Evening light spilled molten gold across the Razack sky, thin pink clouds drifting lazily on the horizon as though the world itself were trying to soothe Chester Kerl's restless heart. The family's enchanted carriage, polished oak frame, wheels glowing faintly with mana, glided soundlessly over the grey cobblestones toward the Kerl estate.
Chester, or rather the foreign soul now wearing his skin, slumped against the deep-blue velvet cushions and stared out the window with a scowl, thoughts tangled in knots.
Up front, Frookvolt Fernandez guided the magical reins with steady hands. Grey hair neatly combed, black-and-silver livery bore the small silver eagle of House Kerl on his breast. Every so often he glanced at Chester in the small rear-view mirror. "Rough day, Young Master?" he asked, voice low and warm, attempting to chip away at the infamous wall of cynicism.
Chester exhaled and rubbed his temples. "Same circus, different animals, Frook. The academy treats me like trash that learned to walk." He was still adjusting to this world of spells, schemes, and burdens nothing like the novel Magic Revolution he had once read for fun. "Oh, and I've been drafted into the Royal Magical Season Event. Courtesy of dear old Dad, naturally," he added, sarcasm laced with genuine bitterness.
Frookvolt gave a small nod and the faintest of smiles. "A rare chance, Young Master. Kerl-sama must have his reasons."
Chester didn't return the smile. He turned back to the window, replaying his father's clipped words from that morning. Headmaster Kerl Ormund had important business at the academy and would be home late. At the time Chester had only shrugged, but now, alone with the quiet clatter of hooves, that lingering, searching look felt heavier.
Frookvolt chuckled softly. "Patience, Young Master. The world is full of doors if you look for them." He eased the reins; the carriage slowed before tall wrought-iron gates. Golden eagle crests glinted in the dying light. Protective crystals flared green and the gates swung inward without a sound.
Chester stepped down. His academy robes were creased and dusted from a long day. The front courtyard was spacious yet far less ostentatious than the Seraphim manor: grey stone paths inlaid with spiralling mana mosaics, modest gardens glowing with soft pink blossoms, a simple marble fountain spinning water in graceful arcane patterns. Floating lanterns drifted like fireflies, bathing everything in tranquil gold that felt at odds with the storm inside him.
" Kerl-sama keeps the grounds immaculate, doesn't he? Beautiful," Frookvolt said proudly while parking the carriage.
Chester nodded slowly. "Not bad," he answered, trying to sound indifferent. Inside, he was quietly awed at the care his father poured into the place despite his endless duties. Original Chester never appreciated any of this, did he?
"The garden is his favourite," Frookvolt continued, gazing fondly at the blooms. "He always says, 'Order outside, order within.'"
Chester felt something twist in his chest and covered it with a snort.
The world might be strange, but its beauty was impossible to ignore. He walked toward the main doors, rich mahogany carved with an open book, the Kerl family sigil. A young maid in black-and-silver livery opened them with practiced grace. "Welcome home, Young Master," she said politely, though her eyes held the same cautious curiosity every servant now wore around him.
Inside, the manor was warm and quietly imposing. Dark-grey marble floors gleamed beneath a crystal mana-chandelier that scattered soft golden motes across the entrance hall. White stone walls were panelled in mahogany etched with protective spirals; deep-blue carpets threaded with gold muffled every footstep.
The grand staircase curved upward, lit by drifting orbs of light. Portraits lined the walls. One showed a much younger Chester stiffly beside his stern father; another captured a beautiful woman with long chestnut hair, his mother, perhaps. The sight tightened his throat with memories that weren't his yet somehow ached all the same.
Every time I see that portrait I feel like I've met her, he thought, unable to look away from her gentle smile.
He drifted into the parlour. Blue velvet sofas ringed a sturdy mahogany table; a fireplace burned with steady blue mage-flame. Tall bookshelves brimmed with magical treatises and histories of Razack, many untouched, evidence the old Chester had never cared for study. In one corner a small recording crystal replayed a faint, looping image of the Grand Magic Academy's towers, probably a keepsake from his father's early days.
Chester slid open glass doors to the back courtyard. A high wooden fence ringed with warding runes enclosed a training circle of packed sand and cracked stone targets, proof his father had once tried to teach him. No wonder the novel never showed Chester Kerl' background. There was nothing to tell.
Magical flowers glowed soft violet and indigo under the rising dusk; a small pond shimmered with tiny luminescent fish. A wooden bench beneath a pink-blossoming tree looked inviting, but Chester only stood there, fists clenched, mind replaying the academy's whispers and the looming weight of the Royal Event.
"Young Master Kerl, forgive our tardiness in greeting you," the head maid said, bowing deeply. Behind her the staff stood in perfect line, disciplined and elegant. "We are prepared to accept punishment for the oversight."
Chester arched a brow. "Oh, absolutely," he began, voice rising playfully, "you should all be flogged." He winked. "But I'm in a generous mood tonight, so I'll let it slide."
Relief flickered across their faces. "Your kindness is deeply appreciated, Young Master," the head maid replied, gratitude sincere. They ushered him toward the dining hall with flawless courtesy.
"Dinner is served, Young Master."
The long oak table was set for one: crisp white linen, gold-rimmed porcelain, a small chandelier above shifting to warm amber. Platters steamed, roast meat in shimmering sauce, faintly glowing vegetables, sparkling fruit-infused wine that smelled of starlight and summer.
Chester sat alone in the vast room. He speared a piece of meat, then let the fork drop. Appetite gone. "Alise," he whispered into the silence.
In the original novel, Chester Kerl had been nothing but a disposable side character doomed to fail. Now, wearing his name, Akira felt a stubborn need to rewrite that fate, not just for himself, but for the girl whose death would one day trigger the story's darkest turn.
He pushed back his chair, food untouched, and stepped into the back courtyard again. Evening breeze cooled his face; the magical flowers brightened as true night fell.
Something restless stirred in his chest, a warning he couldn't yet name.
"I need to get ready," he murmured to the darkening sky. "The Royal Magical Season Event… maybe that's my chance to prove something."
-------
Morning sunlight slipped through the tall arched windows of the Grand Magic Academy, scattering golden shards across the polished stone corridors. Students moved in clusters, deep-blue robes brushing the floor, some whispering excitedly about the approaching Royal Magical Season Event, others buried in thick spell tomes. Chester Kerl stepped inside, robes slightly rumpled, expression as sour as ever. Eyes followed him: some sharp with contempt, some openly mocking, a few merely curious. The label of truant still clung to him like a second skin, even if something inside had quietly shifted.
As always, he crossed paths with the same trio in the main hallway: Alise Antoinette Seraphim, Marcia, and Liane. Marcia, red ponytail swinging, emerald eyes narrowed, planted herself in front of him.
"Look who decided to show up," she sneered. "Out of every student in this academy, they pick him."
Chester snorted, forcing his usual cynical mask into place. "Don't you ever get tired, Marcia? That mouth of yours casts curses, but they never stick." He brushed past, yet his gaze snagged on Alise for a heartbeat. She simply looked at him, face unreadable, sapphire eyes calm as deep water hiding a storm. Liane lingered beside her, a faint, indecipherable smile playing at her lips while she studied him with quiet interest.
Inside the lecture hall, rows of oak desks waited beneath high windows that poured soft light across the floor. The front wall shimmered with today's runes. Chester claimed his usual spot at the back near the window, close enough to the outside world to pretend he was listening.
His eyes drifted to Alise and Alexandre Brookhaven in the far corner, heads bent together in animated conversation. Alexandre's copper hair caught the light as his hands sketched quick patterns in the air. Alise nodded, occasionally jotting something in a small leather notebook. Chester's jaw tightened. Definitely about the Event. They'll fill me in later, right? He leaned forward, straining to catch fragments.
A rustle of emerald robes announced Madam Elvira, silver hair pulled into a severe bun, presence stern yet fair. "Good morning, class. I am substituting for Sir Henry today." Her voice carried easily across the room, firm but not unkind. "Turn to page 142. We continue with Realm Magic Theory."
The lesson unfolded as expected: demonstrations of shimmering pocket realms, furious note-taking, students called forward to test minor spells. Chester kept his head low, but Elvira's gaze lingered on him once, bright with unspoken expectation, as if she saw past the reputation.
Afternoon arrived on soft chimes. The dismissal bell rippled through the academy like gentle waves. Students spilled into the corridors, some heading to the library, others to the training fields.
Chester slung his bag over one shoulder and made for the main gates. In the distance he spotted Alise and Alexandre walking side by side, Marcia and Liane nowhere in sight.
He slowed, ears pricking.
"…Café Lilith tonight, eight o'clock," Alexandre said, voice warm with enthusiasm.
Alise gave a small smile. "We need to finalize the strategy for the Event."
Chester's stomach twisted. Strategy without me. Great.
He forced a careless shrug and kept walking, pretending the sting didn't exist. Frookvolt waited by the gate, carriage ready.
"Early today, Young Master," the driver greeted cheerfully.
"Home, Frook. I'm beat."
All the way back he stared out the window, Café Lilith looping in his mind like a bad refrain.
Dusk painted the Kerl estate in familiar gold. The pink-blossomed trees and quiet fountain greeted him like old friends. Servants bowed, more cautiously than yesterday. Dinner waited, lavish and solitary. The roast and glowing vegetables tasted of nothing.
Afterward he dragged himself to his room, finished Elvira's Realm Theory exercises half-heartedly, then collapsed onto the bed. "Magic that creates entire pocket worlds, huh," he muttered before exhaustion pulled him under.
Next morning the sun rose the same, light spilling across his sheets the same, robe pressed and waiting the same.
At breakfast his father was there, an unexpected silhouette at the table. "Morning, Chester," Kerl Ormund said, tone measured yet oddly gentle. "Do not waste the chance I gave you at the Event. I know you can do better."
Chester swallowed guilt and nodded. "Yes, Father."
The academy greeted him with the exact same sunlight, the exact same corridor, the exact same words from Marcia's mouth.
"Look who decided to show up…"
His blood turned to ice.
He walked the day like a ghost. Same conversation between Alise and Alexandre. Same lesson. Same dismissal bell. Same invitation to Café Lilith he wasn't part of.
By evening he knew.
Another loop.
He sent Frookvolt home with his father and followed Alise and Alexandre through the bustling streets of Razack, keeping to the shadows. They reached Café Lilith, took a table inside, talked strategy and laughed softly. Chester watched from a darkened corner outside, hood up, heart thudding with questions he had no answers for.
Half an hour later they left and parted ways. He chose Alise.
Minutes passed in quiet footsteps over lit cobblestones. Nothing unusual.
Until sudden, blinding pain exploded in his lower back.
A wide blade punched through flesh and muscle. His legs buckled. He hit the ground hard, skull cracking against stone. Vision swam red.
Another thrust, this time into his eye. A scream tore from his throat as agony swallowed everything.
Alise's voice, panicked and breaking. "Chester! No, stop!"
"You really are a pest," a girl's voice said, soft yet laced with venom.
The voice is not strange. But he doesn't know who is it.
The world spun, sounds of struggle echoing somewhere far away. Pain became the only real thing.
Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt.
I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die.
I'm dead.
He jolted awake in his own bed, gasping, sunlight spilling across the sheets exactly as it had the morning before. Hands flew to his stomach, then his eye. No wounds. No blood. Only the ghost of agony still burning behind his eyelids.
"It hurt," he whispered, voice trembling. His face was ashen, fingers shaking against unmarred skin. "It really, really hurt."