Three hours later, I handed in my test with the confidence of a man who'd just written his own academic suicide note.
The proctor—some uptight woman with glasses that screamed "I've never had fun in my life"—took my paper with a frown.
"You finished early," she observed.
"Yeah, well, it doesn't take long when you don't give a shit." I stretched, my spine popping in three places. 127 deaths did a number on your back, even in a new body. "When do results come out?"
"Tomorrow morning. But—" She glanced at my paper, her frown deepening. "Young man, are you sure you want to submit this?"
"Why? Is there a word limit I didn't meet?"
"No, it's just... these answers are..." She trailed off, searching for words.
"Terrible? Lazy? An insult to education itself?"
"Unconventional," she finished diplomatically.
I snorted. "Lady, I've seen the future. Conventional is what got us all killed. Repeatedly."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Keep the paper. Burn it. Wallpaper your bathroom with it. I don't care." I headed for the exit, dodging the other applicants who were still frantically scribbling.
The fresh air hit me like a blessing. Freedom. Sweet, beautiful freedom from expectations and destiny and—
"Marcus!"
—and apparently, persistent princesses.
Sarah Brightwood jogged up to me, slightly out of breath. Her red hair had come loose from its tie, making her look less "disguised noble" and more "enthusiastic puppy."
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"Terrible. Exactly as planned."
"You... planned to do badly?"
"Listen, Sarah—"
"How do you keep knowing my name? I never told you my—" Her eyes narrowed. "Are you stalking me?"
I laughed. Actually laughed. First genuine laugh in probably sixty loops. "Oh, that's rich. The princess who's stalking commoners to 'understand the people' is accusing me of stalking. That's delicious irony."
Her face flushed. "I'm not—I don't—"
"Relax. Your secret's safe with me. Mainly because I don't care enough to tell anyone." I started walking. She followed. Of course she did. "Look, you seem nice, in that 'sheltered rich kid trying to be relatable' way. But I'm not interested in friends, allies, or whatever story you're writing in your head where we become adventuring buddies."
"I wasn't—"
"You were. You're thinking: 'He's mysterious and talented but acts like he doesn't care. He must be hiding something. I should befriend him.' Am I close?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "That's... oddly specific."
"I've met you 127 times, Sarah. Well, versions of you. You always try this. It never ends well." I stopped walking, turning to face her. "So let me save us both some time: I'm not mysterious. I'm tired. I'm not talented. I'm traumatized. And I'm not hiding anything except a desperate desire to be left alone."
For a moment, she just stared. Then: "127 times?"
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
"Metaphorically," I backtracked. "Feels like I've lived this moment 127 times. You know. Déjà vu."
"Right." She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes—that spark of curiosity that would make her follow me around for the next month. "Well, metaphorically or not, I think you're more interesting than you pretend to be."
"And I think you're more naive than you pretend to be. We all have our crosses to bear." I resumed walking. "Go find some other charity case to befriend. I'm a lost cause."
"No one's a lost cause!"
I stopped. Turned. And let her see my eyes—really see them. The eyes of someone who'd died 127 times. Who'd watched friends die. Who'd killed. Who'd been killed. Who'd loved and lost and loved again and lost again until love itself became just another word for future grief.
"Kid," I said softly, "some of us are so far past salvation that even God doesn't return our calls. Go home. Live your life. Forget you met me."
I walked away before she could respond.
Behind me, I heard her whisper: "What happened to you?"
Everything, princess. Everything happened.
Home was the same small house it always was. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that smelled like burnt dreams and my mother's famous butterscotch pie.
Mom was waiting at the table.
"How was it?" She asked the question like my entire future hung on the answer.
It did, technically. Just not the future she imagined.
"Fine," I lied.
"Just fine?"
"Mom." I sat across from her, suddenly exhausted. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, honey."
"Why do you want me to go to the academy so badly?"
She blinked, surprised. "Because it's your future! Your chance to—"
"No. Really. Why?" I leaned forward. "Is it because you want me to succeed? Or because you want to prove that all your sacrifices meant something?"
The color drained from her face. "Marcus, that's not—"
"It's okay if it's the second one. I get it. You've given up everything for me. Your youth, your health, your dreams. You need to see a return on investment. I'm not judging. I'm just... trying to understand."
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was small. "Is that what you think? That you're an investment?"
"Aren't I?"
"No!" She reached across the table, grabbing my hands. Her fingers were rough, calloused from years of factory work. "Marcus, you're my son. My baby. I work hard because I love you, not because I expect anything back."
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to. But I'd lived too long, seen too much.
"Then let me ask you this," I said quietly. "If I told you I didn't want to go to the academy, would you be okay with that?"
She hesitated. That hesitation told me everything.
"I just want what's best for you," she finally said.
"What's best for me, or what looks best to everyone else?"
"Marcus—"
"It's fine, Mom." I pulled my hands back, standing. "I'll go to the academy if I get in. I'll make you proud. I'll be the son you sacrificed everything for. But after that..." I paused at the doorway. "After that, I'm living my life my way. Deal?"
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
I went to my room before I could see her cry. I'd seen her cry enough times to last several lifetimes.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Shocking, I know. Who would've thought that a guy who'd died 127 times might have insomnia?
I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, thinking about everything and nothing. The crack in the corner. The water stain. The cobweb in the corner that had survived 128 loops. That spider was either immortal or incredibly lucky.
The system window flickered to life:
[DAILY QUEST AVAILABLE]
[100 PUSH-UPS, 100 SIT-UPS, 100 SQUATS, 10KM RUN]
[REWARD: +1 STRENGTH, +1 ENDURANCE]
"Oh, fuck off," I muttered. "I'm not doing your One-Punch Man workout routine."
[QUEST DECLINED]
[WARNING: DECLINING DAILY QUESTS MAY RESULT IN STAT DEGRADATION]
"Good. Let them degrade. Maybe if I get weak enough, the universe will stop expecting me to save it."
[REGRESSOR ABILITIES CANNOT BE REMOVED]
[HERO'S PATH CANNOT BE ABANDONED]
I sat up, glaring at the glowing window. "You know what? I'm done talking to you. You're like a clingy ex who can't take a hint. We're over. I'm breaking up with you. I want my stuff back. You can keep the trauma."
[SYSTEM CANNOT BE DISMISSED]
"Watch me."
I concentrated, drawing on the mana I'd cultivated over 127 lifetimes. The raw, primal energy that came from dying and coming back, again and again. The power that made me, technically, one of the strongest beings on the planet even in this teenage body.
The system window flickered.
[ERROR]
[UNAUTHORIZED MANA SIGNATURE]
[ANALYZING...]
"Yeah, analyze this." I pushed harder, flooding the system with chaotic energy. "I've died 127 times. I've fought gods, demons, and entities that don't have names in any language. You think some basic-ass RPG interface is going to control me?"
[WARNING: ATTEMPTING TO CORRUPT SYSTEM]
[CEASE IMMEDIATELY OR—]
The window exploded in a shower of digital sparks.
For the first time in 127 loops, the system went silent.
I lay back down, grinning in the dark. "That's what I thought."
Morning came too soon. And with it, a knock on my door.
"Marcus! Results are out! They posted them at the academy! We need to—"
"I'm not going," I called back.
Silence. Then: "What?"
"I said I'm not going. If I passed, they'll send a letter. If I failed, why waste the trip?"
My door slammed open. Mom stood there, still in her nightgown, hair wild, eyes blazing. "Marcus Theodore Vale, you will get your lazy behind out of that bed RIGHT NOW and—"
"Mom." I sat up, interrupting her tirade. "I need to tell you something."
She paused, thrown off by my serious tone.
"I'm leaving."
"What?"
"After this. After the academy thing is resolved. I'm leaving. Going far away. Maybe the Western Continent. Maybe the Northern Wastes. Somewhere where no one knows me and I can just... exist."
"But—your education! Your future! Your—"
"My mental health, Mom. That's what matters. And I can't stay here. There are too many memories. Too many... echoes."
She stared at me like I was speaking another language. "Echoes of what?"
"Things that haven't happened yet. Things that should never happen. Things I need to make sure never happen again."
"Marcus, you're scaring me."
"Good." I swung my legs out of bed. "Fear keeps you alert. Alert keeps you alive. And I really, really need you to stay alive this time."
"This time?"
I realized my mistake too late. "Figure of speech."
Before she could press further, there was a knock at the front door. Loud. Official. The kind of knock that said "important business, answer immediately."
We both went still.
"That's..." Mom whispered.
"Yeah." I stood, walking past her. "That's the academy."
I opened the door to find not one, but three academy officials. The uptight proctor from yesterday, a man in ceremonial robes I recognized as Vice-Headmaster Theron, and—
Oh, hell no.
Headmaster Aldric himself, fat and pompous and smiling like the cat that caught the canary.
"Mr. Vale!" he boomed. "Congratulations! You've achieved the impossible!"
I blinked. "I died?"
"What? No! You scored perfect marks on the entrance exam!"
The world stopped.
I'm sorry, what?
"That's... not possible," I said slowly. "I wrote garbage. Deliberate garbage."
"Garbage?" The proctor stepped forward, holding up my test paper. "Mr. Vale, your answers demonstrate an understanding of magical theory so profound that three of our professors have already requested to study them."
"But I wrote—"
"'It circulates. That's the whole thing.'" She quoted from my paper. "In reference to mana circulation. Do you know how revolutionary that statement is? You reduced centuries of complex theory to its absolute fundamental truth. The purest expression of understanding is simplicity."
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
"And this answer," Vice-Headmaster Theron continued, barely containing his excitement. "'Point at target. Say fireball. Hope for the best.' You've essentially described the principle of intuitive magic—bypassing calculations entirely and relying on pure intent. Scholars have theorized about this for decades!"
"It was a joke," I said flatly.
"Joke or not, you've displayed genius-level insight!" Headmaster Aldric grabbed my hand, pumping it enthusiastically. "Not only are you accepted into the Celestial Academy, but we'd like to offer you a full scholarship! Room, board, personal stipend!"
No. No, no, no.
"I respectfully decline."
Everyone froze.
"You... what?" Aldric's smile didn't waver, but his eye twitched.
"I decline. Thanks for the offer, but I'm not interested in—"
"Marcus!" My mother appeared behind me, tears streaming down her face. "Did you hear that? A full scholarship! This is everything we've hoped for! Everything I've worked for!"
And there it was. The cosmic railroad, right on schedule.
I looked at my mother's face—hopeful, proud, desperate—and felt something in me break. Again. Because it always broke, didn't it? Every loop. Every time. I could never escape.
"How much?" I asked quietly.
"Excuse me?" Aldric blinked.
"How much is the stipend? Monthly."
"Five hundred gold pieces."
I did the math. That was... more than my mother made in three months. If I took this, sent the money home, she could quit one of her jobs. Maybe two.
Damn it.
DAMN IT.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "I'll attend. But I have conditions."
"Conditions?" The proctor frowned. "Mr. Vale, you're hardly in a position to—"
"I am, actually. Because you want me. Whatever you saw in that test, you want it. So here's the deal: I attend classes when I feel like it. I don't participate in academy politics. I'm not joining any clubs or special programs. And the moment I decide I'm done, I'm gone. No questions, no guilt trips, no 'but you have so much potential' speeches."
Aldric's smile strained. "That's... highly irregular."
"Take it or leave it."
He glanced at his colleagues. They had a brief, whispered conversation. Finally: "Very well. But you must maintain passing grades and attend mandatory events."
"Define 'passing.'"
"Above 70%."
"I can do 71%. Not a point higher."
His eye twitched again. "Mr. Vale—"
"Take it or leave it," I repeated.
Another pause. Then, with clear reluctance: "Deal."
We shook on it. The moment our hands touched, I felt it—the cosmic railroad snapping back into place, the universe course-correcting, destiny reasserting itself.
I'd tried to derail. I'd really tried.
But some trains, it seemed, couldn't be stopped.
Only delayed.
"Classes start next week," Aldric said, his smile returning to full pompous glory. "We look forward to having you, Mr. Vale. I believe you'll find the academy... enlightening."
They left.
Mom immediately threw her arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder. "I'm so proud of you! So, so proud!"
I stood there, arms at my sides, feeling nothing.
"Yeah, Mom," I said quietly. "Me too."