Later that night, I woke up covered in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The sheets clung to my skin as I bolted upright, disoriented by the unfamiliar comfort of a proper bed.

  I glanced over, noticing Aurora knocked out beside me, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. A smile tugged at my lips despite the lingering tendrils of panic. “I’m home,” I whispered, the words both a statement and a question.

  Dreams of blood and fire had filled my sleep, threatening to steal the sanity I had fought so hard to maintain. The faces of the fallen, friends I’d watched die, enemies I’d been forced to kill and my own children broken beyond repair paraded through my mind with vivid clarity. Years of being on constant high alert had conditioned my body to wake up at the slightest noise, never resting deeply enough to be vulnerable.

  Even now, I found myself glancing at the windows and doors, calculating defensive positions and escape routes out of pure habit. How many nights had I jolted awake to the sound of something clawing at our barricades or a wounded survivor screaming for help?

  I got up from the bed, careful not to disturb Aurora, and slipped out of the room. The plush carpet beneath my feet felt almost obscenely luxurious after years of sleeping on concrete floors and makeshift cots. I made my way down the hallway, pausing at each of my children’s doors.

  Maeve and Nadia’s doors were first. I peeked in each room, watching them sleep. They both snored just like their mother and that made me stifle a hard laugh. I hadn’t seen Maeve this relaxed in so long that the sight was as precious as any treasure.

  I popped downstairs, checking on Xavier and Margo. My son was sprawled across his bed, one leg hanging off the side, while Margo had somehow twisted herself into a pretzel amidst a nest of blankets. Both alive. Both whole. Both untouched by the horrors they’d endured in another life.

  When I settled, I hopped a few stairs back up to the kitchen and I did the one thing that everyone around the campfire used to wish for: I made a massive sandwich with all the fixings. Bread that wasn’t stale or moldy. Fresh vegetables. Real meat that hadn’t been scavenged from abandoned storage units or hunted from increasingly dangerous wildlife.

  Standing in that kitchen and taking that first bite, I couldn’t contain the groan of pleasure that escaped me.

  I heard shuffling near the staircase. My body tensed instantly. My muscles coiled and my adrenaline spiked as my hand reached for the butter knife on the counter. A weapon.

  ‘I need a weapon’

  Catching myself, I took a deep breath and forced my fingers to relax. Around the corner came Margo in her oversized superhero shirt and sweatpants, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  “Dad? You OK?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Hey kiddo, just making a late-night sandwich. I’m having a hard time sleeping tonight. Want one?” I offered, trying to keep my voice light despite the galloping of my heart.

  “Does a bear crap in the woods?” she replied with her signature irreverence.

  Only Margo could say something so ridiculous at 1 AM. The sheer normality of her response nearly brought tears to my eyes. “OK, what do you want on it?” I asked as I started pulling out ingredients.

  This was what I had missed the most—these small, mundane moments that had once seemed so inconsequential. You never realize how precious the ordinary is until it’s ripped away.

  “You ok dad? Don’t think we didn’t notice how you were acting yesterday.” Margo said with a small, knowing smirk.

  These children had always been too perceptive for my comfort. Even without their memories from the other timeline, they could sense something had changed.

  “I won’t lie to you,” I said, placing her sandwich on a plate and sliding it across the counter. “I have a pretty big decision coming up, and if I make a mistake with my calculations...” I let the sentence hang, the weight of what I knew pressing down on me.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Well, that’s not going to happen,” said Margo with absolute certainty, taking a bite of her sandwich. “You always take everything into consideration and besides…” she took a massive bite of the sandwich and spoke through a full mouth. “you know we’ve got your back even if things do fall apart. That’s what our family does.”

  For a moment, I was transported back to that terrible day, Margo’s body lying on the ground as plants grew around it, returning her to the earth she loved so much. The memory hit me like a physical blow, and I found myself pulling her into a tight hug.

  “Dad! Can’t…breathe!” she squeaked with full jaws.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, releasing her with a sheepish smile. “Thank you for the excellent advice, as always.”

  “Well, apparently you feel better...” she joked with a bright smile.

  We sat there eating in comfortable silence punctuated by Margo’s running commentary on school, her friends, and the latest TV show she was obsessed with; again, all at 1 Am. When she finished, she kissed me goodnight and headed back to bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  After cleaning up, I headed to the common area downstairs and sat in the lotus position, feet crossed. I recalled Lilith’s parting words before the timeline reset:

  “Mana was never taken from you or your planet, child. You just had no access to the tools to measure it. The System provided an easy understanding of an already available resource.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing; in and out, in and out. Slowly and methodically, I meditated inward, seeking that familiar connection I’d developed over years of using mana. If what Lilith had said was true, the energy should still be accessible, even without The System’s interface.

  At first, there was nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Then, almost imperceptibly, I felt it; a small stream of cool energy, like a trickle of ice water flowing beneath my skin. My eyes flew open in shock.

  It wasn’t much, but it was there.

  “Status,” I said inwardly, half-expecting the familiar blue screen to materialize before me. Nothing happened, of course. That interface wouldn’t exist for another three years.

  The weight of the future settled heavily on my shoulders. With this meager amount of mana, I figured I’d only be able to cast the simplest skills that required minimal energy. I might as well start with the ability she had gifted me, the one that had saved my sanity countless times.

  I attempted to cast Spider’s Calm.

  The familiar cool sensation rushed through channels in my body that had lain dormant in this timeline, forcing me to stifle a gasp of pain. It felt like ice water was being forced through capillaries too narrow to accommodate it; uncomfortable, but not unbearable. And it worked. My emotions receded like the tide, leaving behind a crystal clarity that I had relied upon for survival.

  The realization was staggering. I no longer required The System to use my abilities. The interface, the stats, the clean numerical representations of power; they were training wheels, not the source of the power itself.

  With my emotions properly regulated, I began mapping out the next phase of my plan. I needed allies, resources, and time to train. Every novel I’d read about regression prior to The Fall had the same critical flaw: the protagonist tried to handle everything alone, keeping secrets until it was too late.

  One person, no matter how knowledgeable about the future, couldn’t possibly prepare an entire planet for what was coming. I needed a trusted team; people with specialized skills who could work together toward a common goal under my control.

  First priority: resources. With my knowledge of market trends for the next three years, I could amass enough wealth to fund our preparations. I need to be careful, though. Moving too fast or too obviously would attract attention from the kinds of organizations that monitored sudden financial windfalls.

  Second priority: secure a compound. A place where everyone could train and prepare away from prying eyes. Perhaps an island, or a large district with a solid foundation that could be retrofitted for our needs. Property values in certain areas would plummet about six months from now due to a pandemic that hadn’t happened yet. I could probably acquire land at a fraction of its worth under these circumstances.

  Third priority: telling my family the truth. Their support would be crucial, and I refused to manipulate them the way I’d been forced to do others in the previous timeline. Memory restoration would be a delicate process, I’m sure; but with practice, I should be able to refine my gifted Memory Pocket skill to make the transition less traumatic.

  I felt my circulating mana begin to wane and realized I’d reached my current limit. Overtaxing myself now would be counterproductive; I needed to gradually build my capacity through regular practice.

  Rising to my feet, I stretched out muscles that had grown stiff from sitting too long. Tomorrow, I would begin implementing the first stages of my plan. I’d close my shop, custom garments for the wealthy could wait when the apocalypse was on the horizon and start the intricate process of securing our future.

  As I climbed the stairs back to the bedroom, a thought struck me that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating: for the first time since The Fall, I wasn’t reacting to disaster, I was planning to prevent it.

  And this time, I wouldn’t be alone.