The corridors of the academy stretched wide, lined with banners of blue and silver. Students walked in clusters, their laughter ringing against the tall windows. For them, this was just another ordinary day. For Reinhardt, every step felt like walking into a storm he had already endured once before.
He paused outside the lecture hall, fingers brushing the cold brass handle. Inside were voices he had memorised—some kind, some cruel. Faces that once turned away, sneered, or reached out only when it benefited them.
When he pushed the door open, the room turned briefly to glance at him, then lost interest. But Reinhardt's gaze lingered.
There was Elira, the girl who had mocked his failures yet cried the loudest at his funeral.
There was Darius, the self-proclaimed prodigy, whose ambition had destroyed more than just friendships.
And there was Professor Calvus, the man who had once inspired him with talks of destiny, yet later condemned him as a failure unfit to wield power.
Reinhardt clenched his jaw. The memories threatened to blur with the present, but he forced himself to breathe.
"Seat's empty here," a voice said. It was Alden, one of the few who had shown him kindness in the past—but only at the very end.
Reinhardt took the seat, his eyes scanning the rows. How should I face them? Should I forgive? Ignore? Or… should I shape this story differently from the one I already lived?
The lecture began, yet Reinhardt barely heard it. His mind wandered, weaving between past and present, each familiar laugh or whisper striking him like a needle. The weight of memories pressed down heavily—too heavy for a boy his age, yet perfectly suited for the man he once was.
This time, however, he wasn't powerless. He had regression. He had foresight.
He whispered under his breath, "I won't waste this chance."
The world outside the window shimmered with sunlight, but for Reinhardt, the academy had already become a battlefield—one where smiles could be daggers, and old wounds might reopen at any moment.