Amaran spent the next three hours trying to prove he wasn't hallucinating.
Unfortunately, reality seemed very committed to the joke.
He slapped himself twice.
Pinched his arm.
Jumped down half a staircase.
Nothing changed.
He was still inside the academy.
Still young.
Still alive.
"Either I've gone insane," he muttered quietly, "or the universe has an extremely dark sense of humor."
Honestly, both felt equally possible.
The first few loops had been unbearable.
The hundredth was horrifying.
The thousandth felt numb.
By the one hundred and forty-third thousandth loop, even grief had become exhausted.
Somewhere along the way, memories started fading.
Ahensa's voice blurred first.
Then her face.
Then even her name began slipping apart.
He remembered only fragments now.
The first letter.
Then another tall one after it.
A…
H…
Maybe?
No matter how hard he tried, the rest vanished like smoke.
Still, one thing remained clear.
He had to find her again.
But first—
He needed answers.
Amaran sat cross-legged on his dormitory bed and closed his eyes, trying to sense the flow of Jirja within himself.
Nothing.
No warmth.
No energy.
No mystical awakening.
Absolutely nothing.
He opened one eye slowly.
"Wonderful," he sighed. "I got reincarnated as unemployed."
This world ran on Jirja, the life force flowing through every living being. Those who mastered it could strengthen their bodies, awaken powerful Buds, and surpass ordinary humans entirely.
Meanwhile Amaran apparently possessed the spiritual presence of stale bread.
Amazing.
Since meditation clearly hated him personally, he decided to revisit his roots instead.
The world itself hadn't changed much across the loops.
Pagoda-like temples still pierced the skies proudly across every nation, each one reflecting the culture surrounding it.
Amaran belonged to the Bhumir people.
Artists of nature.
According to ancient stories, nature itself shared the pain of Bhumir souls.
Personally, Amaran suspected nature needed healthier hobbies.
His father lived near the desert outskirts far from civilization—a former outcast with mysterious origins and absolutely zero parenting instincts.
The man somehow carried the tragic backstory of a legendary warrior while behaving like a retired drunk poet.
His mother remained missing.
Nobody talked about her much.
Then there was his grandfather.
Divy Majir.
A man physically incapable of acting normal for more than six seconds.
The moment Amaran entered the mansion gates, a loud voice exploded through the halls.
"MY GRANDSON HAS RETURNED!"
Amaran barely had time to react before an old man dramatically grabbed his face.
"You've gotten thinner! Are they feeding you rocks at that academy?!"
"Grandpa… it's literally been four days."
"Time is irrelevant," Divy declared proudly. "Emotion is what matters."
"That doesn't even mean anything."
"Exactly."
Amaran stared at him blankly.
His grandfather looked exactly as chaotic as he remembered—wild gray hair streaked with silver, sharp green eyes glowing mischievously beneath thick brows, and robes expensive enough to fund a small country.
He looked like a nobleman and a forest bandit somehow reached a compromise.
The massive mansion behind him gleamed beneath the afternoon sunlight, every wall polished to absurd perfection.
Amaran sometimes wondered whether the servants cleaned the floors or personally threatened dust into submission.
"Come," Divy announced dramatically. "Dinner awaits!"
Dinner, apparently, was an entire military operation.
Tables overflowed with food.
Selroti.
Spiced meats.
Sweet rice cakes.
Fresh soup.
Enough dishes to bankrupt minor kingdoms.
Amaran immediately forgot his existential crisis and started eating like a man escaping starvation.
Across from him, Divy watched proudly with suspiciously emotional eyes.
"You know," the old man sighed dramatically, "I always wanted a granddaughter."
Amaran paused mid-bite.
"But then I got you," Divy continued proudly. "Close enough."
"…I don't know how to feel about that."
"You'll survive."
Hopefully, Amaran thought.
Assuming time itself didn't kill him first.