Chapter 4 – New Life (2)
That "heroine" the System showed me?
In my memories, she wasn't some saint.
She was a corrupt noble who took over the entire underworld—drugs, slave rings, every kind of filth and debauchery you could imagine. For five months I fought a losing war just to pry the capital back from her grip. Alley by alley. Street by street. Pile of corpses by pile of corpses.
And now the System tells me she's a heroine?
I almost laughed.
In my timeline, she always had a tiny scar at the side of her neck, like a thin white line someone carelessly carved and forgot about. Another faint scar rested just under her left eye, small but sharp enough to draw the gaze—a leftover from a knife that should've killed her.
But in Thomas's memories—the "real" Nexuspia route—she didn't.
His version of her wore the same face but without the scars. Cleaner. Earlier. Untouched by the rot she later spread.
And right now, in this life… in this body… when that vision of her flashed in my head, there were no scars either.
Game data and my regressions weren't lining up.
Why?
I tried to break it down, to trace each tiny difference. In battle, in politics, in training. Every decision, every path I'd taken in my previous lives. All the variables.
All I could boil it down to was one thing.
'Butterfly effect,' I concluded.
If the original protagonist—was supposed to be here and I wasn't, then the moment *I* took his place, everything started tilting. One missed rescue, one conversation that never happened, one day where I wasn't there when she needed help…
That could've been all it took.
The protagonist didn't appear to save her.
No one pulled her out before she fell.
And that tiny difference snowballed, until the "heroine" route twisted into the monster I had to put down with my own hands.
'I'm going crazy,' I thought. 'But this is the only thing that makes sense.'
In every regression I remembered, I killed her first chance I got.
I thought she was the root of the rot.
The source of the poison spreading through Lumia.
Now?
Now the System was telling me she was one of the keys.
"One of the heroines I need to protect," I said under my breath.
My lips curled up without my permission.
"Ha… Hahaha…"
I laughed at myself, at the world, at the god who threw me here, at the idea that the person I used to behead on sight was supposed to be on my side.
Protect the underworld queen to save the world.
Sure. Why not.
***
After washing up and scrubbing the dried sweat and sleep from my body, I dried off and started dressing in the clothes laid out for me.
"Young master, do you need help? You're taking lon—"
"Almost done," I cut in, raising my voice just enough for Alice to hear through the door.
Silence, then a soft "Okay, young master," from outside.
I finished buttoning the last piece and turned toward the walnut standing mirror to check myself one last time.
What I saw staring back was a boy standing straight as a drawn blade, hands folding naturally behind his back. The dark tailcoat I wore followed the Academy's formal uniform style: deep midnight blue fabric trimmed with fine gold braid along the edges and cuffs. Heavy, half-moon epaulettes rested on my shoulders like small crescents of captured sunlight, thin chains and tassels catching the light with every slight movement.
A black-and-gold crest was embroidered over my heart—the emblem of our house, sharp and proud. Down my chest, gleaming buttons lined up in two perfect rows, not a single one out of place. A crisp white shirt sat beneath, collar high, framing the extravagant cravat at my throat. It was tied in a full, soft knot and pinned with a small jeweled brooch that caught the light with every breath I took.
My blonde hair, still slightly damp, had been combed back just enough to keep it from my eyes without making me look too stiff. My blue eyes stared back from the mirror, clearer than I remembered them ever being in my later lives.
I didn't look like a broken veteran who'd died hundreds of times.
I looked like what the world saw:
A twelve-year-old heir of a Viscount, about to attend a prestigious Academy for the first time.
"I'm ready," I told the reflection.
Ready for the Academy.
Ready to find the heroines.
Ready to drag this world away from the ending I've seen far too often.
***
I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
Alice straightened immediately, her expression brightening the moment she saw me.
"You look very handsome, young master," she said with a proud little smile. "Your father will be pleased."
My chest tightened for the briefest moment at that word.
Father.
"As if he ever isn't fussy about uniforms," I replied, letting a small smirk show to keep things normal.
She giggled softly, then stepped back and bowed.
"Lord Viester is waiting downstairs."
Of course he was.
I walked down the corridor, polished wooden floor muffling my footsteps, morning light slipping through tall windows to paint pale bars across the carpet. Every corner, every painting, every vase—I knew them all. I'd walked this path a hundred times, in a hundred different moods.
Sometimes nervous.
Sometimes excited.
Sometimes already broken.
Most of those times ended the same way:
With him dying in my arms.
We reached the main staircase. My hand brushed the banister as I descended, the familiar weight of the wood grounding me. At the bottom, the air felt a little heavier, the faint scent of polished metal, ink, and old paper drifting from the study nearby.
I turned the corner into the entry hall.
And there he was.
"Son."
He stood with his back straight, arms folded behind him, dark hair neatly combed with just a few strands refusing to behave. His uniform was a simpler, older cut than mine—a Viscount's military-style coat, deep navy with silver trim, sword at his hip. The same blue eyes as mine looked at me, calm and steady, weighing and measuring without harshness.
Every time I see him, it hurts.
Not because of who he is now.
Because of how he always ends.
I've watched his chest cave in under a demon's claw.
I've felt his blood soak my hands, hot at first, then chilling as he smiled and told me to live.
I've heard him wheeze out his last words more times than I can count.
And each time, I was too weak, too late, too focused on the "bigger picture" to save even my own father.
Now he stood there, alive and unscarred, a man in his prime, looking at me with a mixture of pride and concern.
"You cleaned up well," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You really do look like a proper Academy student."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to move forward.
Don't flinch.
Don't cling.
Act like this is the first time.
Because for him, it is.
"For your sake, I don't have much of a choice," I replied, letting a bit of my usual brashness slip through. "If I embarrass you on the first day, the servants will gossip about it for months."
He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, and for a second it was dangerously easy to forget this man was fated to die horribly in front of me.
"You've grown sharper," he said. "Mouth first, at least."
"If I don't keep it sharp, something will take my head off," I said lightly.
He raised a brow at that, but didn't press.
Instead, he laid a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it was solid, grounding.
"Listen, Erynd," he said quietly. "The Academy isn't just about power. You'll meet people there—friends, rivals, enemies. Choose carefully who you stand with. That matters more than titles or grades."
Heroines.
The word from the System surfaced in my mind.
I looked up at him, at the father who never got to grow old in any of my timelines.
"I know," I answered. "This time… I'll choose better."
He looked faintly surprised at the seriousness in my tone, then nodded once, as if satisfied by something he couldn't quite name.
"Good," he said. "Then let's go. The carriage is waiting."
As we walked toward the front door side by side, I clenched my fists just enough for my nails to dig into my palms.
In every life so far, I'd failed to protect this man.
In this one?
Father, heroines, capital, world—whatever the order, whatever the cost—
I was done letting them die in my arms.