Cael woke to thunder.
Not loud—yet. A low, distant rumble, like some great beast stirring beneath the clouds.
His dormitory was cold, the stone floor glinting faintly with last night's condensation. The overcast sky outside had swallowed the sun whole, turning the morning gray.
He sat up slowly. Shoulders aching, skin clammy.
The calendar on the wall was unchanged since last week.
But the red circle stared back at him, a small number scribbled beneath it in his own sharp hand:
"Nineteen days."
He stared at the date. Didn't need to read it.
Nineteen days until deployment.
Nineteen days until the Frontier War.
"This is where I died," he thought. "Every timeline. Always here. Always fifteen days left."
He rubbed his face, palms cold against his skin.
The system was silent.
And that silence was louder than thunder.
Cael knelt by the desk, sliding out a wooden box from beneath it.
Inside: a folded battlefield map. Creased, worn at the edges. Ink stains from old nights spent memorizing terrain.
He spread it out slowly. Eyes locking onto a small cliff near the northeastern ridge.
"The hero's stand."
A sudden shift in atmosphere—
A flashback.
Snow falling like ash. Cries of the dying behind him. Smoke curling from the ravaged hillside.
And Leon—wounded, clutching his sword with shaking hands.
The monster lunged.
Cael stepped in front without thinking.
A blade slid between his ribs, up under his heart.
He didn't even scream. Just felt cold.
Falling, as Leon shouted his name. A name he never remembered in the next life.
Back to present.
He rolled up the map.
"I died a hero's footnote."
A bitter smirk ghosted across his lips.
"Not this time."
The administrative office was nestled deep within the east wing of the academy—where students didn't normally go.
But Cael wasn't most students.
He handed over a sealed envelope, weighty with coins, to the tired clerk whose eyes barely lifted above the counter.
"Special request," Cael said. "Discreet."
The man nodded without comment and handed him a small, folded paper in return.
The Squad Roster for the Frontier War.
Cael opened it with steady hands.
[Squad Twelve: Cadet Cael Ardyn – Field Strategist, 4th Line.]
His name.
Still there.
Despite everything—the rewrites, the sacrifices, the emotional hollows carved into him like empty rooms—he hadn't escaped it.
He clenched his jaw and pulled the system interface up in his mind.
REWRITE REQUEST: Remove 'Cael Ardyn' from active deployment list.
A quiet pause.
The system whirred like gears struggling underwater.
Then—
REWRITE DENIED. Anchor Event: Fixed Fate Point.
He blinked.
Fixed Fate.
A new term. One he hadn't seen before.
The interface flickered again.
Note: This event marks a Prophetic Node. Altering it requires significant trade.
He read it again, slowly.
"Fixed Fate." A thread that even the system couldn't freely bend.
That… shouldn't be possible.
And yet—there it was. Bright red. Immutable.
Fate Anchor Identified: Deployment triggers downstream events in multiple major threads.Current Rewrite Authority: Insufficient for nullification.
He exhaled through his nose. Cold.
"Of course," he muttered.
It wasn't enough to be aware. To scheme. To sacrifice.
Fate still had its chains.
Query: Proceed with Trade for Rewrite Override?
"Yes," Cael whispered.
The window expanded. A new list appeared.
Required Cost for Override:– 3 Memory Fragments (Randomized)– Emotional Anchor: HOPE (Permanent Loss)
He stared at the last line.
HOPE.
Not joy. Not love. Not guilt.
But the feeling that something might change. That he could still win.
"Do I give up my future," he murmured, "to buy a chance at living one?"
For a moment, he stood still in that empty clerk's hall.
A gust of wind rattled the glass from down the corridor. Somewhere, a bell rang distantly. Life moved on. Indifferently.
The cursor blinked in the system window.
[CONFIRM TRADE][DECLINE]
He declined.
"Too costly," he said under his breath. "Not yet. I'll find another way."
The map still lay on his desk back in the dormitory. But now he saw a different battlefield forming—not in blood, but in manipulation.
If he couldn't remove himself from the war directly, then he'd remove the reasons they needed him there.
He began listing possibilities in his mind:
1. Shift another cadet into his role. A noble's son with a hero complex. Easy to manipulate.
2. Alter the squad composition with a subtle rewrite. Just enough to throw off balance.
3. Forge a false diagnosis. Stress-induced mana disruption. Not unheard of.
4. Break an arm. Or better, appear to. Nothing permanent. Just inconvenient enough to reassign him.
"Make them think I'm unfit. A burden."
"Yes."
"If I can't sever the chain… I'll rot the links."
Just as he pulled the system interface up again, the screen glitched.
The UI—normally smooth and sterile—stuttered.
Then flickered.
A crimson message flashed, barely visible before vanishing:
⚠ WARNING: Fate Correction Engaged.
⚠ Another Weaver watches you.
Cael froze.
The interface closed on its own. Force-terminated.
His breath slowed. Eyes narrowed.
The system had never done that before.
"Another Weaver…?"
He walked the corridor in silence, heading back to his dorm. Walls buzzed faintly with the hum of magical conduits. Lightning flashed somewhere far off.
As he passed the central stairwell, she appeared again.
The girl from the library.
The Thread-Seer.
Same cloak. Same faraway eyes. But this time, she stopped directly in his path.
For a heartbeat, her gaze pierced straight through him—not looking at his face, but behind it.
Like she was watching something over his shoulder.
She tilted her head.
Then whispered, almost to herself:
"You're not supposed to be alive."
Then walked on.
Leaving only the echo of her words.
Cael returned to his dorm and shut the door quietly.
No system prompt.
No plan in motion.
Just the sound of thunder crawling across the sky.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, the map of the battlefield still rolled in his hand.
His eyes stared at nothing.
The drawer beside him glowed faintly—the Thread Cutter still humming, untouched.
The air tasted like copper. Like fate holding its breath.
And in the silence, he thought:
"Nineteen days. The world thinks I'm destined to die there.""Let's see who rewrites whom."