As he stood in the field of flowers, a storm of emotions crashed into Ronan all at once.
Before he could say or do anything, something warm rolled down his cheeks.
Tears.
Tears of relief.
Tears of joy.
Tears of guilt and shame.
A smile slowly spread across his face as he realized the truth.
He had been given a second chance.
As memories of the battlefield flooded his mind, a strange sound echoed in his head—unfamiliar, artificial.
"Host has regressed. Are you okay, Master Ronan?"
Ronan staggered. It felt as if a hammer struck his skull. His vision blurred—whether from tears or the voice, he couldn't tell. He slammed a fist against his chest, steadying himself.
Then the voice spoke again.
This time, a black screen appeared before his eyes.
"Master Ronan, I am your assistant. I shall aid you in stopping the invasion."
Ronan jumped back in shock. He had never seen anything like this before.
"What… what are you?" he asked. His lips pressed into a thin line, the words filled not with fear—but curiosity.
"As stated, I am your assistant. I will help you save your world."
Ronan narrowed his eyes. Carefully, he reached out and pressed the screen. Then, in a calm and measured voice, he asked a question that seemed insignificant—but to him meant survival.
"How can you help me?"
He hesitated before adding,
"You mentioned something called regression. What is it?"
The question sounded innocent.
But its implications were anything but.
The voice replied calmly, almost casually—making Ronan uneasy.
"Do you remember the being you encountered before your death?"
Ronan stiffened.
"I am a fragment—an essence of its creation. As for regression: when you died, time reversed. Everything that occurred will occur again."
The voice paused.
"Yes, Master Ronan. You are the only one who remembers your past life."
Ronan's breath caught.
"I… traveled through time?" he whispered, his mind racing.
"And what do you mean by 'essence of its creation'? Are you a god or something?"
There was silence.
Two seconds.
Five.
Ten.
"I am no god," the voice finally said. "I was created to stop them—by binding to a host."
Ronan didn't even try to fully understand it. Right now, only one question mattered.
"How can you help me save my planet?"
"…And what should I call you?"
"You may call me whatever you wish," the voice replied.
"As for my assistance: I will grant you skills and power. More accurately, I will manage the power already inside you—so you do not die from it."
Ronan's eyes glowed faintly as he smiled.
But it was a bitter smile.
"Can you really make me stronger?" he asked. "Do I need to complete missions or something?"
"No, Master. The power granted by my creators already exists within you. I merely regulate it."
"I can also track your past techniques, record new ones, and provide a complete map of your planet—including combat methods created by your people."
Ronan froze.
"…You can what?" he exclaimed. "You're telling me you have all those techniques stored?"
"Yes, Master."
Ronan let out a slow breath. His shoulders relaxed as he lay back in the field of flowers.
"So… I really do have a fighting chance," he whispered.
After a moment, he frowned. "You need a name."
"System."
Ronan grimaced slightly—but accepted it.
Suddenly, an angry voice shattered the moment.
"RONAN, YOU LAZY SHIT! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO MISS MY CLASS?!"
Ronan jolted upright.
Before him stood a middle-aged woman, furious beyond reason.
"Who are—" he began.
SMACK.
A sharp slap landed across his face.
"Why are you staring at me like that, you brat?!" she snapped, grabbing his ear and dragging him away.
The black screen flickered.
"Master, my apologies. I neglected to refresh your memories."
Ronan blinked repeatedly as unfamiliar memories rushed back.
His hometown.
His school.
His life before the war.
…Why was I such a brat? he thought.
I was so focused on war that I forgot all of this.
"Miss Sein," he said gently, "could you please stop pulling my ear?"
She glared at him—a glare that once terrified him.
Now, it felt almost nostalgic.
As he sighed dramatically, one thought echoed in his mind:
How am I supposed to save the world… when I barely survived that thing—even weakened?As Miss Sein dragged him into class, everyone stared at Ronan with obvious delight—not because he was back, but because he was in trouble.
Ronan met their gazes without a hint of concern.
That alone confused them. Normally, he would've thrown a fit.
A voice called out from the back of the room—a random guy, barely worth remembering.
"Hey, perv," he sneered. "Were you caught trying to peek at the girls?"
Laughter filled the classroom.
At least, that's what the boy thought.
The truth was simple: Ronan was an asshole—and one of the most feared students in the school.
As Ronan took his seat, Miss Sein resumed her lesson on magic. He didn't listen. His mind was elsewhere, running through scenario after scenario on how to stop the invasion.
One conclusion stood above the rest.
He needed to get stronger.
And for Ronan… that should've been easy.After class, Ronan trained in the yard outside his home.
The estate was large—seven rooms, high walls, and enough space to ensure complete privacy.
He began his routine.
One hundred push-ups.
One hundred squats.
One hundred punches.
One hundred kicks.
One hundred sword swings.
One hundred pull-ups.
To him, it was pathetic.
Yet his body told a different story.
The moment he dropped for push-ups, it felt as if his arms were lifting a massive boulder, then lowering the combined weight of two grown men with every repetition. His muscles screamed in protest, trembling violently as they fought against the ground. By the time he finished, he was gasping for air, his heart pounding like a war drum.
The punches were worse. Each strike thrown into the empty air felt wrong—slow, weak—like his arms were nothing more than brittle sticks. The power he once took for granted was gone, replaced by burning frustration.
The pull-ups nearly broke him. His arms burned violently, aching so badly it felt like they were begging him to stop. When he finally dropped back down, his grip was shaky, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping from his chin.
Then came the sword.
The familiar weight felt foreign in his hands. After only a few swings, his fingers began to slip, his grip loosening again and again. Every motion felt forced, unpleasant, as if the blade itself rejected him.
The kicks followed. His legs shook with every strike, bones aching, muscles already exhausted. It felt like his body was falling apart piece by piece—but he refused to stop.
By the time he reached the squats, his legs finally gave out. Every twenty repetitions, he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, sweat soaking through his clothes. His limbs felt heavy, weak, almost useless.
This was unfamiliar.
Only now did Ronan truly understand how fragile his body was. In his past life, he hadn't begun training seriously until he was eighteen. Compared to then, this body was painfully inexperienced.
This body was weak.
And for the first time, Ronan truly accepted it.
Still, giving up wasn't an option.
He needed a new path to strength.
An academy.
The system held techniques from the future, but realistically, his current body wasn't even close to meeting the requirements to use them. Training at an academy would bridge that gap.
The Royal Ruben Academy.
The best on the continent.
If it couldn't help him, nothing would.
But entry wouldn't be easy. He needed a recommendation—and the entrance exam alone was brutal.
He already knew the answer wouldn't come easily.The Next Day
Ronan stood before the principal's office.
The principal was a beastfolk—a fox, with smooth red fur and sharp eyes.
"Sir," Ronan said calmly, "I'd like a recommendation to the Royal Ruben Academy."
The principal stared at him as if he'd gone insane.
"Ronan," he replied evenly, "you may be talented, but that request is absurd."
Ronan expected this.
"I know I'm not the best student," he said. "I'm actually the worst. But I want to make things right. I know my behavior—"
His voice faltered.
The words stuck in his throat.
Sorry.
They refused to come out.
Was it pride?
Or something worse?
"I'm… I'm—"
Silence.
"I'm sorry," the principal said gently. "You can't even say it. How can I trust you? How can I recommend you when you can't speak a single sincere apology?"
"I know," Ronan said quietly. "Pathetic, right? But I've changed. Please—"
A thick file slammed onto the desk.
Ronan flinched.
"Do you know what this is?" the principal asked, tapping it with a claw.
"No, sir," Ronan replied—though dread curled in his stomach.
"These are the complaints against you," the principal said. "Over two thousand."
He chuckled softly—not mockingly, but tiredly.
"If you think that's bad, listen."
He pulled out a paper.
'I would like to file a formal complaint against Ronan. He crippled me during an exercise. It took three weeks to heal.'
Another.
'Ronan threw me into a trash bin.'
Another.
'Ronan destroyed my necklace worth four silver coins.'
With every page, Ronan's expression darkened. Regret weighed heavily on his chest.
"Do you see where I'm going with this?" the principal asked. "If you want my recommendation, make things right. Apologize. Every single incident."
Ronan nodded slowly.
His heart felt heavy—but clear.
"I will," he said firmly. "I promise."
As Ronan left the office, the principal exhaled quietly."I hope you're prepared to stop being the biggest presence in the room," the principal murmured.
"Because out there… you won't be special."