Classes ended at 3 PM.
I'd spent the entire day distracted—half-listening to lectures, going through motions, counting down hours until Sarah left.
Pathetic, really. But after 127 loops of losing people, saying goodbye never got easier.
I was in my room, pretending to review notes, when the knock came.
"It's open."
Sarah walked in, and I actually stopped breathing for a second.
She wasn't wearing her academy uniform. This was full royal regalia—the kind of outfit that cost more than most people made in a lifetime and looked it.
The dress was deep emerald green, complementing her eyes perfectly. Silk and velvet, with gold embroidery that caught the light when she moved. The neckline was modest but elegant, showing just enough to be interesting without being inappropriate. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style that must have taken her handmaid an hour—intricate braids woven through with small gems that sparkled like captured stars.
She wore a thin gold circlet—not her formal crown, but enough to mark her status. Delicate jewelry at her throat and wrists, probably each piece worth more than my entire education.
She looked like a princess.
Not the girl who trained with me at 4 AM covered in sweat and dirt. Not the girl who climbed through my window at midnight. Not the girl who fell asleep on my shoulder.
A princess. Beautiful, untouchable, completely out of my league.
"You're staring," she said, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm uncomfortable. This dress weighs about fifteen pounds and I can barely breathe in this corset." She did a small turn. "But I look appropriately royal, so mission accomplished."
"You could be wearing a potato sack and you'd still be beautiful."
"That's sweet and slightly insulting to this very expensive dress." She walked over, careful not to trip on the hem. "The carriages leave in twenty minutes. I came to say goodbye."
"Twenty minutes?"
"Royal procession. Very formal. Lots of security." She made a face. "Father sent six guards, two handmaids, and apparently three diplomats who'll be traveling with us. It's going to be the longest week of my life."
"At least you'll be safe."
"I'll be suffocated by protocol. There's a difference."
She sat on my bed—carefully, so as not to wrinkle the dress—and patted the space beside her. I sat, acutely aware of the contrast between us. Her in silk and jewels, me in my plain academy uniform.
"I'm going to miss this," she said quietly. "The simplicity. Just being Sarah, not Princess Sarah Brightwood, third in line to the throne, daughter of His Majesty King Aldric the Wise, blah blah blah."
"You're still you. The dress doesn't change that."
"Tell that to everyone at the summit who'll be watching my every move, analyzing every word, trying to use me as a political pawn." She leaned against my shoulder—delicately, mindful of her hair. "One week. Seven days. Then I'm back and we can go back to pretending I'm a normal student."
"You're not normal. You climbed through my window and demanded I train you. Normal people don't do that."
"Normal people also don't die 127 times and keep fighting. We're both abnormal. It's part of our charm."
I put my arm around her—carefully, not wanting to disturb the elaborate outfit. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."
"Define stupid."
"You know exactly what I mean. No challenging mysterious watchers. No breaking into forbidden places. No accidentally starting wars."
"That was one time. And technically it was a civil conflict, not a war."
"Marcus."
"I'll try to stay out of trouble."
"That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"
"Probably."
She turned to face me, careful not to mess up her hair. "One more for the road?"
"One more what—"
She kissed me. Soft, sweet, with a desperation that said she really didn't want to leave. I kissed her back, memorizing the moment—how she tasted like mint and hope, how she fit perfectly against me despite the ridiculous dress, how for just a second the world was only us.
When we pulled apart, she was smiling through tears.
"Don't cry," I said. "You'll ruin your makeup."
"I have handmaids for that. They'll fix it before I get to the carriages." She stood reluctantly. "I have to go. Father will have an aneurysm if I'm late."
I walked her to the door. In the hallway, two royal guards waited—stone-faced men in formal armor who pretended not to notice their princess leaving a boy's room.
"One week," she said again.
"One week," I confirmed. "I'll be here when you get back."
"You better be."
She kissed my cheek—quick, so the guards wouldn't report too much impropriety—and walked away. Her dress swept behind her like liquid emerald, and despite everything, despite 127 loops of knowing better, I couldn't help but watch until she disappeared around the corner.
"You're in deep," Selene's voice murmured in my mind.
"Shut up."
"No really. That look on your face? That's the look of someone who's completely—"
"I said shut up."
"—utterly doomed. Again."
"I hate all of you."
"We know," all three knights said in unison. "We're you. We hate us too."
---
I waited thirty minutes, giving the royal procession time to leave campus. Through my window, I watched the convoy depart—six carriages, all black and gold, surrounded by guards on horseback. Excessive, expensive, and very much Sarah's life when she wasn't pretending to be normal.
The lead carriage was particularly ostentatious—a limousine by this world's standards, elongated and ornate, probably with magical climate control and cushioned seats. That's where Sarah would be, surrounded by diplomats and duty.
The convoy disappeared down the main road toward the capital.
She was gone.
Now I could do what I'd been planning since Luna mentioned the mysterious watcher.
I needed to know how far I was being observed. Needed to understand the boundaries of whoever was tracking me.
And there was one place on campus that would definitely trigger a response if I went there.
The Church of the Sacred Flame. The underground chapel where Solaris's priests conducted their rituals and housed their most "sacred" artifacts.
The place I was absolutely, explicitly forbidden from entering.
Perfect.
I changed into dark clothes—practical, easy to move in, nothing that would mark me as an academy student. Waited until twilight, when the campus was transitioning between day and night activities.
Then I left.
Not through the front gates where guards watched. Through the eastern wall, where I'd found a weak point in Loop 56. A place where the security wards had degraded over decades and no one had bothered to repair them.
I slipped through like smoke.
The city of Valenhall spread before me—gas lamps beginning to glow, people heading home from work, the sounds of normal life. The Church of the Sacred Flame was in the Upper District, naturally. Close to power, far from common folk.
I took the long route, staying to shadows and back streets. Testing. Watching for signs of pursuit.
And there—two streets back. A figure in dark clothes, keeping pace but not closing distance.
My watcher.
Good. Now let's see how committed you are.
I led them deeper into the Upper District, past mansions and boutiques, toward the massive cathedral that served as Solaris's primary temple. The building was grotesque in its opulence—gold leaf on every surface, stained glass depicting miracles that never happened, statues of a god who was really just a powerful conman.
The main entrance was guarded. Obviously. But the catacombs beneath—the underground chapel where they kept the "holy" artifacts—that had a secondary entrance through the old cemetery.
An entrance I'd used in Loop 34 when I'd come to kill Solaris.
I found the hidden door easily—muscle memory from loops. Slipped inside, descending stone steps into darkness.
The air changed immediately. Colder. Heavier. Thick with incense and old magic.
The underground chapel was massive. Carved from living rock, supported by pillars inscribed with prayers to a false god. At the far end, an altar. Around the walls, glass cases holding artifacts.
And pervading everything—the oppressive presence of SS-rank power.
Solaris wasn't here. He rarely visited his own churches. But his power was woven into the stones, the air, the very concept of this space.
This was his territory.
And I'd just walked into it.
I felt my watcher stop at the entrance. Not following me in. Smart. Even mysterious stalkers knew better than to enter a god's personal space without invitation.
I walked forward slowly, examining the artifacts. Most were fakes—pretty baubles with minor enchantments, displayed to impress the faithful. But a few...
A sword that burned with eternal flame. Real. Probably A-rank.
A crown that granted fire immunity. Also real. S-rank artifact.
And in the center case, isolated from the others—
A heart.
Literally a heart. Preserved in crystal, still beating with slow, methodical rhythm. Wreathed in flames that never consumed it.
Solaris's phylactery.
The thing that let him regenerate even if his body was destroyed. The anchor that made him functionally immortal.
I'd destroyed this in Loop 34. After killing his body, after burning through his defenses, I'd shattered this crystal and watched the heart finally stop.
That's when the Church had really started hunting me.
"Interesting choice of destination," a voice said behind me.
I turned slowly.
A priest stood there. Old, gray-haired, wearing elaborate robes that probably cost more than a house. His eyes glowed faintly—a sign of Solaris's blessing, or more accurately, a mana-sharing contract.
"The chapel is closed to students," he said calmly. "Especially students who've been speaking blasphemy in classrooms."
"Word travels fast."
"We have ears everywhere. Particularly in the academy." He stepped closer, and I felt the temperature rise. "Marcus Vale. The scholarship student. The one who claims our god is a fraud."
"I never said fraud. I said conman. There's a subtle difference."
"Semantics."
"I prefer precision."
His expression didn't change, but the temperature rose another ten degrees. "You stand in sacred ground. Before holy relics. In the presence of divine power. Do you still claim our god is false?"
I looked at the beating heart in its crystal case. At the sword that would kill me in one hit. At the priest who could probably match me even without my seals released.
"Yeah," I said. "Still claim it. Your god is a powerful mage playing dress-up. His heart proves it—actual gods don't need phylacteries. They don't die when their bodies are destroyed. They don't need anchors to reality."
"Heresy."
"Accuracy. There's a difference."
"You will leave. Now. Before I'm forced to defend these holy relics."
"That's a threat."
"That's a warning. Though given your statements, perhaps purification is necessary—"
"Try it."
The words came out harder than intended. But I was done. Done with fake gods. Done with priests who pretended power was divinity. Done with being watched and threatened and told what I could and couldn't say.
The priest's eyes blazed brighter. "You dare—"
"I dare. Because I've killed three gods across different timelines, and they all died screaming." I released the first seal. Purple-black energy crackled around me. "You want to test me? Fine. But know that I've stood in front of Azkaros himself and survived. Your borrowed power doesn't scare me."
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then the priest smiled—cold and knowing. "So the rumors are true. You're not just a student. You're something else. Something... wrong."
"Welcome to my world."
"I'll be watching you, Marcus Vale. We'll all be watching. And when you inevitably overstep—when you threaten what is sacred—we will act."
"Looking forward to it."
He vanished in a burst of flame. Dramatic exit. Very on-brand.
I stood alone in the underground chapel, surrounded by fake relics and real power, and felt the weight of new enemies adding themselves to my list.
The Church of the Sacred Flame.
The mysterious watcher who'd followed me here.
Whoever had summoned Azkaros early.
And in seven years, the Demon Lord himself.
"You're making friends everywhere you go," Mordain observed dryly.
"It's a talent."
I left the way I came, climbing back into the night.
My watcher was gone. Either satisfied with what they'd learned, or reporting back to whoever employed them.
Either way, I had my answer.
They could follow me anywhere. Even into sacred ground.
Which meant they were powerful, connected, and very interested in what I was doing.
Good to know.
I slipped back through the wall breach, into my room, and lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.
Sarah had been gone for three hours.
Already I could feel her absence—no midnight knock, no quiet breathing, no warmth against my shoulder.
One week.
I could survive one week.
I'd survived 127 lifetimes.
What was one more week of being alone?
(Everything, whispered a voice that sounded suspiciously like my own. It's everything.)
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
The nightmares came back