Reincarnation... A foreign concept to most, a whisper of hope in the face of oblivion.
They cling to the idea that after death, the curtain doesn't simply fall, that the play might begin anew, albeit with a different actor in a different role.
It offers a comforting illusion, a gentle lie whispered to soothe the mortal fear of the absolute End.
But for me, reincarnation isn't a philosophical debate or a distant possibility.
It's the worn fabric of my existence, the endless loop that defines what I am.
Actually, no one alive – and perhaps even those long gone – can dare claim to know better than I do about this cyclical dance of life and death.
The reason?
It's simple, yet carries the weight of countless lifetimes.
I am a reincarnator.
A rather regular one at that.
Regular in the sense that I've experienced this endless cycle more times than most could fathom, a veteran of rebirth, if you will.
"Hmm, it's blonde this time."
The words tumbled out, a soft murmur directed at the reflection staring back from the polished surface of the mirror.
This youthful face, framed by hair the color of a sunlit field, was just the latest mask I wore.
Beneath it lay the echoes of a thousand faces, a thousand lives lived and lost.
Yes, that's me, the Reincarnator.
A title that sounds grand, perhaps even enviable, to those who haven't walked this path.
But the truth is far more complex, tinged with a weariness that no youthful visage can truly conceal.
If you are curious why I said I am a regular, that's also simple.
It's not about the frequency, but the familiarity, the almost monotonous rhythm of it all.
It's my 10th reincarnation and 11th life now.
Eleven distinct chances, eleven separate journeys, all leading back to this same, strange point.
You might be wondering why I died so much. A fair question, one I've pondered countless times myself.
Well, even the strongest demon lord had to die someday. A wry smile touches my lips at the thought, a ghost of arrogance from a life long past.
Though that demon king was me. A life of power, of dominion, of a darkness that consumed worlds. Yet, even that reign ended, as all things must.
Ahh, if I started telling you about my past incarnations, about the empires I built, the wars I waged, the loves I lost, I would grow old before even finishing a portion.
Time, for me, is a river that has flowed in countless directions, a vast and overwhelming expanse.
That's how long it is. Each life a chapter, and my book is an unending tome.
If you want to ask why call it incarnation, not just rebirth, that's because, for some reason, even if I retain memories of my past life, the experiences, the knowledge, the triumphs, and the tragedies…
I would not retain the personality. The core of who I was, the very essence that defined each of those lives, fades with the transition.
I carry the echoes, the imprints, but not the soul. It's like looking at old photographs – I recognize the faces, the places, but the emotions, the driving forces, are distant and muted.
But I know that they still exist within me, and I know how to bring them out.
But the cost is my current self disappearing. Even now, those Echoes are influencing me.
Such is the reason I am behaving like a Chuunibyou kid. This theatricality, this embrace of the fantastical, it's not entirely genuine.
It's the lingering shadow of lives lived with grand pronouncements and dramatic flair, a mimicry of selves I no longer truly am.
Or perhaps… it's a way to touch those fading embers within.
Can't help it, even if personality doesn't fully retain, my memories of the 8th and 9th life are heavily influencing me.
They were… colorful, to say the least. Filled with dramatic pronouncements and an unwavering belief in their own unique destiny.
Their grand gestures and over-the-top pronouncements… sometimes I catch myself mirroring them, a faint echo across the void of my lost selves.
I blame their Chuuni-ness for corrupting me, for coloring this current existence with a touch of the absurd.
It's a shield, perhaps, against the crushing weight of all that I have been and lost.
Or maybe… it's a desperate attempt to feel something akin to the vibrant emotions they once possessed.
Why didn't I mention my 10th life? That's because I don't have memories of that life.
It's a blank slate, a missing page in my endless book. The reason is unknown, a frustrating void in the tapestry of my existence.
Did I finally find peace? Did something truly break the cycle? Or was it simply a life so mundane it left no impression on the subsequent soul? The mystery gnaws at me, a constant reminder of the incompleteness of my understanding.
A lost Time, a lost self… a chilling thought.
But no matter if I remember or not, my goal remains the same this time as well.
It's the one constant in the ever-shifting landscape of my lives, the anchor that keeps me from being completely adrift in the sea of time.
To Create a Paradise.
A home for me to return to, a sanctuary from the endless cycle of birth and death.
Throughout all my lives, I have worked towards that. Sometimes as a benevolent ruler, sometimes as a ruthless conqueror, always with the same ultimate aim.
Each attempt, a step closer, or perhaps further away. The path is never clear.
But always, I end up dying because of this Dream.
Perhaps my ambition was too great, my methods too flawed, or maybe the universe simply resists such a grand endeavor.
Each failure leaves a scar, a layer of melancholic resignation beneath the surface of my current youthful exuberance.
The weight of those failures… it's a heavy cloak I carry, unseen by the world.
But not this Time. A flicker of fierce determination ignites in my eyes as I stare at my reflection.
This time will be different. I can feel it in the very fabric of my being, a subtle shift in the endless cycle.
I will not let my home be destroyed, nor will I sacrifice myself for its sake.
I've learned from the countless mistakes of my past. The cost of failure is too high, the weariness too profound.
I am a fool who desires all and abandons none. A foolish ideal, perhaps, but one I cling to with the desperation of a soul weary of endless beginnings and tragic ends.
It's a lonely path, this desire to save everything, to hold onto every fleeting moment.
So let this time be the last. Let this life be the one where Arcadia finally takes root and flourishes, a testament to the enduring hope that even a reincarnator can find a true and lasting home.
The blonde-haired kid in the mirror smiles, a hint of sadness lingering in his bright eyes, a silent promise echoing in the quiet room.
The game, as they say, is afoot, and this time, I intend to win. Or perhaps… finally find some semblance of peace.