The sun rose like a blade, sharp and golden, slicing through the morning haze that draped the capital.
Before him stood the grand gates of Valeblanc Academy—all white stone and gilded silver, standing as proudly as they had in every lifetime.
Cael Ardyn stood before them, hands tucked in his coat pockets, the wind tugging at his dark hair.
His gaze was distant.
Cold.
"Last time I walked through these doors, I was a fool."
"A loyal dog."
"Tail wagging, eyes wide, drunk on dreams that were never mine to begin with."
Valeblanc had once seemed like a miracle.
A haven for the gifted. A sanctuary of learning, honor, and potential.
But Cael knew better now.
He had died here.
Over and over.
Sometimes in the arena.Sometimes in a hallway.Once, even, in his own dormitory, with a knife between his ribs and betrayal in his lungs.
It wasn't a sanctuary.
It was a stage.
And he'd been the disposable actor, written out of the script the moment his purpose was fulfilled.
The gates creaked open, warm and welcoming.
He stepped through.
Inside, the world moved on as if nothing had changed.
Students laughed and bantered in the courtyards, their robes fluttering as they sparred magically or pored over scrolls. The air carried the scent of roasted bread and ink, mixed with the ozone tang of spellwork.
Here, time had no weight.
Here, his deaths had no gravity.
Cael walked among them like a ghost given flesh.
"They've all forgotten."
"The way I died."
"How I screamed."
He passed a cluster of first-years gossiping about enchanted familiars, then a group practicing formation spells with glowing glyphs. Their rhythm was off. It always had been.
"Cael!"
The voice was bright, cheerful—too warm for this cold morning.
He turned.
A young woman hurried toward him, waving.
Alicia Grenne.
Top of her class in Magical Ethics.
She smiled like the sun and spoke like spring.
Once, she had defended him during a tribunal hearing. Stood by his side when the council accused him of forbidden incantations.
And then—later—she had sold him out. A gentle smile hiding the knife behind her back.
But now?
Now she smiled like they were old friends.
"Good to see you!" she called. "You're back earlier than expected!"
Cael smiled, lips parting into something pleasant.
"Yeah," he said, waving back. "It's good to see you too."
"I wonder if I'll kill you this time."
The thought slid across his mind with the elegance of a knife being drawn.
He didn't mean it—not yet.
Alicia still wore the same lilac ribbon in her hair, the same hopeful light in her gaze. She hadn't lied to him yet. She hadn't smiled while signing his death warrant. Not in this timeline.
But the memory of it stained her like shadow on glass.
And Cael had learned not to ignore the shadows.
He moved on.
Through the courtyard.
Past the chattering students, the sparring pairs, the professors scribbling notes and diagrams in the air with luminous sigils.
His eyes moved across them all.
Not with nostalgia.
Not with curiosity.
But calculation.
"Leon... still oblivious. Still the golden boy."
Leon stood beneath a flowering archway, laughing as another student mimicked a professor's dramatic lecture style. He looked younger than Cael remembered—unscarred by war, untouched by guilt. He always looked like that, at first.
Naive.
Good-hearted.
But predictable.
Easy to read. Easier to use.
To his left: the heirs of House Velmoor and Kastellan, locked in quiet rivalry. Future betrayers, both. One would die screaming. The other would smile while they caused it.
"Arrogant. Factional. Puppets of their houses."
To Leon's right: the usual constellation of girls and boys who would fall for him in cascading succession. Some would become lovers. Others, traitors. One would be both.
"All of them orbit him. Always him."
Cael's mind shifted.
Cogs turning.
Forming the first strategy of many.
"Who to manipulate."
"Who to discard."
"Who to break."
This time, he was the one holding the board.
Suddenly the bell tower chimed above, echoing across the courtyard.
As if on cue, the air shimmered faintly—and a voice amplified across the campus, clean and authoritative.
"Attention, students of Class A through C!"
All heads turned. Professors in deep blue robes strode across the courtyard, their sigils glowing, voices laced with light compulsion.
"Due to escalating tensions on the northern front, we are advancing the schedule."
A hush fell. Even Leon looked startled.
"Your first combat assessment will be held in three days. Full live-arena conditions. No practice run. Real stakes."
Murmurs burst out instantly—excitement, dread, speculation.
But Cael just stood there, unmoving.
"So it begins."
"The first domino."
He remembered this moment.
Three days from now, the assessment would become chaos. A staged sparring match turned near-fatal. Someone would cheat. Someone else would get hurt. And Leon—sweet, gallant Leon—would shine by saving the day.
"And me?I'd get hurt. Publicly. Quietly. Forgotten by the next day."
But this time?
Cael's lips twitched, a thin smile not reaching his eyes.
This time, he'd be ready.
The dormitories hadn't changed.
Same creaky wooden floors. Same scuffed stone tiles near the stairwell where someone always tripped. Same faded bulletin board with old dueling club flyers.
His room—Room 214—was exactly as he remembered.
As if the universe had hit rewind.
He stepped inside.
The scent of old paper and iron-infused dust welcomed him like an old ghost.
His eyes swept across the space: narrow bed, crooked desk, the window that always let in too much sun.
He knelt, fingers moving with familiarity beneath the bedframe.
A hidden board slid aside with a soft click.
There it was.
A worn notebook, its spine cracked, cover torn.Yellowed pages filled with jagged ink, written by a hand desperate to be heard.
He flipped it open, scanned the first few lines.
"To the one who'll understand someday—"
He stopped reading.
The bitterness returned before the words could even land.
That letter—he'd written it two days before the battle. Before his death. A letter meant for someone who never cared enough to read it.
"Back then, I thought my words mattered.I thought if I died, at least something of me would be left behind."
Cael stared at the page a moment longer.
Blank ink on crumpled paper. Sentences drenched in hope and desperation.
He no longer had use for either.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the notebook into the drawer.
The wood closed with a muted thunk—a coffin for the boy he used to be.
Night fell slowly, draping the academy in silver fog and moonlight.
Cael stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze locked on the courtyard below.
From here, the campus looked like a painted lie.
Laughter still echoed faintly from the far garden.
Warm lights blinked behind curtained windows.
A couple strolled under the lamplight path, fingers brushing, faces red with youth and comfort.
"The peace before the storm, he thought.The dream before the ruin."
His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, layered over the view like a ghost.
But his eyes weren't wistful.
They were calculating.
"I will not die for him again."
"Not this time. Not ever again."
The glass chilled under his palm.
"This time, I climb the tower. Even if I have to step on their throats to reach the top."
He didn't say it with hatred.
He said it like a vow.
The vow of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Then—a soundless ping in the back of his mind.
His vision pulsed faintly red.
The interface flickered into being at the corner of his vision—cool, emotionless.
[System Notification]
[Fate Thread Alignment Detected]
[Leon → Cael: Trust Level +10%]
[Optional Rewrite Suggestion Available]
Cael's brows lifted slightly.
He hadn't done anything. Not yet.
Just stood there. Spoken gently. Waved once.
And already, Leon's thread had started to bend toward him.
"How easy it is…To turn the heart of a hero."
His lips curled—not into a smile of joy.
But something sharper.
Something dangerous.
"Let's begin."