Pastwhispers: Transmigrated Into Regression Story

Ryo barely slept that night. Even when exhaustion claimed him, the nightmares came without mercy. He wasn't just watching anymore—he was living them. Each dream felt more real than the last, the pain, the fear, the desperation. It was as if his mind was forcefully being filled with the fragments of a man long erased from history.
By the time morning arrived, he sat on the edge of his bed, his body drenched in cold sweat. His hands trembled slightly as he ran them through his hair. He didn't even need to check his phone—he already knew that names had shifted again within Heaven's Wrath.
But the memories weren't gone.
Ryo could still recall them vividly. The weight of a sword in his hands. The searing pain of wounds that should never have been his. The lingering voices of those who had fought and died beside him. He was beginning to feel like a man caught between two worlds—one where he was a college student, and another where he was someone who had already met his end.
A sharp knock at his door jolted him out of his thoughts.
"Ryo? Are you awake?" His mother's voice came from the other side, soft but laced with concern.
He cleared his throat before answering. "Yeah, I'm up."
"Come have some breakfast. You barely ate anything yesterday."
For a moment, he considered refusing. He didn't feel hungry—his stomach was a twisted knot of unease. But if he started acting too strangely, his mother would worry even more. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and made his way downstairs.
The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the dining table. His mother had already set out a plate for him, along with a cup of tea. She watched him closely as he sat down.
"You've been looking really tired lately," she said, voice gentle. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"I'm fine, Mom." He picked up his spoon, stirring absentmindedly at his soup. "Just been reading too much."
"That novel again?" She sighed. "You always get too caught up in stories. Make sure you don't forget to take care of yourself."
He offered her a small, reassuring smile. "I won't."
They ate in silence after that, but Ryo's mind was elsewhere. The memories wouldn't leave him alone. Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of battles, of bloodstained corridors, of shadows lurking in the corners of a grand yet oppressive castle. And most of all, he saw him—a man whose face he had never truly paid attention to before, but now it haunted him.
When he returned to his room, he immediately reached for his phone, scrolling through the novel again. He had already memorized so much of it, but now he needed to cross-reference, to see if any other names had changed. If the erased villain had been rewritten, what else had been altered?
As he skimmed through, something caught his attention.
A new name.
One that hadn't been there before.
Caelum Veyne.
Ryo's breath hitched. The name was eerily similar—too similar to be a coincidence. The character was still an early antagonist, still destined to meet a tragic end… but his role had been slightly rewritten. Some details remained unchanged, but others had been restructured, as if someone had taken the foundation of a forgotten villain and molded him into a different shape.
It was almost as if history itself was being altered.
A chill ran down his spine.
What the hell was happening?
And why was he the only one who seemed to remember the truth?
That night, the dreams were different.
They weren't just glimpses of a forgotten past anymore—this time, they felt like an ending.
Ryo stood in the ruins of a battlefield, rain pouring down in thick sheets. The bodies of soldiers lay around him, their blood mixing with the mud. His hands were shaking, a familiar weight resting in his palm—a sword, its edge chipped and worn.
Before him, a towering shadow loomed, faceless yet terrifyingly present.
You do not belong here.
The voice reverberated through his skull, cold and absolute. Ryo tried to move, to run, to scream—but his body refused to obey. The shadow surged forward, and in that instant, a sharp, searing pain shot through his chest.
His breath hitched. He staggered, vision swimming as the world around him cracked like shattered glass.
Then, everything went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in his room.
The air smelled of damp stone and burning torches. The weight on his body felt different—heavier, unfamiliar. His clothes were no longer the ones he had worn to bed.
Ryo's breath quickened as he looked down at his hands.
They weren't his own.
His fingers were longer, more calloused. The fabric of his sleeves was thick, elegant, lined with intricate embroidery. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart—but the sensation felt wrong. Different.
He pushed himself up, his movements sluggish, as if he were adjusting to a body that wasn't quite his. The flickering torchlight illuminated his surroundings—a chamber of dark stone, grand yet oppressive. A large, ornate mirror stood in the corner, its surface slightly cracked.
Ryo swallowed hard.
Dread curled around his ribs as he stepped forward, his own footsteps echoing in the silence. Slowly, hesitantly, he looked into the mirror.
The man staring back at him was not Ryo Takahashi.
He was strikingly handsome, yet undeniably dangerous. His long, crimson-red hair fell past his shoulders, wild and untamed, like fire given form. His sharp, aristocratic features were carved with an effortless elegance—high cheekbones, a defined jawline, and piercing golden eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. His body was lean yet powerful, dressed in dark, regal clothing that clung to him like a second skin.
His breath hitched as he took a step back, his mind racing. This isn't real. This isn't real.
But the mirror did not lie.
And then, as if to solidify the cruel joke fate had played on him, a voice echoed faintly in the back of his mind—one he had ignored for too long.
A name he had overlooked until it was too late.
Caius Veyne.
He wasn't just in the story.
He was him.