I didn't sleep.
Why bother? Sleep was just practice for death, and I'd had enough practice to last several lifetimes.
Instead, I sat by my window, watching the sky slowly shift from black to deep blue to that particular shade of purple that meant dawn was coming. The city was quiet at this hour—even the rats had better things to do than scurry around at 4 AM.
My reflection stared back at me from the window glass. Sixteen years old. Again.
Dark hair, perpetually messy no matter what I did with it. Grey eyes that people said were "intense" in some loops and "unsettling" in others. I preferred unsettling. Kept people at a distance.
My face was... fine. Not ugly, not particularly handsome. The kind of face you'd see in a crowd and forget five minutes later. Except for the eyes. The eyes always gave me away—they belonged to someone much older, much more tired.
My build was decent. Not the lanky teenager awkwardness some kids had. I'd trained too much across too many loops for that. Even in this young body, muscle memory was a real thing. I was lean but solid, about 5'10"—would hit 6'1" by eighteen if this loop followed the usual pattern. Athletic without being bulky. The kind of build that could run for miles, fight for hours, and still have enough energy to escape when everything went wrong.
Which it always did.
I pulled on training clothes—simple black shirt, comfortable pants, boots that had seen better days. Grabbed a leather cord and tied my hair back. It was getting long. I should cut it. But I'd liked it long in Loop 96, and some habits were hard to break.
"You're thinking about her again," Selene's voice whispered in my mind.
"I'm not."
"Aria. The mage with silver hair. She liked your hair long. Said it made you look less like a soldier and more like a person."
"Selene, if you don't shut up, I'm going to find a way to fragment your fragment."
"That's not anatomically possible."
"I'll make it possible."
She laughed, fading back into the depths of my soul where the three of them lived rent-free.
I left the house quietly. Mom was still asleep—she had the morning shift at the factory today, wouldn't be up for another hour. I left a note on the kitchen table: "Training. Back for lunch. Don't worry."
She'd worry anyway. That's what mothers did.
The streets were empty as I made my way toward the academy. The old training grounds were on the far side of the eastern hill, past the main campus, hidden by a grove of trees that had been there longer than the academy itself.
Nobody used them anymore. The equipment was outdated, the ground was uneven, and the newer facilities were much more impressive. But I preferred it here. In seventy-three different loops, this is where I'd done my real training. Away from prying eyes and curious questions.
Sarah was already there when I arrived.
That surprised me. I'd expected her to be late, or to have given up entirely after last night's revelations.
Instead, she sat on an old stone bench, dressed in simple training clothes that actually looked worn-in—not the kind rich people bought to look "authentic." Her red hair was pulled back in a practical braid. No makeup. No jewelry. Just her, looking nervous but determined.
"You're early," I said.
She jumped, spinning around. "Marcus! You—how do you move so quietly?"
"Practice. Lots of practice." I looked her over. "Those clothes. They're actually used."
"I've been training in secret for two years," she admitted. "Hired a retired soldier to teach me basic swordwork. My father would kill me if he found out—princesses are supposed to be delicate flowers who faint at the sight of blood."
"And what do you think princesses are supposed to be?"
"Alive," she said simply. "I've watched too many royal women become political pawns, married off and forgotten. I wanted to be able to protect myself. To have a choice."
I studied her for a moment. There was steel under that noble upbringing. I'd seen it before, in other loops, but it still surprised me every time.
"Show me what you've learned," I said, tossing her a wooden practice sword from the old equipment rack.
She caught it easily, settling into a basic guard stance. Not bad. Her form was textbook—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword held at a forty-five-degree angle.
"Attack me," I said, standing casually with my hands in my pockets.
"What? But you don't have a—"
"Attack me, Sarah. Or did two years of secret training not cover the 'actually fighting' part?"
Her eyes narrowed. Good. Anger was better than hesitation.
She lunged—a textbook thrust, controlled and precise.
I sidestepped, letting the wooden blade pass within inches of my ribs. She recovered quickly, transitioning into a horizontal slash. I ducked under it.
"Faster," I said.
She increased her speed, chaining attacks together in combinations her teacher had probably drilled into her thousands of times. Thrust, slash, parry, riposte. Each movement technically correct.
And completely useless.
I dodged every strike without moving more than a few inches, my hands still in my pockets.
After thirty seconds, she was breathing hard. After a minute, she was gasping.
After ninety seconds, she stumbled, her legs shaking from exertion.
I caught her before she fell, one hand on her shoulder to steady her.
"You're in decent shape," I said. "Your form is good. Your technique is textbook. And you'd die in the first five seconds of a real fight."
She looked up at me, frustrated and confused. "But I—"
"Your teacher taught you how to fence. How to duel another noble in a controlled environment with rules and referees. He taught you the aristocrat's version of combat." I released her, stepping back. "I'm going to teach you how to survive."
"What's the difference?"
"One is a sport. The other is staying alive when someone wants you dead." I finally pulled my hands from my pockets. "Again. But this time, I'm not dodging."
"But you still don't have a sword—"
I moved.
My hand shot out, palm striking the flat of her blade and redirecting it away from my body. Before she could recover, I stepped inside her guard, my other hand going to her wrist. A quick twist, and the practice sword clattered to the ground.
I had her in an arm lock, her back pressed against my chest, completely immobilized.
"Five seconds," I said quietly, my lips near her ear. "That's how long you'd last against someone who actually wants to hurt you."
I released her, stepping back. She turned to face me, rubbing her wrist. Not injured—I'd been careful—but definitely shocked.
"How did you—"
"127 lifetimes of combat experience." I picked up two practice swords, tossing her one. "Now. Let's fix your fundamentals."
For the next two hours, I broke down everything her teacher had taught her and rebuilt it from scratch.
"Your stance is too rigid. You're planted like a tree. Trees get cut down. Be water—flow, adapt, move."
"Your grip is too tight. You're strangling the sword. Hold it like you're holding a bird—firm enough that it can't escape, gentle enough that you don't hurt it."
"Stop telegraphing your attacks. Your shoulder dips before every thrust. Your eyes track where you're going to strike. You might as well shout 'I'm attacking now!' Every movement should be a surprise."
"Forget about looking pretty. Forget about form. If someone's trying to kill you, kick them in the groin. Throw dirt in their eyes. Bite if you have to. There's no honor in death."
She absorbed it all like a sponge, her aristocratic pride taking hit after hit as I systematically destroyed her preconceptions about combat.
By the time the sun was fully up, she was drenched in sweat, covered in bruises from where I'd struck her with the practice sword (gently, but enough to make a point), and looking at me with a mixture of respect and fear.
"You're terrifying," she said, gulping water from her canteen.
"I'm realistic," I corrected. "The world is terrifying. I'm just honest about it."
"Is this what you did? In those other loops? Trained like this?"
"This is gentle compared to what I did." I sat down on the stone bench, my own breathing barely elevated. "In Loop 45, I trained for eighteen hours a day for three years straight. In Loop 67, I studied under a master who would break my bones if I made a mistake—said pain was the best teacher. In Loop 89, I fought in underground death matches to hone my instincts."
"That's insane."
"That's survival." I looked at her. "You want to be strong enough to matter? Strong enough to protect yourself? This is what it takes. Blood, sweat, pain, and the willingness to keep going when every fiber of your being wants to quit."
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands. They were red, blistered from gripping the practice sword.
"Then teach me," she said finally. "All of it. I don't care how hard it is."
"It's going to hurt. Every day. For months."
"I don't care."
"You'll hate me. You'll curse my name. You'll wonder why you ever asked for this."
"Probably." She met my gaze, and I saw that steel again. That determination that had gotten her killed in forty-two timelines but had also made her a hero in thirty-one others. "But I'll do it anyway."
I couldn't help but smile. Just a little.
"You know what? You might actually survive this."
"Might?"
"I said might. Don't push your luck."
A voice called out from the tree line: "Well, isn't this touching? The mysterious Marcus Vale, playing teacher."
I was on my feet instantly, a real blade—not practice, real—appearing in my hand from the dimensional storage I'd created in Loop 76.
A young man stepped out from the trees. Tall, probably 6'2", with the kind of build that came from expensive gyms and professional trainers. Blonde hair perfectly styled. Blue eyes that sparkled with entitled confidence. Expensive clothes that screamed "my father owns half the kingdom."
Damien Cross.
Right on schedule.
"Damien," I said flatly. "You're up early. Daddy finally cut off your allowance?"
His smile didn't waver, but something cold flickered in his eyes. "I heard there was an interesting new student joining the academy. Thought I'd introduce myself early."
"Consider it done. You can leave now."
"But we're going to be roommates!" He spread his arms like we were old friends. "I thought we should get to know each other. Build some... camaraderie."
Sarah stepped closer to me, her hand instinctively going to the practice sword. I held up a hand, stopping her.
"Sarah, meet Damien Cross. Son of Gerald Cross, the merchant lord who controls forty percent of the kingdom's trade routes. Also a spoiled brat, a mediocre swordsman, and—" I tilted my head, letting my perception scan him, "—currently carrying three concealed weapons and a poison needle in his left sleeve."
Damien's smile finally cracked. "How did you—"
"I know things." I let the blade in my hand catch the morning light. It wasn't threatening. It was a statement. "Like how you've been paid fifty thousand gold to kill me before the end of the first week. Like how your employer is someone in the academy itself—a teacher, probably. Like how you're arrogant enough to think you can actually pull it off."
The color drained from his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." I made the blade disappear back into dimensional storage. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go back to whoever hired you and tell them the job's off. You're going to leave me alone. And in exchange, I won't tell your father about your gambling debts, your secret lover in the Lower District, or the fact that you've been embezzling from the family business to fund your lifestyle."
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I smiled. No warmth. Just teeth. "Test me. Please. I could use the entertainment."
We stared at each other for a long moment. I could see him calculating, weighing his options, trying to figure out if I was serious.
I let a tiny fraction of my mana leak out. Just enough that he could feel it—that crushing pressure that came from an ocean of power barely contained.
His survival instincts, to his credit, kicked in immediately. He took a step back.
"This isn't over," he said, trying to save face.
"It is, actually. But if you want to die on this hill, I'll be happy to bury you there."
He left, quickly, his confidence shattered.
Sarah stared at me. "Was that all true? The gambling, the lover, the embezzling?"
"Every word. I've lived through enough loops to know every secret of every person who'll be at the academy." I sat back down on the bench. "Information is power. And I have a lot of information."
"That's terrifying."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep being terrifying!" She sat down next to me, closer than before. "Is this what your life is like? Always knowing what's going to happen? Always being three steps ahead?"
"Yes and no. The broad strokes are the same—Damien always ends up at the academy, always has issues with money and pride. But the details change. This is the first loop where someone hired him to kill me before classes even started. That's new."
"Which means someone knows about you. About the regression."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone just thinks I'm a threat for other reasons." I looked toward the academy towers, gleaming in the morning sun. "Either way, the academy just got more complicated."
"More complicated than soul knights, demon lords, and mysterious anomalies?"
"Surprisingly, yes. Because at the academy, I can't just fight my way out. There are rules, politics, social hierarchies. All the things I hate most."
Sarah laughed. Actually laughed. "The man who's died 127 times is afraid of social situations?"
"I'm not afraid. I'm annoyed. Give me a demon horde any day over a formal dinner party."
"You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"I think you're not as cold as you pretend to be. I think you care a lot, and it hurts you when people die, so you push everyone away and pretend you don't need anyone."
I was quiet for a moment.
"You're surprisingly perceptive for someone who just got their ass kicked for two hours straight."
"I'm good at reading people. It's a princess thing—you have to be when everyone around you is lying all the time." She stood up, stretching her sore muscles. "So. Same time tomorrow?"
"You want more?"
"I want to be strong enough that when the world tries to kill me, I can at least put up a fight." She smiled, and damn it, Selene was right—she did look good when she smiled. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't completely isolate yourself."
"I've been isolating myself for 127 loops. I'm very good at it."
"Then it's a good thing I'm stubborn." She started walking toward the tree line, then paused. "Marcus?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For training me. For trusting me. For... being honest, even when the truth is terrifying."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until your entire body hurts so much you can't get out of bed."
"Looking forward to it!" She waved, disappearing into the trees.
I sat there alone, watching the sun climb higher.
"She's going to die," Azrael's voice echoed in my mind.
"Shut up."
"You know it's true. Everyone close to you dies. It's the curse of the regressor."
"I said shut up."
"Or maybe," Mordain's voice joined in, "this time will be different."
"It's never different."
"128 loops," Selene added. "And you still have hope. That's either admirable or pathological. Probably both."
I cut off the mental connection and stood up, gathering the practice weapons.
Three days until the academy officially started.
Three days until I'd be thrown back into the meat grinder of destiny and prophecy and cosmic bullshit.
Three days to prepare for whatever fresh hell this loop had in store.
I looked at my reflection in a puddle of water from the morning dew. Grey eyes stared back at me—tired, ancient, but still fighting.
"One more time," I told my reflection. "Let's see if loop 128 is the one where we finally break the cycle."
My reflection didn't answer.
Smart guy