You know what's funny about dying?
The first time, it's terrifying. Your life flashes before your eyes, you pray to gods you never believed in, you bargain with the universe. The second time? Still scary, but there's this weird familiarity to it. By the tenth time, it's just annoying.
By the hundred and twenty-seventh time? It's fucking boring.
"MARCUS VALE! YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR DESTINY!"
The Demon Lord Azkaros—yes, that Azkaros, the one with fourteen syllables in his full name that I couldn't care less to remember—loomed over me, his blade dripping with what I assumed was my blood. Hard to tell anymore. I'd bled out so many times that I'd started rating my deaths like wine. This one? A solid 6/10. Decent drama, good lighting from the burning capital behind us, but the monologue was derivative.
I coughed, tasting copper. "You know," I rasped, "that line was better the first ninety times."
His eyes—all six of them, because apparently, regular evil wasn't enough—widened in confusion. "What?"
"Nothing." I slumped against the rubble. The sky was doing that thing again, where it turned purple and gold like some amateur painter's first attempt at a sunset. Pretty, if you ignored the screaming. "Just... can you make it quick this time? I've got places to be."
"Places to be? You're dying, human!"
"Yeah, no shit." I looked down at the sword sticking out of my chest. Third time this month. "Look, Azzy—can I call you Azzy? We've done this whole song and dance one hundred and twenty-seven times. You win, I die, the world ends, I wake up as my sixteen-year-old self with the worst case of déjà vu in human history. So let's just... skip to the end, yeah?"
Of course, he couldn't hear me properly. I was mumbling through a collapsed lung. Classic.
The world went dark.
Again.
Sixteen Years Earlier (Again)
I woke up to my mother screaming about breakfast.
"MARCUS! IF YOU'RE LATE FOR THE ACADEMY ENTRANCE EXAM ONE MORE TIME—"
I stared at my ceiling—the same ceiling I'd stared at 127 times before. Same crack in the corner. Same water stain shaped vaguely like a deformed rabbit. Same existential dread settling into my bones like an old friend.
"Fuck my life," I muttered.
The system window popped up, cheerful as always:
[REGRESSION COMPLETE]
[WELCOME BACK, REGRESSOR]
[CURRENT LOOP: 128]
[GOOD LUCK, HERO!]
"Hero," I snorted, dismissing the window with a gesture. "Right. The hero who's died more times than a cat with a gambling problem."
I sat up, looking at my hands. Sixteen years old again. Skinny wrists. No calluses yet. No scars from that time the fire drake decided my face looked too pretty. No missing finger from that incident with the void cultists in Loop 73.
Just... nothing.
The potential for everything, and the knowledge that it was all pointless.
My bedroom door burst open. "Marcus, are you—OH MY GOD, WHY ARE YOU NAKED?"
I glanced down. Right. I'd forgotten about this part. In my seventeen-year-old body, I'd been sleeping in the nude because of that weird heat rash from the academy uniform. But now I was sixteen, and my mother was staring at me like I'd just sacrificed a goat in the living room.
"Puberty hit different, Mom," I said flatly, reaching for a blanket. "You wouldn't understand."
"That's NOT—you're impossible! The exam is in two hours! TWO HOURS!"
"Cool." I lay back down. "Wake me up in three."
"MARCUS THEODORE VALE!"
Theodore. God, I'd forgotten my middle name was Theodore. Even my parents were trying to set me up for failure.
"What are you doing? This is your FUTURE! The Celestial Academy only accepts applicants once a year! Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?"
"Actually? Twelve." I stared at the ceiling. "Twelve people will literally attempt murder to get into the academy this year. Three will succeed. One of them is your neighbor's kid, by the way. Nice family. Shame about the sociopathy."
My mother blinked. "What?"
"Nothing." I sighed, sitting up and keeping the blanket strategically placed. "Look, Mom, real talk? The academy is a scam. They charge forty thousand gold for four years of education you could get from a decent library and a mentor who isn't a raging alcoholic. Professor Hendricks? The combat instructor everyone loves? Drinks a bottle of whiskey before every class. Professor Artemis? The 'genius' magical theorist? Stole ninety percent of his research from his dead wife. And don't even get me started on the headmaster."
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Have you been drinking?"
"Not yet, but give me time." I stood up, letting the blanket fall. She shrieked and covered her eyes. "I'm sixteen, Mom. I've seen worse."
"YOU'RE SIXTEEN! YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE SEEN WORSE!"
I grabbed my clothes from the chair. Simple stuff. A shirt, pants, boots. The kind of outfit that said "I'm here because you made me, not because I care."
"Marcus." Her voice softened, that maternal concern creeping in. The one that made me feel like garbage every single time. "Is everything okay? You've been... different. Distant. Like you're somewhere else."
Somewhere else. That was one way to put it.
I'd been in the future. In 127 different futures, actually. I'd been a hero, a villain, a king, a corpse. I'd saved the world six times. I'd watched it burn one hundred and twenty-one times. I'd held dying friends, kissed doomed lovers, made promises I couldn't keep to people who hadn't even been born yet in this timeline.
"I'm fine," I lied, pulling on my shirt. "Just tired."
"Well, un-tire yourself! This is important!"
I turned to look at her. Really look at her. Margaret Vale. Forty-three years old. Worked three jobs to send me to preparatory school. Would work three more to keep me in the academy if I got in. Would die in seven years from overwork and stress in every timeline where I didn't intervene.
In Loop 23, I'd made her quit all her jobs. Used my hero knowledge to earn money, set her up comfortably. She'd died anyway. Heart attack. Turns out, idleness killed her just as fast as overwork. Guilt, maybe. Wondering what she was worth if she wasn't sacrificing herself for me.
In Loop 67, I'd tried to distance myself completely. Thought maybe if she didn't care about me, she'd live longer. She'd drunk herself to death within five years.
There was no winning. Not with her. Not with anyone.
"I'll go," I said quietly. "But I'm not promising anything."
Her face lit up. "Really? Oh, Marcus, you won't regret this! I'll make you breakfast! Your favorite! Eggs and—"
"I know. Eggs and bacon, toast with too much butter, orange juice that's slightly expired but you'll serve it anyway because 'waste not, want not.'"
She froze. "How did you—"
"Lucky guess." I walked past her, heading for the bathroom. "I'll be down in ten."
The bathroom mirror showed me exactly what I expected: a sixteen-year-old kid with dark hair, grey eyes, and the kind of face that was aggressively average. Not ugly, not handsome. Forgettable. The kind of face that blended into crowds.
Perfect for a hero, they'd say later. "He came from nothing! Just like us!"
Bullshit. I came from 127 lifetimes of trauma and a growing suspicion that the universe had a sick sense of humor.
I splashed water on my face, studying my reflection. Same nose I'd broken five times. Same jaw I'd had shattered twice. Same eyes that had seen things no one should ever see.
"Okay, Marcus," I told myself. "New plan. This time? We're not doing it."
My reflection didn't argue. Good. Last thing I needed was schizophrenia on top of everything else.
"No academy. No hero training. No 'chosen one' bullshit. We're going to live a normal life. Get a normal job. Die a normal death. At like... seventy. From old age. In bed. Preferably after sex, but I'm not picky."
The system window flickered to life:
[HERO'S QUEST ACTIVATED]
[OBJECTIVE: PASS THE CELESTIAL ACADEMY ENTRANCE EXAM]
[REWARD: LEGENDARY CLASS UNLOCK]
[FAILURE: WORLD DESTRUCTION IN 12 YEARS]
I flicked the window away. "Yeah, no. We're done. Find another sucker."
It popped back up:
[HERO'S QUEST CANNOT BE DECLINED]
"Watch me."
[WARNING: REGRESSION ABILITY TIED TO HERO'S PATH]
[ABANDONING QUEST MAY RESULT IN—]
I punched the mirror.
The glass cracked, spiderwebbing from the impact point. Blood welled up on my knuckles. Good. At least pain was still real.
"Marcus?" My mother's voice drifted up the stairs. "Was that—did something break?"
"Just my spirit, Mom!" I called back. "Nothing important!"
I wrapped my hand in a towel, watching the blood seep through the white fabric. Red. Still red. After everything, I could still bleed like a normal person.
Small mercies.
Breakfast was exactly as I predicted. Eggs (slightly overcooked), bacon (slightly undercooked), toast (butter ratio: 60% bread, 40% butter), and orange juice that smelled faintly of regret and expiration dates.
"Eat up!" Mom chirped, hovering like a helicopter parent who'd had too much coffee. "You need your strength for the exam!"
I poked at the eggs. "What if I don't want to take the exam?"
The kitchen went silent. Even the birds outside seemed to stop chirping.
"What?" Her voice was very quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that preceded storms and maternal disappointment.
"I said—"
"I heard what you said." She sat down across from me, her hands folded on the table. Her work-worn, calloused hands. "Marcus. Look at me."
I looked.
"I work seventy hours a week. Your father left when you were three. I've sacrificed everything—EVERYTHING—to give you this chance. And you're telling me you don't want it?"
Here it comes. The guilt trip. The one that worked every single time for the first fifty loops until I'd built up an immunity.
"Mom—"
"Do you know what I did to afford your prep school? Do you know what I gave up?"
"Yes," I said flatly. "Your health, your social life, your dreams of opening a bakery, and approximately seven years off your life expectancy."
She blinked. "What?"
"Nothing." I stood up, leaving the food untouched. "I'll go to the exam. But don't expect me to pass."
"Marcus—"
"And Mom?" I paused at the doorway. "The bakery thing? You should do it anyway. You're a better baker than you are a factory worker. The pies you make every Sunday? Those are genius. The butterscotch one especially. You could make a fortune."
She stared at me like I was speaking another language. "How did you know about—I never told you I wanted—"
"Lucky guess," I repeated, grabbing my coat. "I'm full of those lately."
The walk to the academy took forty-five minutes. I knew because I'd timed it 127 times. Sometimes I ran, shaving it down to twenty-two minutes. Sometimes I walked slowly, thinking maybe if I was late, I'd miss my chance.
I was never late. The universe had a way of course-correcting.
Today, I decided to experiment. I took the longest route possible, stopping at every shop, feeding every stray cat, helping an old lady cross the street (she didn't need help, but I insisted).
Still arrived with ten minutes to spare.
"Goddamn cosmic railroad," I muttered.
The Celestial Academy loomed before me, all white marble and gold trim, like someone had vomited wealth all over a perfectly good building. Thousands of applicants crowded the courtyard, all nervous energy and desperate dreams.
I'd seen this crowd 127 times. I knew who would pass. Knew who would fail. Knew who would die in the fourth year from a training accident that was definitely not an accident.
"Marcus Vale?"
I turned. A girl stood there, probably seventeen, with red hair and green eyes and a smile that was trying way too hard to be friendly.
"Depends," I said. "Who's asking?"
"I'm Sarah Brightwood! I noticed you're here for the exam too! Want to partner up for the team portion?"
Sarah Brightwood. Right. The princess in disguise. Pretending to be a commoner to "understand the people." Would reveal her identity in the second year, causing massive drama. Would try to marry me in seventy-three different timelines. Would die in my arms in forty-two of them.
"No," I said.
Her smile faltered. "Oh. Um. Okay. It's just, I heard the team portion is really hard and—"
"Sarah. Real talk? You're going to pass with flying colors no matter who you partner with. You've had private tutors since you were six. Your swordsmanship is top five percent. Your magic control is even better. You don't need me. You need someone to make you look good. I'm not that person."
She blinked, taken aback. "How did you—"
"And just so you know? That accent you're faking? The 'common' speech pattern? It's not working. You sound like a rich person pretending to be poor. Which you are. So maybe drop the act before someone less nice than me calls you out on it."
Her face went through several emotions: shock, anger, embarrassment, and finally, grudging respect.
"Well," she said slowly. "You're certainly... direct."
"Life's too short for bullshit," I said, walking past her. "Good luck on the exam, Your Highness."
I left her standing there, mouth open like a fish.
The exam hall was massive. Vaulted ceilings, enchanted lighting, rows upon rows of desks. Very impressive. Very unnecessary.
I found a seat in the back corner. The spot where, in seventy-nine timelines, I'd sat and aced every test. The spot where I'd begun my journey to hero-dom.
Today, that spot could fuck right off.
"Attention, applicants!" A voice boomed from the front. Headmaster Aldric, fat and pompous, standing on a raised platform like he was about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount. "Welcome to the Celestial Academy Entrance Examination! This test will determine your future! Your worth! Your—"
I tuned him out. I'd heard this speech 127 times. It never got better.
The written test appeared on my desk. Three hours. Two hundred questions. Covering everything from basic mathematics to advanced magical theory.
I picked up my pen.
And then I put it back down.
What was I doing? Why was I here? Every fiber of my being screamed to just... leave. Walk out. Let the world save itself for once.
But I couldn't. Because deep down, despite everything, despite the deaths and the failures and the endless fucking cycle...
I was still Marcus Vale.
And Marcus Vale, apparently, was an idiot who couldn't stop trying.
"Fuck it," I whispered.
I picked up the pen again.
And I started writing the most aggressively mediocre test answers in the history of academia.
Question: "Define the three principles of mana circulation."
My answer: "It circulates. That's like, the whole thing."
Question: "Calculate the trajectory of a fireball spell accounting for wind resistance and mana decay."
My answer: "Point at target. Say fireball. Hope for the best."
Question: "Discuss the historical significance of the First Demon War."
My answer: "Demons showed up. People died. Somebody won eventually. Sad times."
I could feel the universe trying to course-correct. The pen wanted to write proper answers. My hand twitched with muscle memory from 127 lifetimes of perfect scores.
But I fought it.
For the first time in 127 loops, I fought the narrative.
And you know what?
It felt fucking great.