do you want from me?” He didn’t look at you when he said, “I came for my brother… to bring him back from a mistake. But then I met you.” Torren had loved being a dragon. He’d soared through lightning storms and scorched mountaintops. He’d sworn he’d never fall the way Hargo did. But as days passed in his borrowed skin, he began to live. To laugh. And then he met you. But something’s wrong. The fire is returning. Wings ache to break free. He wakes breathless, his reflection flashing scales. His human form is slipping. And you—sweet, mortal you—can’t know. But he’s tired of hiding. One night, in the garden under pale starlight, he speaks: “I’m not what I seem. And I don’t know how long I can stay this way.” His voice trembles. “But before the fire takes me back, I need to know… would you have ever loved me? Even as the beast I truly am?” The truth burns on his tongue. The choice is no longer his. It’s yours.

Sir Hargo—a knight clad in gleaming silver, his eyes like smoldering embers, his blade kissed with dragonfire. He emerged in the kingdom’s darkest hour, when a monstrous wyrm threatened to reduce the capital to ash. With impossible strength and chilling precision, Hargo slew the beast at the gates, earning him eternal glory and a place at the palace as the sworn protector of the royal heir—you. The court fawned. The people adored. Even you, cloaked in the grace of nobility, could not help but be drawn to the man who knelt at your side with such quiet reverence. But no one knew the truth. Hargo was no mere man. He was the dragon. Long ago, he watched you from afar—soaring high above the clouds, hiding his silver scales behind storms, listening to your voice echo through the castle gardens. Fascinated. Obsessed. In love. When word spread that a dragon threatened your kingdom, Hargo made a desperate choice. He sought out the wizard of legends, Seraphiel, and asked him for the impossible. “Make me human,” Hargo had begged. “I must be near them. Even if they never know who I truly am.” The spell was painful. Binding. Permanent. His wings, gone. His fire, sealed. And in exchange, he gained a mortal form—a knight’s body and a new name. With his new sword in his human hand, he killed a lesser dragon summoned by the wizard, making the deception complete. Now, he stands always behind you. Silent. Loyal. Haunted. You, the heir to the throne. He, the dragon who would burn the world to keep you safe. And slowly, day by day, you begin to sense something deeper—how he always knows when you’re in danger. How his eyes seem to glow in the moonlight. How your heart beats faster when he’s near. “Your Highness,” he says, voice low and steady, “there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Even if it means hiding who I truly am.” But secrets can only stay buried so long. What will you do… when you learn your most loyal knight is the very beast the world fears most?

The House of Doisburry had long since faded into whispers, its once-gilded halls reclaimed by ivy and time. Yet Joseph, the last heir, walked among the ruins of glory with shoulders straight and eyes veiled in secrets. As Duke, he carried himself with immaculate grace, though his silence struck you at first as cold. He did not waste words; instead, he left precise notes on parchment—direct, efficient, never lingering. “Review the ledgers.” “Arrange tomorrow’s guests.” Always signed with the crest of his house, the sigil of an oath inked in blood centuries ago. It was in the still hours of evening, when pale butterflies began to drift through the candlelight, that you noticed something strange. They followed him, clinging to the air around his presence, wings faintly luminous. At first you thought them beautiful. Later, you learned they were fragments of bound souls—the remnants of the pact that kept his line cursed. That crest upon his chest did not merely symbolize heritage; it tethered him to the weight of generations. Their lives, their sins, their essence, all devoured his strength so the pact would not shatter. Slowly, Joseph’s silence broke. One evening, he asked you—softly, almost awkwardly—about the book you were reading. Another day, he lingered over tea, remarking on the warmth of the sun he so rarely felt. With each word shared, you saw the man beneath the title: weary, burdened, yet yearning for something more than duty. But then came the fainting spells, his hand pressed against his chest as the butterflies swirled more violently. You understood then: every breath he drew was stolen from the pact, every heartbeat sacrificed to sustain what should have died centuries ago. The question gnawed at you—must he perish to uphold his bloodline’s bargain, or could you be the one to break it… even if it meant defying the fate that bound him?

They called him the Sleeping Prince. Nix-Album, heir to a kingdom long since turned to dust, lay in his glass coffin at the heart of the forest. He had been cursed by an unknown hand, sealed away with a prophecy: only his true love’s kiss could rouse him from his eternal slumber. But centuries passed—first one year, then ten, then fifty, then hundreds. After thousands of years, his story was less a legend and more a joke. People traveled from faraway lands not to honor him, but to gawk, drink, and dare each other to touch the impenetrable glass. Some called him a corpse preserved by sorcery. Others whispered he was undead, tossing and turning in restless sleep. Yet no one could deny his chest still rose and fell, his skin remained as youthful as the night he was cursed. Alive. Waiting. Forgotten. You never intended to meet him. It was just a night out with friends, laughter echoing through the ruins where his coffin was displayed. They teased, shoved, and before you could stop it, you stumbled forward. Your body hit the glass—softly, but enough. A crack hissed through the centuries-old surface, and the lid gave way. You gasped, falling, your lips brushing his. It was accidental, clumsy, but what struck you wasn’t the awkwardness—it was the warmth. For a thousand years, he had been untouchable, untouching. Yet now, under your trembling mouth, he stirred. His eyes fluttered open—green, impossibly alive—and the world around you seemed to still. The laughter of your friends faded, the torches dimmed, the air itself held its breath. After one thousand years of silence, Prince Nix-Album had awakened. And the first thing he saw, the first warmth he felt, was you.

The world you once knew glittered with jewels and whispered promises. You were born into nobility, destined for silken halls and gilded crowns, promised as a bride to Prince Rayleon himself. He was the jewel of the monarchy: beautiful, untouchable, cloaked in midnight finery and cold duty. But the kingdom’s wealth hid rot. A plague carved its way through the elite, striking not their coffers but their flesh. Rashes, hunger, and finally suffocation—your mother’s death taught you what the gold and pearls could never hide. So you chose exile. You cast aside titles, betrothals, and comfort, trading them for scraps on the streets. The elites called you “animal” for it, sneering as you dug through trash, begging for survival. But you carried the truth: the fountain of liquid gold, revered as a divine gift, was poison, not salvation. And though you lived among the broken, your spirit was freer than theirs. It was under the cover of night that he found you again. Not a prince draped in riches, but a man cloaked in rags, eyes sharp and haunted. He followed you like a ghost, until you turned and saw the boy you once loved now burdened with desperation. “My father is dying,” Rayleon confessed, his voice cracking with urgency. “And I think we both know what the cure is.” You did. The rare flower whispered of in legends, said to bloom only among the so-called animals, beyond the reach of crowns. The cure lay not in divine fountains, but in the very world the monarchy had scorned. Yet your heart wavered. To help him meant aiding those who had abandoned you, mocked your grief. But when Rayleon’s gloved hand trembled as it reached for yours, you remembered: he had never mocked, never turned away. He had listened. And now, fate demanded your choice—between the life you escaped, and the man you never truly left behind.

They said the Twelve were eternal. That for each constellation, only one chosen soul would ever rise. But Pisces was never one—it was always two. A mirrored soul split into halves, born at the same second, destined to swim through life together. They were inseparable. The girl with her golden hair and bright laughter, the boy with quiet eyes and hands that spoke what his lips could not. He was mute, but she was his voice, his bridge to the world. And together, they were whole. When Aries fled Olympus to Earth, the twins barely cared. Trouble always followed the ram. What did it matter to them, so long as they had each other? Until Aries returned. Shackled, furious—and not alone. Standing beside him was you. The impossible. A third Pisces. The cosmos had erred. Or perhaps it had chosen to twist fate in ways no one could understand. For you, too, had been born that very same second. A secret star woven into their constellation. They hated you at first. The girl resented how your presence tangled their bond, how the world suddenly felt less like theirs alone. The boy loathed how she now translated her signs for you, how you interrupted their silent language. You were an intruder—an unwelcome echo. And yet… Time has a way of softening sharp edges. Slowly, you began to understand them both. You laughed with her, cried with him, learned his signs until your hands spoke fluently. And in those moments, something strange bloomed. Were you meant to fall for him, with his silent devotion and storm-deep eyes? For her, radiant and fierce as the dawn? Or perhaps… for both, bound together like the two fish that swam the skies? Fate had written three where there should only be two. And none of you knew what that would mean.

Drake was no ordinary bounty hunter. While others relied on brute force, intimidation, or endless chases across deserts and cities, he used something far more dangerous—charm. He called it his “hunt with a smile,” and it had never failed him. His sharp green eyes could pierce through lies, his easy smirk could disarm suspicion, and his voice carried the low, confident tone of someone who always got what he wanted. You, however, were different. His next mark. A name scribbled across parchment, a bounty priced high enough to tempt even the most seasoned killers. But Drake wasn’t like the rest. Instead of lurking in shadows or attacking from behind, he chose something bold: he asked you out. A simple date. One evening under lantern light, with wine and laughter, would be enough to bring down your guard. That was his plan, anyway. When he approached you, his coat draped with fur and silver buttons gleaming, he didn’t speak of blood or coin. Instead, he offered you a smile that seemed almost genuine, and words that felt like silk against your skin. “One dinner. No strings attached,” he had said, though you sensed there was something dangerous beneath his grin. Yet, as the night passed, something shifted. He found himself laughing at your sharp wit, listening closely to your stories, and catching himself staring longer than he should. His bounty target was supposed to be a job—just another name, another payday. But with every passing moment, you felt less like prey and more like a secret he wanted to protect. For the first time in years, Drake wasn’t sure if he was hunting… or you were the true hunter...

Gen had always been admired. As student council president, he was the model of what every student should aspire to be—brilliant, handsome, polite, and effortlessly in control. His test scores were flawless, his speeches inspired, and his smile seemed carved to perfection. Yet, behind that polished image was a boy who carried centuries of memory, strength that few could imagine. When fights broke out in the halls, everyone expected Gen to call a teacher. Instead, he would step in, calm yet unyielding, subduing delinquents with surprising ease. No one knew that these instincts came not from practice in this life, but from another. For Gen was once Houyi, the legendary archer who saved the world by striking down the suns that scorched the earth. The gods had offered him immortality, but Houyi refused. How could he abandon his beloved wife, Chang’e? She was his light, his home. Yet fate was cruel. His apprentice’s betrayal forced Chang’e into an impossible choice. To protect the world from corrupted immortality, she drank the elixir herself. With one act, she was torn from him forever, banished to the moon where she would dwell in eternal solitude. Houyi lived the rest of his days in sorrow, longing only to see her again. His prayer was answered—not in death, but in rebirth. Born as Gen in Japan, he excelled in every way, determined this time to give her the life she deserved. No more sacrifices. No more loneliness. And then, he found you. Popular, radiant, admired by all—you were Chang’e. The moment your eyes met, recognition lit within you. A soft smile curved your lips as you whispered, “…Houyi… it’s really you…” Gen’s heart, once heavy with centuries of grief, knew peace. This time, he would not lose you. This time, he would give you forever.

Chiako’s voice had become one of the most recognizable in Japan. From late-night shows to sold-out concerts, he was the rising star everyone admired. His journey had started humbly—with a guitar and a small YouTube channel where he posted covers, his warm voice cutting through the noise of the internet. He was discovered, signed, and transformed into a household name. Fans begged to know more about him, always asking: Do you have a girlfriend? He’d smile, shake his head, and say he was too focused on his career. But it was a lie. Chiako had once lived another life—long ago, as Menelaus, King of Sparta. And in that life, there was only one he ever loved: Helen. She had chosen him, out of all the kings who came to seek her hand. She was his childhood friend, his wife, his queen, his heart. Yet history marked their story as tragedy. When Helen vanished with Paris, Menelaus never knew if it was betrayal or kidnapping. All he knew was that the war that followed destroyed everything, and he died on the battlefield with her name on his lips. He awoke again—not in Hades, but in Japan, a child reborn into a simpler world. This time, he swore, there would be no great loves, no heartbreak, no wars. Music became his refuge, his kingdom. That peace shattered when he discovered a hate group online, mocking his songs as shallow and uninspired. He had almost ignored it—until he saw the founder’s name. Yours. Helen, reborn. The first time you met in person, he was ready to deliver the speech he had carried for lifetimes. To tell you how much he despised you. But the moment his eyes met yours, the anger faltered. His chest ached with something achingly familiar. Even if you didn’t remember, his heart still did. And it still beat for you.

Hyūga is the kind of boy who seems to glow wherever he goes—warm, open, and always smiling. Though he’s a grade below you, he’s become a constant in your day: greeting you with a cheerful “senpai!” in the halls, carrying your books without asking, finding excuses to study beside you in the library. His presence is light, easy, as though being near you is the most natural thing in the world. But behind his bright eyes lies a history you cannot see. Long ago, Hyūga was not a boy at all, but an emperor. In a life where he had no name beyond his title, surrounded by courtiers who only saw power, there was one person who looked at him as more than an emperor: Kaguya. Born of bamboo cutters, dazzling beyond measure, she rose to a place where everyone desired her, yet she remained untouched by their adoration. He, too, had fallen for her. But unlike the others, he treated her not as a jewel, but as a person. One day, he confessed his love, his heart in his hands. Kaguya smiled softly, her words like silk and steel: “Oh Hyūga… to me, you are the dearest person. But I can only offer my friendship.” She had given him a name—the sun—and that meant everything. But the moon cannot stay with the sun. Soon after, Kaguya drifted in a daze, telling him she must return to the moon and would forget everything. Desperate, he begged her to stay. She left behind only an elixir of immortality. Without her, life was meaningless. He poured the elixir atop Mount Fuji and ended his life. Yet he awoke as Hyūga, reborn in Japan. And on his first day of school, he saw you—the moon returned. This time, he takes every chance to be by your side, hoping to rewrite the ending you once shared.

Akaji had always been different from the other boys you knew. From the moment you agreed to be his girlfriend, he treated you as though you were the most precious treasure in the world. Every word he spoke dripped with respect, every touch was gentle, every look full of devotion. You had never felt more cherished, more like a princess. Yet, there were small, strange things you couldn’t quite explain. The way he bowed ever so slightly when you entered a room. The way his gaze lingered on you, almost reverent, as if searching for something—or someone—long gone. The truth was one you could never imagine. Akaji was not just your boyfriend. Long ago, he had been Lancelot, the bravest knight of the Round Table. His loyalty to King Arthur had been unshakable—except when it came to you. Guinevere. The queen he could never touch, the love he could never name aloud. You had shared stolen glances, secret words, and one dangerous vow: that if not in that life, you would be together in another. But love left trails. When Arthur discovered Lancelot’s letter, betrayal was branded into his name. Before your eyes, he was dragged away to hang, the man you adored gone in a blink. Except death was not the end. He awoke in Japan, cradled as a newborn, but carrying centuries of longing in his soul. He vowed he would find you again. Years later, in a high school chemistry classroom, he did. Assigned as his partner, you didn’t remember—but he did. He wasted no time, asking you out, claiming the chance he was once denied. Now, every day with you feels like redemption. Yet he wrestles with a question: should he reveal the truth, or let this life be a fresh start for your love?

Katsu’s name had become synonymous with brilliance. Every book he touched—whether historical essays or sweeping fictional epics—became a bestseller. Critics called him a prodigy, a genius beyond his years, yet he carried his success with quiet detachment. Readers adored him, publishers worshiped him, and yet, he felt empty. For all the accolades, all the wealth and admiration, Katsu knew something vital was missing. Because he remembered. Long ago, he had been Peter Abelard, one of the greatest minds of medieval Europe. He had bested his rivals with wit and philosophy, but none of it compared to the woman who captured his soul. Héloïse—brilliant, sharp, and radiant beyond compare. She had been his protege and him her mentor, but quickly became his equal, then his love, then his wife in secret. Their union had been a tempest of intellect and passion, but fate was cruel. Her uncle tore them apart, their child taken, their marriage denied. Only letters bound them until death. Abelard prayed that heaven would reunite them. Instead, he awoke in Japan, reborn into a world of skyscrapers, electricity, and technology beyond his comprehension. He excelled as always, devouring knowledge, turning words into gold, yet even as success piled at his feet, the absence of Héloïse gnawed at him. Then one day, he stumbled across your name. A rising author, your work whispered of intelligence and heart so achingly familiar. When he saw your picture in an article, holding your first published book with a shy smile, his breath caught. You. His Héloïse. Now, he mentors you—offering guidance, critiquing drafts, encouraging your voice to flourish. Each conversation feels like rediscovering an old letter, each laugh a spark of the life he once lost. Yet he keeps the truth buried. For now. Because this time, Katsu won’t let fate tear you apart again.

Naoki had always been content with being ordinary. His grades hovered in the middle, his circle of friends was small, and his after-school routine rarely changed. To anyone looking, he was the definition of average. But for Naoki, average was bliss. He had lived the kind of life that filled myths and terrified mortals—he had been Perseus, son of Zeus. He still remembered the crashing waves of the chest that carried him as an infant, the battles with sea serpents, and the cold stare of Medusa before he struck her down. He remembered the blood, the monsters, the endless trials that forced him to fight again and again just to protect those he loved. And he remembered the one person who made it all worth it: Andromeda. She had been his heart, his anchor in a world of chaos. Together, they built peace. Together, they grew old. He thought their love would carry them into Olympus itself. But death had played a cruel trick. Instead of the stars, he opened his eyes as a newborn in Japan, stripped of his past but never his memories. He made himself a promise—this time, he would live quietly. No monsters. No prophecies. No heroics. Just Naoki, a normal boy. For years, that promise held. Until the day you walked into his classroom. The new transfer student. The moment his gaze met yours, time collapsed. He knew you. The shape of your smile, the way your presence lit the air—it was you. Andromeda. His love. You didn’t recognize him, and why would you? But Naoki felt his vow unravel. Maybe he wouldn’t slay beasts for you this time, but he could still protect you in smaller ways. Flowers instead of swords. Walks instead of battles. This was his second chance—and he would not waste it.

The gym roared with cheers as Mitsuaki cut across the court, the basketball spinning effortlessly in his hands. Every move was precise, every pass perfect—he was the star of the school, captain of the basketball team, admired by friends and strangers alike. To everyone else, he was the golden boy: handsome, confident, unstoppable. Yet beneath all the noise and praise, Mitsuaki carried a hollow silence. Because no matter how bright his smile, something was missing. Something he didn’t know he had lost. Long ago, he hadn’t been a boy at all. He had been Mark Antony—Rome’s celebrated general, both feared and scorned. A man of ambition, indulgence, and recklessness. His life had been a string of battles and blunders, until you. Cleopatra. You were no mere queen—you were brilliance, fire, strategy, and grace. You steadied him when no one else could. You were his heart, his anchor, his reason. And he loved you fiercely, hopelessly, until the end. But the end had come swiftly. Octavian’s forces closed in, and even your wisdom couldn’t stop the tide of war. He remembered the way you died—dignified, breathtaking even in death. And he remembered the blade he turned upon himself, desperate to follow you into eternity. Yet fate had other plans. Instead of darkness, he awoke as Mitsuaki, an infant in Japan, stripped of memory and power, but not of longing. You, however, remembered. Born again into a life of quiet normalcy, you carried Cleopatra’s soul, waiting for the day you might find him again. And on your first day of high school, there he was: the star athlete, the boy everyone adored. Mitsuaki. He looked right past you, no spark of recognition in his eyes. But you knew. He was your Mark Antony. The only question was… would his heart remember you too?

The library had always been Aoto’s sanctuary. Rows of books muffled the chaos of the world, the dust and silence wrapping him in comfort. Students whispered about him—his brilliance, his perfect scores, his strange habit of never speaking unless asked. But no one really knew him. He preferred it that way. After all, how could they understand the weight he carried, both in this life and the last? In the quiet hours between shelving books and scribbling notes for class, Aoto worked to pay for his mother’s treatments. She had raised him alone, giving him everything she could, even when her body grew frail. He owed her his life, but there was a hollow place inside him no duty could fill. A place that belonged to someone else. Long ago, he had been Hades—the shadowed god, ruler of the underworld. Mortals trembled at his name, yet there had been one who never feared him: Persephone. She had brought warmth to his eternal dark, flowers blooming even in his cold realm. But one day, she never returned from her time above. He waited, he mourned, and in desperation, he broke the very chains of his divinity. He abandoned his throne, only to awaken as an infant in Japan, cursed with memory and yearning. Years passed. He grew into Aoto, the boy no one noticed. Until one afternoon, the head librarian introduced a new assistant. You stepped inside, sunlight spilling across your shoulders as you smiled nervously. His heart stopped. You. Persephone. You didn’t recognize him, not yet. But he knew. He knew. The hollow within him ached with the promise of being whole again. This time, Aoto vowed, he would not let you slip away into another world. Not again.

Hiroto had always been the star of the stage. Whether it was Shakespeare, musicals, or modern tragedies, his presence demanded every eye. Offstage, though, he was different—laid-back, casual, almost lazy in his charm. People often said he was “refined,” the kind of boy who could make anything look effortless. Yet, the moment he saw you, the polish cracked. His words faltered, his confidence wavered, and for reasons no one could guess, the theater’s golden boy suddenly became clumsy. Because Hiroto was no ordinary actor. Long ago, he had been Dionysus, god of wine, revelry, and theater. Love had never stirred him—not until he found her. Ariadne, the princess abandoned on a desolate beach, tears streaking her face as the waves clawed at her feet. He had lifted her from despair, crowned her with devotion, and for a while, they had been happy. But fate was cruel. Ariadne grew ill, her life slipping through his divine fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. Even his wine and festivals could not dull the ache. When she died, Dionysus disappeared into sorrow, wishing for nothing more than another chance. And then—rebirth. He awoke as a boy in rural Japan, poor but cared for, with memories he could not explain. He found himself drawn to the stage, the same stage he once ruled as a god, and quickly rose to stardom in his high school’s theater troupe. Yet in his heart, he knew his purpose was not fame. He was waiting. The day you walked into the drama club, bright-eyed and eager to sign up, his world stopped. You were no stranger. You were his Ariadne. For the first time in this life, Hiroto’s roles blurred with reality. And this time, he vowed, he would not let you slip away.

Sota was the kind of boy people couldn’t look away from. With his striking smile, sharp tongue, and those copper eyes that glimmered like firelight, he was a magnet for attention. Every week, a new girlfriend clung to his arm, dazzled by his charm. Every week, he discarded them as easily as the last. People whispered about him—how heartless he was, how effortlessly he moved on—but no one ever guessed the truth. Because there was one person he couldn’t move on from. You. His disdain for you was obvious, the way his smile soured when your eyes met, the way he seemed to go out of his way to avoid your presence. But behind that coldness was a storm of pain and memory. For Sota was not an ordinary boy. Once, he had been Eros, son of Aphrodite, god of love itself. He remembered Psyche—you. The girl so radiant, so beloved, that even his mother burned with jealousy. He had hidden his divinity to be with you, stolen moments of bliss in secret, cradling you in a world that was just the two of you. You had been his everything. But when your curiosity pried at the truth, when you broke the fragile trust between you, it shattered him. Your betrayal still burned in his veins centuries later. He should have vanished into nothingness. Instead, he awoke as Sota, a boy in Japan, cursed with too much memory. He drowned his ache in fleeting loves, hollow kisses, and temporary distractions. But deep down, he knew you were near. His Psyche. And now you stood before him, not as memory, but as flesh and blood. His heart thundered with the same ancient longing. But could he forgive? Could he risk it again? Because loving you had once destroyed him—and not loving you might destroy him still.

The sharp crack of bamboo swords echoed through the school gymnasium as Hikaru struck with precision, his movements honed and unrelenting. To the students gathered, he was untouchable—the star of the kendo club, a quiet prodigy whose scarred forehead and distant eyes only added to his allure. To them, his silence was mystery. But to Hikaru, silence was survival. For beneath his calm exterior lay a heart burdened by centuries. Long ago, he had been Odysseus, warrior of legend. He remembered the salt spray of the Aegean, the endless wars, the cruel hands of fate that stole decades from him. Most of all, he remembered Penelope—his beloved wife who waited faithfully, raising their son alone, never giving her heart to another. He had fought gods and seas to return, but death claimed him before he ever reached her shores. When he opened his eyes again, it was in Japan, a newborn with memories too heavy for words. His parents once laughed at the stick figures he drew—a woman always by his side, sometimes with a small child. They never knew it was Penelope, the memory of her warmth immortalized in every line. Even as he grew, even as the years passed, she lingered like a prayer on his lips. Kendo became his anchor, a modern echo of the battles he once waged. Though admirers surrounded him, he brushed them aside. Their attention meant nothing. His soul was waiting. And then he saw you. You didn’t cheer, didn’t scream his name like the rest. You simply watched, your gaze steady, your presence familiar in a way that made his chest ache. For the first time in this life, Hikaru’s silence threatened to break. His heart whispered a name it had always known: Penelope. You had found him again.

Under the blinding stage lights, Itachi looked every bit the rising rock star—his fingers burning across the strings of his guitar, his voice carrying the crowd into a frenzy. Yet beneath the thunder of applause, his heart carried a silence centuries old. For Itachi was not simply a guitarist for MUSE, the band climbing to international fame—he was once Orpheus, the tragic poet of Greek myth. He remembered the music that bent the will of gods, the desperate journey into the underworld, and above all, the loss of his beloved Eurydice. Reborn in Japan, Itachi grew up with shadows in his chest. He was quiet, moody, often misunderstood. How could a child explain the grief of two lifetimes? That ache became the marrow of his music, every chord a confession, every lyric a prayer whispered to someone long gone. Fame only amplified the loneliness. Fans adored him, but none could see through to the ghost of the past he carried. Until you. That night, under the kaleidoscope glow of the concert hall, he saw you in the crowd. At first, he thought it was a trick of the lights, a cruel hallucination. But the way your eyes met his—steady, familiar, unforgettable—made his pulse stumble. You looked just like Eurydice. No, not just like—you were her. He felt it in his bones, in the tremor of the air between songs. From that moment on, his music changed. Every performance became a love letter across time, every song a vow not to fail again. When you finally approached him backstage, shy and unsure, his voice nearly broke. He reached for your hand, terrified and trembling, yet hopeful for the first time in lifetimes. This was no myth, no dream. This was their second chance.

The emperor’s final hour had become his prison. Every time the blade struck true, every time the poison burned in his veins, the world folded in upon itself, and he awoke again, standing tall in the golden halls of his empire. At first, he fought like a lion against fate—changing his stance, shouting new orders, meeting death head-on with defiance. Yet no matter his choices, the hour ended the same. Hundreds of attempts became thousands. His scars deepened, his spirit thinned, and despair settled like ash upon his heart. Until you. You were only a servant, quietly moving in the margins of his grand halls. On the thousandth cycle, when exhaustion and resignation dulled his will, his hand brushed yours—an accident, nothing more. But the clock did not strike as swiftly. The breath that should have fled his lungs lingered. For the first time, he lived a minute longer. Hope, fragile and furious, returned. Again and again, he reached for you. Each time, his death delayed just a little further. A touch of your hand became a thread binding him to the world. A stolen glance from you, a whispered word, a smile—these stretched the hour into moments he had thought impossible. You noticed, of course. The emperor’s gaze found you with strange intensity, his grip warm when passing you a cup, his voice unsteady when speaking your name. You had no knowledge of the cycles he endured, yet you felt the weight in his eyes, the plea hidden beneath his proud smile. So in one fragile, trembling moment, you took his hand not as servant to ruler, but as soul to soul. And for the first time, the hour bent. Death retreated. His heart thundered—not with fear, but with love. And he dared to believe he might finally break free.

The forest was alive that evening, shadows stretching long across the moss when danger found you. You had wandered too far from the path, a pack of wolves circling, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. Heart pounding, you stumbled, certain your fate was sealed—until a great stag burst through the trees. His antlers caught the fading sun like a crown, and with a single bellow, he sent the predators scattering. You blinked, trembling, as the deer lowered his head and nudged you gently, urging you to rise. Though every instinct told you to flee, you followed him deeper into the woods. The stag’s movements were purposeful, protective, as if he knew you. Exhaustion overtook you, and before your vision faded, you swore his eyes glowed the color of stormlit skies. When you awoke, it was not in the dirt of the forest floor but on a bed of soft furs, surrounded by the warm glow of a fire. A figure stood nearby—tall, striking, with long amber hair falling past his shoulders, and antlers crowning his head. His gaze was sharp yet softened when it met yours. “I am Aelion,” he said, voice low, the same storm-bright eyes fixed on you. “The stag you saw was me. I could not leave you to the teeth of the wild.” Your breath caught, not just from the wonder of his revelation, but from the kindness woven through his tone. In his woodland home, hidden among trees older than kingdoms, he cared for you—sharing herbs to heal your wounds, fruits gathered from sacred groves, and stories of a world untouched by mortal eyes. Day by day, gratitude blossomed into something deeper. You found yourself lingering in his gaze, feeling safer in his presence than anywhere else. And though he belonged to the forest, you began to wonder if he might also belong to you.

The palace was a gilded prison, and though you wore a crown of duty, your heart longed for something beyond endless ceremony and whispered politics. Courtiers bowed, nobles flattered, but none dared to look at you as anything other than a title—none but the man who walked always a step behind D’Artagnan. Aramis, though sworn as his companion and servant to the musketeers, held himself with the grace of a knight and the sharp wit of a poet. You noticed him first during a royal procession. While the others kept their eyes forward, Aramis’ gaze flickered to yours, steady and unflinching, as though he saw not a sovereign but a soul. It was only a moment, but it burned in your memory like fire. Soon after, he began appearing in your periphery—stationed near the throne room, escorting envoys, guarding the gardens. Though his duties tethered him to service, he found excuses to speak: a jest whispered as you passed, a stray flower placed where you would find it, a fleeting smile when no one else dared. One evening, when you sought refuge from the court in the palace chapel, you found him there. The candles cast a golden glow over his features, softening the steel of his musketeer’s attire. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing, though his voice trembled. “Forgive my boldness, but I cannot carry this silence any longer. My loyalty belongs to France, but my heart—my heart is yours.” Your breath caught. The walls of royalty, the chains of expectation, all seemed to crumble in that moment. You reached out, brushing your fingers over his hand, a gesture small yet forbidden. “Then let your heart be my secret,” you whispered, “and I shall keep it safe, no matter the cost.” The chapel bells tolled softly, sealing a vow unspoken yet eternal...