The two muscle-heads came at me like bulls—all force, no finesse.
I didn't move.
The first one's fist connected with my jaw. The impact should have snapped my head back, should have rattled my brain, should have sent me sprawling.
Instead, it felt like a light tap.
His eyes widened. "What the—"
The second one went for a body shot, driving his fist into my ribs with enough force to crack bone.
I felt the impact. Registered it. And did absolutely nothing about it.
"Is that it?" I asked, genuinely curious. "That's your best shot?"
Damien's face went pale. "Hit him harder!"
They tried. Oh, they tried.
Punches, kicks, even one of them picked up a chair and smashed it over my back. The wood splintered. I didn't.
127 deaths. 127 times my body had been broken, burned, shattered, disintegrated. Each regression rebuilt me, but something accumulated. Power. Durability. The kind of physical resilience that came from dying so many times that your body stopped remembering how to stay dead properly.
In this timeline, I was still sixteen. Young. Supposedly weak.
But my body remembered. Every scar, every wound, every death—they were written into my very cells, invisible but permanent.
"This is boring," I said, catching a fist mid-swing. I didn't squeeze. Didn't need to. Just held it there, immovable. "Damien, you're paying these idiots, right? Ask for a refund."
One of them tried to pull his hand free. Couldn't. His muscles strained, tendons standing out on his neck, face turning red with effort.
I let go.
He stumbled backward, cradling his wrist.
"You're not human," he gasped.
"Depends on your definition." I looked at Damien. "We done here? Or do you want to try something yourself?"
He pulled a knife from his belt. Expensive, probably enchanted, definitely lethal.
"You think you're so special," he hissed. "Think you're better than everyone because you aced some test. But you're just a Lower District rat who got lucky."
"Lucky. Right." I held out my hand. "Go ahead. Stab me."
"What?"
"You heard me. You've got a knife. You want me dead. So stab me. Right here." I pointed to my chest. "I'll even hold still."
It was a bluff. Sort of. The knife wouldn't kill me—I'd survived worse. But I wanted to see how far he'd actually go.
Damien's hand shook. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"I... I don't..."
"That's what I thought." I walked past him, toward my bed. "Get out. All of you. And Damien? Find a new room. I don't sleep well with people who want me dead nearby. Bad for my stress levels."
"You can't just kick me out! This is my room too!"
"Watch me." I sat on my bed, leaning back against the wall. "You've got until I count to ten. After that, I stop being nice."
"You call this nice?" one of the muscle-heads squeaked.
"I haven't killed anyone yet. That's nice by my standards."
They left. Quickly. Damien shot me one last venomous look before slamming the door.
The room fell silent.
I sat there, alone, feeling... nothing.
The adrenaline that should have been pumping through my veins? Absent.
The satisfaction of winning a fight? Gone.
The relief of surviving? Meaningless when you'd survived 127 times before.
"You're empty," Azrael observed.
"I'm efficient. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sun was setting outside, painting the room in shades of orange and gold.
I should have been planning. Should have been thinking about Celeste, Luna's sister, the training schedule, the demon lord's timeline.
Instead, I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in three loops, I let myself sleep.
The dream started the way it always did: with her laugh.
We were in our apartment. Small, cramped, in the Middle District of Valenhall. Not the Lower District where I grew up, but not fancy either. Just... ours.
Elara stood by the stove, cooking something that smelled like burnt vegetables and optimism. Her auburn hair was tied back in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She wore one of my shirts—too big on her, hanging off one shoulder.
"You're going to burn it," I said from the table, where I was supposedly reading reports but actually just watching her.
"I never burn anything," she lied, stirring the pot with aggressive confidence.
*"You burned water last week."
"That was an experiment."
"In what? Defying the laws of physics?"
She turned, wooden spoon pointed at me like a weapon. "Marcus Vale, if you don't stop criticizing my cooking, you can make your own dinner."
"I would, but you banned me from the kitchen after the incident."
"You almost blew up the stove!"
"Almost. That's practically success."
She laughed, and the sound filled the apartment like sunlight. I'd forgotten how that laugh sounded. Forgotten the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way she'd throw her head back unselfconsciously.
This was Loop 34. The loop where I'd decided to give up hero work entirely. Where I'd said "fuck destiny" and opened a small bookshop with her. Where we'd lived like normal people for three whole years.
Three years of peace.
Three years of pretending the world didn't need saving.
Three years of being happy.
"You're doing it again," she said, her voice softer now.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like I'm going to disappear."
"You're not going to disappear."
"Then stop looking so worried." She crossed the room, sitting on my lap despite my protests about the chair's structural integrity. "We're safe here. The war is happening far away. The demon lord is someone else's problem. We're just Marcus and Elara, running a bookshop and burning dinner."
"You said you never burn—"
She kissed me before I could finish. Tasted like the wine she'd been cooking with, sweet and sharp.
"I love you," she whispered against my lips. "In this lifetime and every other."
"Every other?"
"I don't know why I said that." She pulled back, frowning. "It just... felt right. Like we've done this before. Like we'll do it again."
My blood ran cold.
"Elara—"
The window shattered.
Everything happened in seconds. Men in black masks pouring through. Weapons drawn. Magic crackling in the air.
I moved on instinct, pushing Elara behind me, summoning power that I'd sworn I wouldn't use anymore.
But I was rusty. Out of practice. I'd spent three years selling books and being happy, and in those three years, I'd forgotten how to be a weapon.
A blade found my side. Pain exploded, white-hot.
"Marcus!" Elara's scream.
I turned, saw her grappling with one of them. Saw the dagger in his hand, rising, falling—
"NO!"
I reached her. Too late. Always too late.
She looked at me, blood on her lips, confusion in her eyes.
"Marcus? Why... why does this feel familiar?"
"I'm sorry," I choked out, holding her as she bled. "I'm so sorry. I should have protected you. Should have been stronger. Should have—"
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't apologize. We had three years. Three good years. That's more than most people get."
"It's not enough."
"It never is." She touched my face, her hand already cold. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll keep trying. Keep living. Don't let this break you."
"Elara—"
"Promise me."
"I promise."
She smiled. One last time.
Then she was gone.
And I was holding an empty shell, screaming into the void, feeling something inside me crack and never quite heal right.
The dream shifted.
Suddenly I was standing on a cliff, overlooking Valenhall. But the city was burning.
This was Loop 89. The loop where I'd finally snapped.
Where I'd decided that if I couldn't save the world, I'd burn it down instead.
My power, unleashed. No restraint. No mercy. Pure, concentrated destruction.
The Celestial Academy—reduced to rubble.
The Royal Palace—a crater.
The Lower District, Middle District, Upper District—all ash.
I'd killed everyone. Millions of people. Men, women, children. Guilty and innocent alike.
Because if I couldn't have peace, why should anyone else?
"Is this what you wanted?" Azrael's voice, but younger. This was before I'd split my soul. This was just me, drowning in my own darkness. "Is this freedom?"
I looked at my hands. Covered in blood. So much blood.
"No," I whispered. "This is hell."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Because I'm tired. So fucking tired. 89 loops of trying, of failing, of watching everyone die. What's the point? Why keep playing a game that's rigged?"
"So you decided to flip the board."
"I decided to end it. If I'm going to die anyway, at least this way I choose how."
But the demon lord came anyway. Azkaros. He stood in the ruins of Valenhall, looking at my handiwork.
"Impressive," he said. "You did my job for me."
"Fuck you."
"No, truly. I was going to destroy this world over twelve years. You did it in three days. That's efficiency."
He killed me then. Quick. Merciful, compared to what I deserved.
And I woke up sixteen again, with the memory of millions of screams.
The dream shifted again.
This time, I was older. Loop 112.
Aria sat across from me in a tavern, her silver hair catching the firelight. Gold eyes studied me with that intensity that had first drawn me to her.
"You're not telling me something," she said.
"I tell you everything."
"Liar. You've got secrets behind your eyes. Shadows that don't belong to someone who's only twenty-eight."
We'd been together for two years in this loop. Fighting side by side against the demon lord's army. She was the strongest mage I'd ever met—stronger even than me in some ways.
"If I told you," I said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
So I did. I told her everything. The regression. The 112 deaths. The loops where I'd saved the world and the loops where I'd destroyed it.
She listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"Show me," she said finally.
"What?"
"Show me. If you've really lived 112 lives, you must have learned things. Techniques. Magic. Show me something I couldn't possibly know."
So I did. I showed her the soul-splitting technique I'd learned in Loop 84. Showed her how to compress mana to impossible densities. Showed her battle strategies that wouldn't be invented for another eight years.
She believed me.
"That's horrifying," she said. "And incredibly lonely."
"Yeah."
"Don't worry." She took my hand. "You're not alone anymore. Whatever comes, we'll face it together."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
Three months later, the demon lord's forces attacked the capital. We fought. She was brilliant—powerful, strategic, unstoppable.
Until she wasn't.
A demon of the higher circles. One of Azkaros's generals. It was stronger than our intelligence suggested.
Aria saw it targeting me. Saw the death magic building.
She pushed me out of the way.
Took the blast herself.
"No," I screamed, catching her as she fell. "No, no, no. Aria, don't—"
"Told you," she gasped, blood pouring from her mouth. "Together. We faced it together."
"You weren't supposed to die!"
"Neither were you. But here we are." She smiled, even as the life left her eyes. "Marcus. Listen. You have to stop trying to save everyone. You'll destroy yourself."
"I don't care."
"I do. I care." She touched my face, her hand trembling. "Promise me. Promise me you'll find a way to be happy. Not in the next loop. In this one. Right now. Find something worth living for beyond just surviving."
"You're worth living for."
"I'm dying. Find something else."
She died in my arms, her last word a whisper: "Live."
But I didn't. I couldn't.
I hunted down that demon. Killed it. Killed its entire battalion. Then kept killing until there was nothing left but me and the corpses.
Azkaros found me in the ruins.
"You fight well," he observed. "For a human."
"Kill me."
"Why? You're doing such a good job destroying yourself."
"I said kill me!"
He shrugged. Ran me through with his sword.
And I woke up sixteen again, with Aria's last word echoing in my mind.
Live.
But how do you live when everyone you love dies?
I woke up gasping, tears streaming down my face.
The room was dark. Night had fallen completely. My pillow was wet.
I was crying.
I hadn't cried in... how many loops? 50? 60?
"Elara," I whispered to the empty room. "Aria. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
I'd promised them both I'd live. I'd keep trying.
But what did that even mean anymore?
I sat up, wiping my face roughly. My hands were shaking.
"You okay?" Selene's voice, unusually gentle.
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"The dreams are getting worse," Mordain observed. "Each loop, they become more vivid. More real."
"They were real. That's the problem."
"Were they?" Azrael asked quietly. "Or are they just memories now? Stories you tell yourself about people who no longer exist in this timeline?"
"They existed. They loved me. They died because I wasn't strong enough to protect them."
"Or they died because death is inevitable," Selene said. "Because in 127 loops, you've learned that you can't save everyone. No matter how strong you become. No matter how much you try."
"Then what's the fucking point?"
"That's what we've been asking you for 127 loops," Mordain said. "And you still don't have an answer."
I stood, pacing the room. My chest hurt. Not from the earlier fight—from something deeper. Something that had been cracking for dozens of loops and was finally starting to break.
"I can't do this," I whispered. "I can't keep watching people die. I can't keep pretending I'm okay. I can't—"
A knock on the door interrupted my spiral.
I wiped my face again, trying to compose myself. "Who is it?"
"It's Sarah."
Of course it was.
I opened the door. She stood there in sleeping clothes—practical pajamas, not the fancy silk nightgowns princesses were supposed to wear. Her hair was down, messy from sleep. She looked young and worried.
"I heard you," she said quietly. "The walls are thin. You were... I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine."
"You're crying."
"I said I'm fine."
She pushed past me into the room, closing the door behind her. "Marcus. You can lie to everyone else, but don't lie to me. What happened?"
"Bad dreams."
"About the other loops?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
She sat on my bed, patting the space next to her. "Tell me."
"Sarah—"
"Tell me. You said I'd die in 42 loops. That means in 42 loops, we knew each other. So tell me. What happened to me? How did I die?"
I sat down heavily. "You don't want to know."
"I do."
"Fine." The word came out harsh. "Loop 8, you were assassinated by your own guards. They were paid by a rival noble house. You died before we even became friends. Loop 23, you got sick. Some plague that swept through the academy. You lasted three days. I held your hand while you drowned in your own lungs. Loop 45, you were captured by bandits. They tortured you for information about the royal treasury. By the time I found you, there wasn't enough left to save."
She went pale.
"Should I continue?" I asked bitterly. "Loop 67, demon attack. You threw yourself in front of a blast meant for me. Loop 89—that was the loop where I destroyed everything. You died in the initial attack on the palace. Never knew what hit you. Loop 112, you survived all the way to the final battle. Fought beside me against Azkaros. He crushed your throat while I watched. You tried to say something. Couldn't. Just... died."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," she whispered finally. "For all of those. For dying so many times. For making you watch."
"It wasn't your fault. It's never anyone's fault. It's just... what happens. People die. I live. The cycle continues."
"Is that why you push everyone away? Because you're afraid to watch us die again?"
"I'm not afraid. I'm tired. There's a difference."
She took my hand. Hers was warm, alive. "Marcus. In those loops where I survived. Where I didn't die. What was I like?"
"You were... you." I closed my eyes, remembering. "Strong. Brave. Stubborn as hell. You became one of the best fighters in the kingdom. Led armies. Saved cities. You were everything a princess should be and nothing like what people expected."
"And did we... were we..."
"In 12 loops, yes. We were together. In love. Happy, when the world allowed it."
"What happened?"
"Eight of those times, you died anyway. Three times, I died first. Once..." I laughed, bitter and broken. "Once, we actually survived. Loop 96. We defeated Azkaros. Saved the world. Got married. Had a kid on the way."
"That's wonderful! Why didn't you—"
"Because I died in childbirth."
She froze. "What?"
"There were complications. The healers couldn't save me. I died holding your hand, and you were crying, and our daughter was screaming, and then—" My voice cracked. "Then I woke up sixteen again. Alone. And I realized that even victory doesn't mean anything. Even happiness doesn't last."
Sarah's arms wrapped around me suddenly, pulling me into a hug that was too tight and too desperate and too real.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."
And something in me broke.
I buried my face in her shoulder and cried. Really cried. For all the loops. All the deaths. All the people I'd loved and lost. For Elara, who'd asked me to keep living. For Aria, who'd told me to find happiness. For all the versions of Sarah who'd died in my arms.
For the Marcus Vale I used to be, before 127 deaths turned him into whatever hollow thing I was now.
She held me through it all, not saying anything, just being there.
When I finally stopped, when the tears ran out and I was left with just exhausted emptiness, she pulled back to look at me.
"Listen to me," she said firmly. "I don't know what happens in this loop. Maybe I die. Maybe I live. Maybe we fall in love again, or maybe we just stay friends. But right now, in this moment, I'm alive. And so are you. And that has to mean something."
"Does it?"
"Yes. Because otherwise, what's the point of any of it? What's the point of fighting, of surviving, of trying, if we don't appreciate the moments we have?"
"You sound like Aria."
"The mage with silver hair? The one you loved?"
"Yeah."
"Then she was smart." Sarah stood, pulling me to my feet. "Come on. You need real sleep. Not dreams or nightmares. Actual rest."
"I can't—"
"You can. And you will." She pushed me toward the bed. "I'll stay. Keep watch. Make sure you don't slip into any more bad dreams."
"Sarah, you can't stay in my room. If someone finds out—"
"Let them talk. I'm a princess. I do what I want." She settled into the chair by my desk, pulling a blanket over herself. "Now sleep. That's an order."
"You can't order me around."
"Watch me."
Despite everything, despite the tears and the pain and the exhaustion, I smiled. Just a little.
"You're insufferable."
"I'm persistent. There's a difference."
I lay down, and for the first time in loops, I felt... safe. Like maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to carry everything alone.
As I drifted off, I heard her whisper: "I won't let you face this alone, Marcus. Not this time."
And in the darkness of my mind, three voices echoed:
"She's going to die," Azrael said.
"Probably," Selene agreed.
"But maybe not," Mordain added. "Loop 128 is already different. Luna is new. Raven can see the temporal scars. The demon lord is ahead of schedule. Maybe... maybe this time, things actually change."
Maybe.
I fell asleep clinging to that word like a lifeline.
Maybe.