The Celestial Academy's opening ceremony was, in a word, excessive.
In three words: excessively fucking excessive.
Banners hung from every tower, each one embroidered with the academy crest—a sword crossed with a staff, surrounded by stars that probably represented "knowledge" or "destiny" or some other pretentious concept. The main courtyard had been transformed into an auditorium, with thousands of seats arranged in perfect rows facing a stage that looked like it cost more than my entire neighborhood.
New students milled around nervously, their families clustering nearby with cameras and tears and pride. The air buzzed with excitement, fear, and the particular kind of anxiety that came from knowing you were about to be judged and found wanting.
I stood at the back, hands in my pockets, watching the circus with detached amusement.
"You could at least pretend to be excited," my mother whispered, elbowing me in the ribs.
"I could. But then I'd be lying."
"Marcus, please. Just for today, can you try to be normal?"
Normal. Right. Because a guy who'd died 127 times and carried three soul fragments could totally pull off "normal."
"I'll do my best, Mom."
She squeezed my hand, her eyes getting that watery look that meant she was about to cry. "I'm so proud of you. Your father would be too, if he—"
"If he hadn't abandoned us when I was three. Yeah. Real proud."
"Marcus—"
"Sorry. That was harsh." I softened my tone. "I know you're proud. And I appreciate everything you've done. Really. I just... I'm not good with crowds."
That was an understatement. Crowds meant people. People meant attachments. Attachments meant watching them die.
Again.
A commotion near the front gates drew my attention. A carriage—no, a fucking *parade* of carriages—rolled through, each one more ostentatious than the last. Gold trim, silk curtains, horses that probably ate better than most families.
"The royal delegation," someone near me whispered. "The princess is attending this year!"
Of course she was. Because Sarah "I want to be treated normally" Brightwood couldn't resist a grand entrance.
The first carriage door opened. Out stepped a man in full royal regalia—armor polished to a mirror shine, a cape that billowed dramatically despite the complete lack of wind, and a face that looked like it had never smiled in its entire life.
"Sir Roland, the King's Champion," my mother breathed. "Oh my, the king really did send his best knights to protect her."
Two more knights emerged, taking positions on either side of the carriage. Then Sarah stepped out.
She'd gone full princess mode. Elaborate dress, hair done up in some complicated style that probably took three servants an hour to create, makeup that made her look like a porcelain doll. The practiced smile, the graceful wave to the crowd.
Not a trace of the girl who'd spent two hours this morning getting her ass kicked and loving every minute of it.
Our eyes met across the courtyard.
For just a second, her mask slipped. I saw her roll her eyes—subtle, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
I smirked.
She fought back a smile, maintaining her princess composure as she was escorted toward the VIP section.
"Did the princess just look at you?" Mom whispered, scandalized.
"Probably looking at someone behind me."
"No, she definitely looked at you. Marcus, how do you know the princess?"
"I don't. Must be my naturally charming personality attracting royal attention."
"You don't have a charming personality."
"Exactly my point."
Before Mom could interrogate me further, trumpets blared. Everyone fell silent as Headmaster Aldric took the stage, his considerable bulk making the wooden platform creak ominously.
"Welcome!" His voice boomed, magically amplified. "Welcome, new students, to the Celestial Academy! Today marks the beginning of your journey toward greatness! Today, you take your first steps on the path to—"
I tuned him out. I'd heard this speech 127 times. It never got better.
Instead, I scanned the crowd, analyzing patterns, identifying threats, cataloging faces.
There was Damien Cross, standing with his family, shooting me looks that promised violence. Good. Let him try.
There was Professor Hendricks, the combat instructor, already half-drunk if the way he swayed was any indication. He'd be completely wasted by lunch.
There was Professor Artemis, the magical theorist, looking bored and superior. His wife's stolen research notes were probably in his office right now.
And there, in the shadows near the east tower—
Luna.
She wasn't hiding, exactly. Just... existing in a way that made people's eyes slide past her. Classic perception manipulation. She caught my gaze and winked, then melted back into the crowd.
"—and now," Aldric continued, "we have a special guest! Her Royal Highness, Princess Sarah Brightwood, has chosen to honor us with her presence this year!"
Applause erupted. Sarah stood, gave a practiced curtsy, and sat back down without saying a word. Smart. Let people project their expectations onto her silence.
"Additionally," Aldric beamed, "we have several scholarship students joining us this year! These exceptional individuals have proven themselves through sheer merit and talent!"
More applause. This time, people were looking around, trying to figure out who the scholarship students were. Looking for the poor kids who didn't belong.
"Marcus Vale!"
Fuck.
Every eye in the courtyard turned toward me.
"Would you please stand, Mr. Vale?"
I stood slowly, keeping my expression neutral. Around me, I could hear the whispers starting:
"That's him?"
"He looks so... ordinary."
"I heard he got a perfect score on the entrance exam."
"Probably cheated."
"My cousin said he's some kind of genius."
"He's from the Lower District. How could he—"
I sat back down before Aldric could make this more embarrassing.
Mom was practically vibrating with pride next to me. "They called your name! In front of everyone! Oh, Marcus, this is—"
"Embarrassing. This is embarrassing."
"This is an honor!"
"Same thing."
Aldric droned on about academy traditions, rules, expectations. The usual bureaucratic nonsense that sounded important but meant nothing.
Finally—*finally*—the ceremony ended. Students began filing toward the dormitories, families saying their goodbyes.
Mom grabbed me in a hug that would have crushed a normal person's ribs.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "So, so proud. Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll make friends. Promise me—"
"I promise I'll try not to die," I said, hugging her back.
She pulled away, frowning. "That's a strange thing to promise."
"Welcome to my life. Strange is the baseline."
"Write to me. Every week. I want to know everything."
"I'll write. Maybe not every week, but I'll write."
"Marcus—"
"Mom. I'll be fine. I've survived worse than school."
She didn't know how true that statement was.
After more hugs and tears and promises, she finally left. I stood there, watching her carriage disappear down the road, feeling that familiar weight in my chest.
In Loop 23, she'd died while I was at the academy. Heart attack. I'd been in the middle of a combat exam when I felt her die through the mana connection I'd secretly placed on her.
In Loop 67, she'd been killed by bandits targeting wealthy academy families. They'd thought she was rich because her son attended. She wasn't. They killed her anyway.
In Loop 103, she'd simply worked herself to death, her body giving out after one too many double shifts.
I'd tried everything. Sending money, hiring guards, making her quit her jobs, forcing her to rest. Nothing worked. She always died within five years of me attending the academy.
"You're doing that thing again," Selene's voice murmured in my mind.
"What thing?"
"The brooding thing. The 'everyone I love dies' thing. It's getting old."
"I'm allowed to brood. I've earned it."
"Have you, though? Because from where I'm sitting—which is literally inside your soul—it seems like you're just wallowing."
Before I could tell her to shut up, someone tapped my shoulder.
I spun, hand going to where a weapon would be if I were armed.
It was a girl. Short, maybe 5'2", with black hair cut in a choppy, asymmetrical style that suggested she'd done it herself with a knife. Dark eyes that held too much knowledge for someone who looked about seventeen. She wore the academy uniform, but had modified it—shorter skirt, rolled-up sleeves, combat boots instead of the regulation shoes.
And she was staring at me with an intensity that set off every alarm bell in my mind.
"You're Marcus Vale," she said. Not a question. A statement.
"That's what they tell me."
"You're different from what I expected."
"Most people are disappointed when they meet me in person. It's a gift."
She didn't smile. "I'm Raven. Raven Nightshade."
"That's the most try-hard edgy name I've ever heard. Did you pick it yourself?"
"Yes, actually. My birth name was Margaret. Can you imagine? Margaret Nightshade. It doesn't have the same ring to it."
Despite myself, I almost smiled. "Fair point."
"I need to talk to you. About your knights."
Every muscle in my body tensed. "I don't know what you're—"
"Don't bother lying. I can see them. Fragments of your soul, walking around in metaphysical armor, judging your life choices." She tilted her head. "It's fascinating, really. I've read about soul-splitting in ancient texts, but I never thought I'd meet someone actually crazy enough to try it."
"Who are you?"
"I told you. Raven Nightshade. Though I suppose a more accurate answer would be: I'm a curse specialist. My family has studied forbidden magic for seven generations. Soul magic, blood magic, death magic—all the fun stuff that gets you executed if you're not careful."
"And you're telling me this because...?"
"Because I want to study you. Your knights. Your regression ability. All of it." She pulled out a notebook from somewhere—literally nowhere, it just appeared in her hand. "I've been tracking anomalies in the temporal flow for three years. The academy's divination department thinks I'm crazy, but I know something's wrong with the timeline. And then you showed up, and suddenly everything made sense."
"You can sense the regression?"
"Not exactly. But I can sense the... scars. The places where time has been rewound and written over. You're like a palimpsest—a manuscript that's been erased and rewritten so many times that the original text bleeds through." She leaned closer, her dark eyes gleaming. "How many times, Marcus? How many times have you died?"
I should have lied. Should have denied everything. Should have walked away.
But something about her reminded me of someone from Loop 78. Elena, the researcher who'd helped me understand my regression ability. Who'd died trying to break the curse.
"127," I said quietly.
She sucked in a breath. "That's... that's impossible. The human soul can't handle that much trauma. You should be insane. Or catatonic. Or—"
"I am insane. I'm just high-functioning about it."
"This is incredible. Do you realize what this means? If I could study your condition, I might be able to—"
"No."
She blinked. "No?"
"I'm not a lab rat. I'm not your research project. I'm a person who's very tired and wants to be left alone." I started walking toward the dormitories. "Find someone else to obsess over."
"Wait!" She jogged to keep up with me. "I'm not trying to use you! I want to help! If there's a way to break the cycle, to stop the regression—"
"There isn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've tried everything. Magic, divine intervention, suicide, living past the point where the demon lord would have killed me—nothing works. I die, I regress. That's the deal."
"But what if—"
"Raven." I stopped, turning to face her. "I appreciate the enthusiasm. Really. It's refreshing to meet someone who finds existential horror exciting. But I'm not interested in being studied, helped, or fixed. I just want to survive this loop without anyone else dying because of me."
She was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "You're scared."
"I'm realistic."
"No. You're scared that if you let someone help, they'll die like all the others. So you push everyone away and pretend you don't need anyone." She smiled, small and sad. "I get it. My family died three years ago. Demon attack. I survived because I was at the library researching. Sometimes I wish I'd died with them. Other times I'm glad I lived so I could understand why it happened."
Damn it.
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
"Don't be. Just... think about it. If you ever want to talk about temporal mechanics or soul fragmentation or how you're managing to stay sane despite dying more times than any human should, I'll be here." She pulled out a card—actual paper, how quaint—and handed it to me. "My dorm room number. Door's always open."
She walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there with her card and a growing sense that Loop 128 was going to be more complicated than usual.
"She's interesting," Mordain observed.
"She's dangerous," I corrected.
"Same thing," Selene laughed.
"She's going to die if she keeps digging into temporal magic," Azrael added helpfully. "That's how your friend Elena died. Loop 78. Tried to break your curse, got caught in a temporal backlash, aged seventy years in three seconds."
"I remember. I was there."
"So are you going to warn her off? Or let her walk into the same trap?"
I looked at the card. Room 304, East Tower.
"I haven't decided yet."
"You never decide. You just react and hope for the best."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it, though?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
The dormitories were impressive, in that "we have too much money" way. Each building was four stories tall, made of the same white marble as the academy itself. The rooms were assigned by year and class—first years on the bottom floors, more advanced students higher up.
I found my room on the second floor: 207.
The door was unlocked. Inside, I found exactly what I expected: two beds, two desks, two wardrobes. One side of the room was already claimed—expensive luggage stacked neatly, designer clothes visible through the open wardrobe, family photos on the desk.
Damien's side.
My side was empty except for the standard-issue furniture.
I set down my single bag—everything I owned fit in one bag, another gift from 127 loops of learning to travel light—and sat on my bed.
"Home sweet home," I muttered.
"It's better than the barracks in Loop 45," Mordain pointed out.
"Or the cave in Loop 89," Selene added.
"Or the demon realm in Loop 112," Azrael finished. "At least this place has walls."
"You three are supposed to make me feel better, not remind me of all the terrible places I've lived."
"We're you. Making you feel better isn't in our programming."
Fair point.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was only early afternoon, but I was exhausted. Not physically—this body was sixteen and full of energy. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually, if such a thing existed.
127 loops.
And now I had a princess training with me, an anomaly with mysterious motives, a curse specialist who could see through my secrets, and a roommate who wanted me dead.
"Should have stayed in bed," I told the ceiling.
The ceiling, wisely, said nothing.
A knock on the door interrupted my existential contemplation.
"It's open," I called out.
The door swung wide, and Luna stepped in, carrying a box that smelled like fresh pastries.
"Thought you might be hungry," she said, setting the box on my desk. "Also, we need to talk about Celeste."
"Your sister. The one I'm supposed to save from a demon attack in six months."
"That's the one." She sat on Damien's bed without asking, making herself comfortable. "She's in Class-A, same as you. Top marks in magical theory, but her practical combat skills are... lacking."
"So you want me to train her like I'm training Sarah."
"Exactly. But there's a problem."
"There's always a problem."
"She doesn't know she's in danger. And I can't tell her—anomaly rules. If I directly interfere with someone's fate, it creates a temporal paradox that could erase me from existence."
"Convenient."
"It's annoying, actually. But that's why I need you. You're already outside the normal flow of time. You can tell her without consequences."
"And if she doesn't believe me?"
"Then you'll have to convince her. Show her your power. Tell her about the loops. Do whatever it takes." Luna leaned forward, her violet eyes intense. "Marcus, she's my sister. My only family. I can't lose her."
I heard the desperation in her voice. Recognized it. I'd sounded like that in Loop 23, begging a healer to save my mother. In Loop 67, pleading with guards to protect her. In Loop 103, bargaining with gods who didn't listen.
"I'll do it," I said. "But I'm not making any promises. If she's stubborn, or if the demon is stronger than expected, or if—"
"I know. I know nothing is guaranteed. But you'll try. That's all I'm asking."
"When do I meet her?"
"Tomorrow. First day of classes. She sits three rows ahead of you in Advanced Magical Theory. Professor Artemis's class."
"The plagiarist. Great."
"You know about that?"
"I know about everything. It's exhausting."
Luna stood, heading for the door. She paused at the threshold. "Marcus? Thank you. For not giving up. For still trying, even after 127 failures."
"Who says they were failures? I'm still here, aren't I?"
"Are you, though? Or are you just a ghost of who you used to be, going through the motions?"
She left before I could answer.
I sat there in the silence, her words echoing in my mind.
Was I still here? Or was I just a collection of memories and trauma wearing the skin of Marcus Vale?
"Deep thoughts from the girl who can see other timelines," Selene mused.
"She's not wrong, though," Azrael added. "We can all feel it. You're fading. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Eventually, there won't be anything left but the regression."
"Cheerful as always, Azrael."
"I'm the embodiment of your despair. What did you expect? Motivational speeches?"
Mordain's voice cut through the banter: "Someone's coming. Multiple people. Armed."
I was on my feet instantly, every sense alert.
The door burst open.
Damien stood there, flanked by two other students—large, muscular, the kind who got recruited for their size rather than their brains.
"Sorry, roommate," Damien said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "But I really need that kill bonus. Nothing personal."
"Everything's personal," I corrected. "You're just too much of a coward to admit it."
His face twisted in rage. "Get him."
The two muscle-heads charged.
I smiled.
Finally. Something simple.
Something I could solve with violence.