The first thing was blood.
It clung to his tongue, heavy and metallic, so real he nearly gagged. His chest convulsed, memory and body at war—because he could still feel the debt-sword spearing him open, ribs cracked like paper, lungs drowning. He clawed at himself, hands trembling over an unmarred chest. No wound. No scar. Only phantom pain.
His breath came ragged. Too fast.
Light spilled in from tall windows, soft, golden. The sound of morning bells rang in the distance. The air was clean. Not choked with dust and ash, not thick with the Titan's roar.
He knew this place.
The academy hall. Unbroken. Untouched.
The long banners swayed gently above rows of desks. Students laughed, whispered, shuffled papers as if nothing had ever happened. No rubble. No corpses. No ledger carved into the air.
But Hae-won couldn't move. His body shook violently, breath scraping his throat like glass. His hand came away bloody where he bit his own lip too hard, as if to test whether this was real.
It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't mercy.
The words still burned in his mind, carved there like scripture:
[ Regression Authorized. ]
[ Restarting Account. ]
⸻
A voice broke through the haze.
"Hey."
Hae-won's head jerked up. His heart nearly stopped.
Arin stood there, framed by sunlight. Not broken, not covered in ash and blood. She looked young—too young—her hair neatly tied, her uniform crisp. She tilted her head at him, eyes bright, confused.
"You're pale. Did you not sleep again?"
Her voice was so light, so casual, it cut him deeper than any blade. He remembered her scream as she'd reached for him, the sound of her breaking as his chest was torn open.
He almost answered—almost told her to run, to hide, that the Titan would come and tear it all apart—but his throat locked. His voice would not come.
Instead, he swallowed the blood in his mouth and forced his trembling hands to still.
"…I'm fine," he lied.
She frowned faintly. But then the professor's voice barked across the room, calling the class to order, and she slipped away toward her seat.
As if none of it had happened.
As if he hadn't just died with her name on his lips.
⸻
The lecture droned on, words blurring into static. Hae-won didn't hear them. His gaze was fixed on the sunlight spilling across the floor, watching the shadows shift, waiting for the ceiling to crack and the Titan's fist to blot out the sky.
But nothing came.
Not yet.
He knew this timeline. He remembered the steps. The order of collapse. The first "scenario."
And he remembered how many died.
His jaw tightened until it ached.
This wasn't mercy. This was debt. Another chance, not to live—no, that was never the bargain. This was another chance to pay. To collect what was owed.
His body still trembled with the phantom weight of the Titan's blade, but beneath the fear, something colder coiled.
Resolve.
⸻
When the lecture ended, he didn't move immediately. The cadets filed out, laughing, unaware of the noose around their necks. Only when the room emptied did Hae-won press his palm flat against the desk, grounding himself.
The wood was smooth. Real. Solid. Not dust. Not ruin.
But he could still hear the whispers.
Not the cursed sword this time. Something deeper. The ledger-voice. The chant.
"Unpaid… unpaid…"
Hae-won pressed his nails into his palm until they drew blood. His breath steadied.
Fine. If this world demanded a collector, then he would be it.
But this time—this time, he would not hesitate.
⸻
The door creaked open.
"Skipping already?"
Seo leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His grin was sharp, mocking as ever—but there was no madness in his eyes, not yet. Not the hysterical laughter that would come when the Titan crushed their world.
Hae-won stared at him in silence.
Seo raised an eyebrow. "What? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Hae-won's lips parted before he could stop himself.
"I have."
Seo blinked. For once, he had no ready retort.
Hae-won pushed past him, his footsteps steady now, each one heavier than the last.
There was no time to waste. The scenarios would come. The ledger would open. The Titan would rise.
And when it did—
He would be ready.
Even if it killed him again. The courtyard was alive with chatter.
Cadets spilled out from the hall, voices overlapping in bright, careless laughter. Some balanced books on their heads as they raced across the lawn. Others lingered beneath the shade of flowering trees, the petals falling like lazy snow onto crisp uniforms.
It was spring. The air was warm.
Too warm.
Hae-won felt the weight of every voice, every smile. He saw each face not as they were now—alive, flushed with youth—but as he remembered them. Crushed beneath rubble. Screaming in the dark. Staring up at him with glassy eyes, mouths full of blood.
He walked among them silently, a ghost moving through the living. No one noticed the way his hands clenched, or the way his gaze lingered too long.
He passed a group of younger cadets laughing over stolen bread. He remembered one of them—small, wide-eyed, barely sixteen. He remembered the boy's sword sinking into the Titan's ankle. He remembered the flash of hope.
And then the foot that erased him.
The laughter cut sharper than screams.
Hae-won looked away. His throat ached with words he couldn't speak. Leave. Run. Don't be here when it comes. But they would not listen. They couldn't. To them, this was only another morning. To them, the word "Titan" was just a story buried in old texts.
He was the only one carrying the memory.
And memory alone was heavier than any blade.
⸻
The training grounds stretched wide, polished steel dummies glinting under the sun. Cadets sparred, grunting and laughing as their wooden swords clacked against each other. A whistle shrilled, and an instructor barked corrections, his booming voice carrying across the yard.
Hae-won stopped at the edge, his breath stalling.
There.
Do-hyun.
Alive.
The boy stood near the center, his hair catching sunlight, his uniform slightly crooked as always. He was grinning, exchanging blows with a taller cadet who cursed every time Do-hyun darted past his guard. His laughter rang clear, unbroken.
Not muffled by chains. Not trapped in a ledger. Not humming through the chest of a monster.
Alive.
Hae-won's knees nearly buckled. His chest burned, phantom pain twisting with relief so sharp it hurt.
Do-hyun turned at that exact moment, as if sensing the stare. Their eyes met.
"Hae-won!" he called, grinning wide. "You're finally out of that cave of books. Come spar!"
Hae-won couldn't move. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The image of Do-hyun's half-submerged face flickered in his vision—the ribs of the Titan, the song breaking through.
Alive. And doomed.
"Not today," Hae-won forced out, his voice low, ragged.
Do-hyun blinked. "What, scared I'll beat you again?"
The cadets nearby laughed. The sound hollowed Hae-won's chest further.
He turned sharply, walking away before the weight in his throat dragged him under.
⸻
Later, he sat at the farthest corner of the dining hall.
Plates clattered. The smell of stew and baked bread hung heavy in the air. Dozens of cadets crowded together, gossiping, bickering, shoving over extra rations. Life thrived here, messy and loud.
Hae-won ate nothing. The spoon lay untouched.
He watched them all.
The girl with ink-stained fingers, who would lose her arm trying to cast a barrier spell. The boy with the nervous laugh, who would choke on his own blood as the ceiling fell. The group of loud second-years, so full of bravado, who would scatter like sheep before the Titan's roar.
He memorized their faces again. Not because he wanted to. Because he knew he would need to.
Every life here was a weight. A tally he could not erase.
And this time, when the hall shattered, when the Titan descended—
He would fight to keep more of them breathing.
Even if it meant offering himself to the cursed sword again.
⸻
A chair scraped.
Arin sat down across from him, balancing her tray with one hand.
"You didn't eat."
Hae-won's eyes flicked to hers. They were the same as before—steady, searching. Even here, even alive, there was something that cut through him.
She pushed her bread toward him. "You'll faint if you don't."
He stared at it. The smell of yeast and warmth twisted into iron and ash in his memory. He remembered the dust caking her hair, the blood down her sleeve. He remembered dragging her out from under the Titan's shadow, her nails clawing at his arm as she begged him to save Do-hyun.
"…You should eat it," he said quietly.
Her brow furrowed. "You sound like you're writing your last will."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
"You'd be surprised."
She studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. "You're strange lately."
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because lately meant nothing. For him, the word lately stretched across dozens of lifetimes, each one ending in ruin.
And yet, in this fragile morning light, with Arin alive across from him, with laughter still filling the hall—he felt the faintest thread of something he had long forgotten.
Not hope. Hope was too dangerous.
But resolve.
He would not waste this chance.
Not again.