Infinite Rebirths as Mages – Now We Seek the Truth Behind Our Feud

Renaissance | Florence, Italy

Sunset settles over Florence, washing the sky in gold. A small stone house at the edge of a blooming garden gleams in the light, its roof tiled in warm terracotta. A narrow canal murmurs nearby, feeding neat rows of herbs, lilies, and roses.

Lucil sits on a low wooden chair, his back pressed against the sun-warmed wall. His red jacket hangs open. A faint tremor runs through his legs each time he shifts; a cane rests at his side.

In the garden, a woman kneels among the flowerbeds. Her red hair— shot through with bright blue strands— falls over her shoulders as she digs small, precise holes with a wooden trowel. Each seedling receives a whispered blessing before she gently pats the soil closed. Her pink eyes gleam beneath the brim of a straw hat, and the wet soil stains her white summer dress.

Without glancing back, she teases, "Tell me, Lucil— did I marry a useless man?"

He pushes up from the chair, biting down on a hiss of pain—but his knees buckle. She runs to him, catching him barely but just in time.

"Typical." she scolds softly. She smells like roses "You fought him again, didn't you?"

Lucil exhales a shaky breath. "He can't believe I don't want another conflict. Not in this life."

She studies him, the setting sun turning her eyes a deeper pink. Then she presses a hand to her gently rounded belly. "Our child will grow in peace. You'll see. He'll learn our magic, my love."

She musters a smile. "He, huh?" I'm certain it's a girl."

Lucil sighs with a smile.

Then she laughs, guiding him to a patch of turned soil. "I won't argue with fatherly instinct— just help me plant before the light fades."

They kneel side by side. The earth is cool beneath their fingers. Lucil tucks a violet into its new home, tamping rich dirt around fragile roots.

"Why not use magic?" he murmurs. Threads of crimson mana shimmer briefly at his fingertips before flickering out. "The seedlings would bloom instantly."

"Magic forces things to grow." she replies, patting another mound smooth. "But nature teaches patience. Sometimes we need this rhythm."

He nods, wiping sweat from his brow. "You saved me, you know."

"You saved yourself." she counters.

He shakes his head, gaze distant. "No. Hatred devoured every life I remembered. Every death, too. Until you."

She sits back on her heels, expression tender yet fierce. Taking his face in muddy palms, she pulls him into a tight hug. "Don't slip into that darkness again. I still see the storm brewing behind your eyes."

He closes them. "I remember how cruel my rival can be."

"And I remember how cruel you can be to him." she says, holding him a breath longer. "Promise me something."

He opens his eyes— red-rimmed, vulnerable. "Yes, my wife?"

"Change your fate. Don't kill him out of spite ever again."

"Even if he threatens us?"

"Even then." she insists.

Anger flares. "I can't—"

She presses a dirt-stained finger to his lips and shakes her head. "Break that promise, and there'll be no more fun with me." Her playful warning softens the edge.

He chuckles, brushing a stray petal from her hair. "I'll keep that in mind."

Lucil stands slowly. His wife helps him, then rises on tiptoe and kisses him.

"Don't fight him, Lucil." she whispers.

"It may take time to convince me." he concedes against her lips, "But I'll remember."

Evening shadows lengthen across the rows as they return to their work. The last of the sunlight slips behind the hills, yet warmth lingers— cradling seed, soil, and two stubborn hearts determined to plant something gentler than conflict.

Two Years Later | Florence Garden

The garden has become a gravesite— only a single stone remains where flowers once bloomed. Kneeling before it, Lucil's wife presses trembling fingers to the carved name

***

Her pink eyes are gone; two rose blossoms fill the empty sockets.

Lucil drops to one knee beside her, fists shaking.

"I never hurt him." he growls, voice raw. "And he— killed our child!"

"Stop." She cuts him off, breathing ragged.

"I'll kill him—"

She swings a fist at his chest, but her hand lands on his face instead. Wetness coats her fingertips: Lucil's tears.

"It hurts." she whispers. "You're crying. It's the first time I've felt you cry." as she herself begins crying uncontrollably "I'm sorry— but this is not the way."

"He took your eyes… took our child. We wanted peace and—" His words collapse. He holds back his tears, biting his lip until it begins to bleed.

She grabs his shoulders. "Lucil, listen. Even if it hurts, push through. Life after life, you meet him— and every time ends in tragedy. Take a different step."

"He took everything!"

"And if you retaliate?" She shakes him. "Kill Catarina— kill his wife— where does it end? How many times have you two murdered each other? Realize something, Lucil."

Rage gives way to exhaustion; he slumps against her.

"She was our first child… tell me how to endure."

She draws him close, whispering, "I'll fill the space hatred leaves with love."

Lucil lifts his head and kisses her, gentle despite the blood on his lips. Around them, a ring of new roses unfurls—soft red against the gravestone's gray.

"I'll try." he promises.

She nods and just hugs him.

Two Years Later

Now, two gravestones stand in the garden. Lucil faces them, two swords crossed on his back.

He exhales, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"I will give it a try, Mai." he murmurs to the stones. "He killed you, and you forgave him. I'm driven by revenge, but… I'm tired of anger."

He spits blood onto the earth.

"He's lost his wife now, too. Maybe he finally understands. Not that I believe in afterlives—"

His voice trembles, hope and hurt tangling.

"If there's something beyond, I want to see you again. Watch our daughter grow. The emptiness is…"

A warmth stirs through him. He presses a hand to the violet-red blade at his hip.

"You were the first Rose Mage." he says softly. "I'll carry our magic forward."

Hatred loosens its grip; purpose steadies him.

"I'll plan the next few lives." he whispers. "Dying without a fight isn't pleasant but I'll endure it… for the promise. I love you, my wife."

Lucil turns away. Bitterness still flickers in his eyes but a new goal burns brighter than rage.

1795 | Paris | Chapel Rooftop

Moonlight pools across the slate roof, silvering the gargoyles and the spire's iron cross. Lucil stands at the edge, red scarf snapping in the cold wind, two swords crossed on his back. The city below flickers with musket flashes— another skirmish in a revolution that feels endless.

He breathes in the view. "Paris has its charm." he muses. "Pity about all the fighting."

A quiet scrape of boots on the rooftop. Silver steps forward, ivory blade already drawn. His white coat and polished boots gleam in the moonlight.

"Evening, Silver." Lucil says, sounding half-amused. "What's the preferred method tonight?"

Silver's voice cracks with anger. "What's your plan this time?"

"I'll reveal everything." Lucil answers, stretching, "if you stop trying to kill me."

"And forgive you for everything?" Silver's laugh is brittle.

Lucil shrugs. "The world keeps changing— perhaps we could push forward together. How many lives has it been?"

"I can't!" Silver's shout.

"I'll kill everyone you love— understand?"

Lucil sighs. "You've done that so often I've started living with fewer attachments." He tilts his head.

Silver's grin turns feral. "What's with Cecile, and—"

"That's enough." Lucil's hand goes to a sword hilt, but he doesn't draw. "Without connection, we collapse. And they are innocent. Never mind— see you in the next life."

He lifts the blade halfway—more gesture than threat.

"Once more: do you truly want me dead?"

"Yes."

"You know you'll follow soon after," Lucil says quietly. "Scotland proved that. We actually worked together for once."

Silver snorts. "Ridiculous."

"We did the impossible, Silver. Work with me and we break this cycle."

"I'm a murderer." Silver hisses. "And so are you."

Lucil's gaze softens. "I'll never take an innocent soul again. I regret my actions." He flips the sword, pressing its edge to his own throat.

Silver goes pale. "Lucil— fight. Don't do this! Fight like a true mage!"

"Tell Cecile she'll be a great mage." Lucil whispers, smiling. "She was like a daughter to me."

"Stop!" Silver steps forward, hand trembling.

"Since Italy, I swore I'd never kill you again." Lucil's voice is light, almost relieved. "Enjoy the months you have— every day is a gift."

Wind whips the scarf across his face. Steel glints once— then falls silent. Lucil's final words drift on the night air:

"I have my own war to fight… join me if you can." Lucil fades.

Silver drops to his knees beside the still form. A sign of regret forms "We're both mass murderers." he chokes. "But guilt… maybe guilt is where redemption starts. No— this is some trick! It's an illusion"

The city bells toll midnight over Paris. Silver looks at Lucil's corpse and realizes— he is truly dead.

1799 | Paris Catacombs

Deep beneath the city, forgotten tunnels have become a refuge: narrow alleys of stone where orphaned mage-children live in candlelit huts, each doorway marked by a single rose. The air smells of damp earth and wilted petals.

Cecile— orange hair tied back, brown eyes fierce— stands guard in battered leather, an ivory spear braced in her hands. Chains rattle nearby: Silver is shackled to an iron pillar, white coat torn, wrists raw.

He studies the small village full of children. "So… these are the children he sheltered."

"You killed him." Cecile snaps. "He was our savior— he pulled us out of this bloody chaos!"

Silver's smile is thin. "I didn't. He ended up killing himself."

Shock flickers across her face.

"He left a message." Silver continues quietly. "Said he saw you as his daughter. I took that from him long ago…"

Regret tightens his voice— but a thunderous boom interrupts, dust shaking from the ceiling. Cecile whirls. Armed soldiers— mage hunters— pour through a crumbling archway.

The chains around Silver crack and fall. He rises, shoulders squared. "Hunters. Let me help, Cecile."

"After what you—" Cecile's grip on the spear trembles.

"Did he save only innocents?" Silver asks. "Be honest."

She hesitates, then nods once.

"He slaughtered villages hunting me." Silver says, gaze hardening. "He never changed but… maybe the impossible is real…"

He straightens, eyes burning. "If I must kill today, it'll be those who prey on children."

He spreads his arms, moon-white particles flaring. "Brightmoon—Rise!"

A luminous roar fills the tunnel as pale light arcs from his palms.

Cecile sets her spear, voice low but steady. "I won't forgive you. He was my father— but I won't let hatred win."

Silver meets her eyes, smiling at her impossible resolve. "Then fight beside me, girl. Protect what you cherish."