"Kazaki-sensei, what's Alise's favorite food? Her favorite color? Does Alise have a crush on anyone?" Akira was practically vibrating with excitement, eager to peel back every layer of his beloved character straight from the author's mouth at the Jump Fiesta panel—the girl who'd flipped his whole worldview upside down.
"She loves sandwiches, her favorite color is blue, and yes… she does like someone," the thirty-something man answered, voice low and deliberate.
***
The classroom was a storm of chaos. Shrieks tangled with frantic footsteps; the professor's barked orders barely cut through the din.
Alise lay sprawled on the cold marble, face snow-pale, golden hair fanned in disarray. Liane hovered in the corner, hands trembling, eyes wide with unreadable terror. The gray-robed professor knelt beside her, fingers pressed to her wrist, brow knotted in alarm.
Chester remained frozen in his seat, heart hammering like a war drum. Thoughts collided—sandwich, poison, loop, Alise—shattering into jagged shards.
He dragged in a breath, steadying the whirlwind in his skull.
I can't wait anymore.
Resolve laced with dread, he shot to his feet, ignoring the pandemonium.
"I… need the restroom," he muttered to the professor, voice swallowed by the uproar. The man waved him off, too consumed with Alise to care.
As Chester slipped through the door, whispers chased him: heartless prick, doesn't even care… bet he did something to her.
He let the accusations slide, bolting down the blue-stone corridor. Midday sun stabbed through high windows, searing his eyes, but he didn't slow.
His boots echoed on marble, syncing with his racing pulse. The hallway stretched endlessly, ancient runes glaring like silent sentinels guarding buried secrets.
He reached the storage wing—a deserted stretch of moss-flecked walls and creeping roots. Elite lockers gleamed dully under dim magic lamps.
Chester halted at his own, fingers quivering as he twisted the rusty copper lock.
Inside: two sandwiches, neatly wrapped in cream wax paper. No note. No sender.
The faint scent of fresh bread and meat curled into the air, but now it twisted his gut with dread.
He clutched the paper, knuckles whitening.
Eat this now, loop early. Save her next time.
He inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut. Alise's limp body flashed behind his lids.
Hand shaking, he unwrapped one sandwich and crammed it into his mouth—barely chewing, the bread dry as dust against his throat. He forced down the second bite. Ordinary… yet a faint, almost imperceptible bitterness lingered.
Poison.
He slammed the locker shut, metal ringing through the silence. Without a backward glance, he sprinted out the back way.
Past the small garden, under the sakura where Alise usually sat. Petals drifted on the breeze, but he didn't notice.
He vaulted the low wall, tearing toward the city's edge.
He collapsed beneath a massive oak by the roadside, lungs burning. The street lay empty save for distant carriage clops and faint birdsong.
Minutes crawled. Then his stomach lurched, twisting harder than before.
Nausea crashed like a tidal wave. The world spun, colors bleeding.
He dropped to his knees, palms scraping dirt.
"Damn it…" he rasped.
Vision blurred. Darkness swallowed him whole. He crumpled beneath the tree, motionless.
***
Morning light seeped through curtain gaps, warm and gentle, coaxing Chester's eyes open. He jolted upright, breath hitching.
The familiar old wooden ceiling stared back—his room, the Kerl estate. Same as every reset.
He pressed a hand to his still-aching forehead.
"Looped again," he whispered, disbelief mingling with relief.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet.
"Chester! Get ready! We leave early—driver's emergency!" His father's voice—Kerl Ormund—boomed, etched in routine.
Chester drew a steadying breath, pulse calming. He rose, pulling on his academy uniform with newfound certainty.
This time, I stop her before she eats it.
In the drawing room, his father waited in headmaster robes, face etched with age and weary authority.
"You're slow this morning," he said flatly.
"Mornings and I aren't friends," Chester quipped, slipping into lazy Chester mode. He strode to the carriage, dodging that probing stare.
The ride unfolded in strained silence—creaking wheels, clopping hooves, the same monotonous rhythm.
Chester gazed out, mist veiling the academy spires.
This time, I find out who poisoned the sandwich—and stop Alise from touching it.
The Grand Magic Academy rose before him, unchanged: white stone towers, fluttering blue flag, students laughing under sparkling dew.
He stepped into the courtyard, hands in pockets, swagger intact—but eyes sharp, scanning for cracks in the script.
Like clockwork,
"Hey, Chester!"
He turned. Alise Antoinette Seraphim stood radiant in sunlight, sapphire eyes blazing hatred.
Liane and Marcia flanked her, disgust etched deep.
"Why'd you ruin our evening yesterday?" Marcia snapped, hands on hips.
"Hmph. Just wanted to join the café party. That tea killed my appetite, though."
Alise huffed. Marcia scowled. Liane dipped her head.
"Tch!"
She spun away, friends whispering as they left.
Chester's gaze locked on Liane.
Her… or someone else?
Resolve ignited in his chest.
***
The lecture hall snapped back to tense hush. Sunlight wove patterns over scarred desks. The gray-robed professor traced glowing runes, voice grave and measured, fatigue threading through his authority.
Chester slouched in the back, chin on hand—but eyes wide open, flicking between the board and Alise four rows ahead, scribbling furiously.
Her golden hair caught the light, but beauty was the last thing on his mind.
The previous loop replayed: vomiting, blackout, the undeniable poison.
He glanced at Liane beside Alise—face serene, hands unnaturally stiff.
Liane tried to poison her tea at the café. The sandwich too?
Alise and Liane—mistress and maid since she was four. Canon fact.
But why kill her own lady?
This time, I intercept at recess—in the canteen.
The recess bell tolled. Students surged up, chairs scraping.
Chester didn't linger. He bolted straight for the canteen—the vaulted open-air hall ringed by sigil-carved pillars, kiosks steaming with enchanted breads and mood-shifting soups.
Alise's trio was already queued at the herbal tea kiosk, sandwiches unpacked on a nearby table—Alise's signature lunch.
Showtime.
Chester sauntered over, hands in pockets, lopsided grin dialed to maximum annoyance.
"Well, well—if it isn't the noble princess and her entourage. Sandwiches again? You know, those look 'almost' edible."
Alise's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "What do you want, Chester?"
He leaned in, snagging one sandwich from the edge of her tray—close enough to disrupt, not close enough to grab.
"Curious, that's all. Did you make these, princess? Because if anyone else touched them…" He twirled it theatrically. "…I wouldn't eat it. Might be poisoned."
The word landed like a grenade.
Alise's cheeks flushed—not just anger, but a flicker of unease. "Liane made them, you idiot. And don't you dare mock her."
Liane went rigid, fingers tightening on her satchel strap. Her calm mask cracked—just a hairline fracture of panic at "poison."
Marcia exploded. "Back off, Kerl! You're not funny!"
Chester opened his mouth for another jab—then the air shifted.
A shadow fell over the table.
"Enough."
Alexandre Brookhaven materialized like a hero cue, red hair gleaming, glacial eyes locked on Chester. The canteen hushed; students parted like the Red Sea.
"Chester," he said, voice smooth as polished steel. "I've warned you. Harassing ladies again? Step away—or I make you."
Classic MC entrance: cape-worthy, crowd-pleasing, nauseating.
Chester's stomach turned—not from poison this time, but sheer 'ugh'.
Here comes the golden boy.
He raised both hands in mock surrender, sandwich still dangling. "Relax, hero. Just admiring the… culinary arts."
Alexandre's glare could freeze lava. "Leave. Now."
Chester dropped the sandwich back on the tray—untouched by Alise, thank the loops—and backed off with a theatrical bow.
"Your loss, princess. Enjoy the meal."
He turned, weaving through the gawking crowd, frustration boiling under the smirk.
I couldn't convince them. Damn it.
---
The second bell rang. Chester filed back to class, the script resetting like clockwork.
Lecture droned on. Runes glowed. Alise scribbled notes—alive, breathing, safe.
No collapse. No chaos.
She didn't eat it. Or it wasn't poisoned this time.
The day ended without incident.
Outside, sunset bathed the courtyard in gold.
Alise stood with Liane beneath a sprawling oak. Calm. Unharmed.
Chester paused at a distance, flashing his trademark cynical grin.
Alise glanced over—scowl ready—then something flickered in her eyes. Not hate. Not quite.
He didn't wait to decode it.
He turned, heading for the Kerl carriage.
Home. Into his room without a word.
He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Liane… sandwich… poison… loop…
Threads still knotted.
If Alise skipped the sandwich… good. Nothing happened to her.
***
The Seraphim family carriage glided over slick cobblestones under an orange-gold dusk, leaving the mist-shrouded academy behind.
Alise leaned against velvet crimson cushions, gazing out the window.
Liane sat opposite, hands folded neatly, occasionally glancing at her mistress—subtle, unnoticed.
"How was the meal I prepared, Lady Seraphim?" Liane asked, voice polished and deferential. At the academy she hid her role; outside, she wore it plainly—Alise had insisted she not stand out among peers.
"As always," Alise replied with a smile that carried hidden weight.
Silence returned, filled only by creaking wheels and hoofbeats.
The carriage halted before the Seraphim estate gates—a sprawling manor on the city's edge.
Vast gardens bloomed with glowing magical flowers; marble fountains sparkled.
The mansion itself screamed restrained opulence: towering white stone walls etched with intricate carvings, small turrets crowning each end like jeweled tiaras, mosaic windows fracturing sunset into rainbows.
The grand oak doors—dark wood, gleaming brass handles—were opened by liveried servants in black and gold as Alise and Liane alighted.
Inside, luxury breathed controlled elegance.
The grand foyer soared with crystal magic chandeliers casting soft golden light.
Polished black marble floors mirrored every step; walls bore gilded portraits of Seraphim ancestors, each face radiating noble authority.
A sweeping staircase curved upward, draped in deep crimson carpet, leading to upper floors.
Servants glided silently, silver trays of herbal tea in hand, arranging vases in every corner.
The air carried polished wood, fresh blooms, and distant scents of baking bread.
In the main parlor, Rose Geraldine Bernal—Alise's mother—stood by a vast window overlooking the gardens, posture regal.
Age had not dimmed her beauty; blonde hair—nearly identical to Alise's—pinned with jeweled combs.
Sapphire eyes mirrored her daughter's, calm yet commanding.
Her emerald silk gown flowed like liquid, underscoring high nobility.
She turned as Alise entered, every motion graceful authority.
"Alise, darling," Rose said, voice soft but precise. "You look weary. Something at the academy?"
Alise nodded faintly, lingering irritation from Chester still etched on her face.
"Just… a long day, Mother."
She crossed to a velvet sofa, setting her small bag aside.
In the corner, Frank Swiss Hans Seraphim—Alise's fourteen-year-old brother—sat with a thick tome in his lap.
Nearly as tall as his sister, lean but sturdy, with neatly combed golden-brown hair and sharp blue eyes that observed the world with precocious curiosity.
His face was strikingly handsome, almost sculpted, yet carried a maturity beyond his years.
He closed the book slowly, offering Alise a faint smile.
"Chester Kerl got under your skin again, didn't he?" he teased, tone calm but laced with mischief.
Alise huffed, arching a brow at him.
"Don't say that name. He's insufferable."
She turned away, cheeks warming unnoticed.
Liane, now in black-and-white maid livery, stood by the door, head bowed in respect.
Hands clasped, she glanced at Alise—subtle, unseen.
"Dinner will be served shortly, Lady Seraphim," she said softly, voice controlled, hiding something beneath.
"Thank you, Liane," Alise replied without looking back, ascending the grand staircase to her room.
Alise's bedroom mirrored refined elegance, echoing Seraphim prestige.
Pale blue silk wallpaper bloomed with hand-painted floral patterns.
A grand four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in white linen canopy, golden-carved posts.
Mosaic windows overlooked the gardens, sunset spilling in soft hues.
A mahogany vanity in the corner brimmed with perfume vials and jewel boxes; opposite, a bookshelf stood neat with magic texts and classic novels.