The Academy of Aethelgard shimmered under the morning sun, a citadel of learning and power built from white marble and gilded spires. To the hundreds of students bustling through its gates, it was a beacon of hope and ambition. To Cian Kaelen, it was a sprawling, brightly lit slaughterhouse.
The Silent Scholar
Cian, now known as 'Ian,' walked through the grand gates, his body radiating the suppressed aura of a C-rank. His hair, stark white, was tied back in a simple knot, and his dark, piercing eyes were carefully muted. He wore the standard commoner's uniform—plain grey and brown—a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the noble students.
His throat was still a raw, scarred mess, forcing him to communicate through precise, unsettlingly silent gestures and a small slate he carried. His ability to phase through objects was now seamless, almost instinctual, but his body still bore the strain. His hands, though capable of surgical precision, would occasionally flicker, becoming translucent.
The first few days were a blur of new faces, bustling hallways, and the incessant chattering of youthful ambition. Cian moved through it all like a phantom. He learned the Academy layout with alarming speed, mapping every vent, every secret passage, and every blind spot in the magical surveillance system. He was a silent, unblinking sentinel in the heart of his enemy's domain.
He found his assigned dorm room—a cramped, shared space with two other commoners. They tried to talk to him, but his silence, coupled with the unsettling intensity of his gaze, quickly alienated them. He preferred it that way. He wasn't here for friends.
His classes were a torment. He was forced to sit through lectures on rudimentary mana theory and combat spells, subjects he had long surpassed with his practical, lethal understanding of the world. He kept his head down, absorbing every detail of the Academy's inner workings.
One afternoon, in a sprawling mana-crystal lecture hall, he felt a familiar, chilling presence.
Lucian. The protagonist.
The Hero sat at the front, his golden eyes burning with focus as the lecturer explained advanced combat runes. He looked stronger, more confident, a living embodiment of the Church's propaganda. Cian felt no hatred for the boy—only a detached pity for a tool being sharpened by the very people who had ruined Cian's life.
Then, he saw them.
Lyra van Astra, the Ice Queen, sat beside Julian, the Golden Prince. They were taller, more refined. Their S-rank and SS-rank auras hummed with confident power. Lyra glanced around the room, her cold eyes sweeping over the commoners, a flicker of boredom in her gaze. She looked right through Cian, her gaze not even lingering.
Julian, however, seemed restless. He kept glancing at the back of the room, a troubled expression on his face.
'He remembers the massacre,' Cian realized. 'He probably felt guilty about the General's family. Perhaps he even looked for the C-rank extra, if only to salve his conscience.'
Cian merely stared, his eyes burning with the cold fire of a promise. The game had begun.
The Saintess's Obsession
While Cian played the part of a silent scholar, Evelina, the Saintess, was teetering on the brink of madness.
The news of Viscount Harlen's death had reached the Cathedral. The official report described it as a "Demonic attack," but the details—the body turned inside out, the frozen rose—sent a jolt of recognition through Evelina.
"It's him," she whispered, pacing frantically in her private chambers. "It has to be him. That's Cian's work. The cold. The precision. The Madness."
Her room was a chaotic mess of charts, astrological predictions, and ancient texts. Her SSS-rank aura pulsed erratically, no longer the serene light of a Saintess but the volatile energy of a mind pushed beyond its limits.
"He survived," she laughed, a hysterical, breathless sound. "The Weaver failed! She couldn't kill him! My regression... it wasn't for nothing!"
But her joy quickly turned to terror. If Cian was alive, he was a ghost of pure, unadulterated vengeance. He wouldn't care for the world's fate. He wouldn't care for the Hero. He would only care for the blood of his family.
"He's going to burn everything," she sobbed, clutching her head. "He's going to reset the world before the Demon King even arrives!"
She knew his methods. She knew the surgical precision. She knew the depth of his grief. She had seen it in her previous regressions—the "Extra" who lost everything, but never had the power to fight back. Now, he had the power, and he was using it.
Evelina rushed to her sacred crystal ball. Her [Chronos-Tear] ability flared, forcing the fragile artifact to show her visions of the future.
It wasn't a linear path. It was a kaleidoscope of broken realities. She saw Julian van Astra's gilded face contorted in agony. She saw Lyra van Astra screaming as her family's Ice Fortress crumbled. She saw Lucian, the Hero, fighting not demons, but the very infrastructure of the Empire.
And through it all, she saw a white-haired shadow, moving silently, leaving a trail of impossible deaths.
"He's coming for them all," Evelina whimpered. "The Duke… the Emperor… the Pope…"
She saw a flash of the Academy. A blurred image of a white-haired boy in a commoner's uniform, sitting in a lecture hall.
"He's there," she gasped. "He's in the Academy. He's going for the Heart."
A terrifying resolve hardened her expression. She had to find him. She had to talk to him. She had to convince the ghost to save the world, not burn it. But first, she had to navigate the maddening labyrinth of her own repeated memories.