"Premature respawn is probably going to be my signature move, isn't it?" The thought echoed bitterly in my head as I cautiously poked my nose out of the icy deathtrap alley. Rule one: survive. Rule two: don't be an idiot. Simple.
Apparently, too simple for Shamrock Starson, possessor of infinite potential and zero common sense.
Less than five minutes later, peering down another grimy side street, I spotted them. Three figures, radiating low-level menace like cheap cologne. Short guy, big guy, guy with knives and stupid white hair. Ton, Chin, and Kan. Subaru's first speedbump. My meta-knowledge screamed 'DANGER! AVOID!', but some cocktail of Irish bravado, post-death adrenaline, and sheer arrogance took the wheel. 'They're just thugs,' whispered the idiot part of my brain. 'Starter zone enemies. I've got the blueprints for a demigod build! How tough can they be?'
Pride cometh before the stab wound, apparently.
I tried to swagger past. They blocked my path. Words were exchanged – mostly threats from them, probably some poorly thought-out bluster from me. Then knives flashed. I tried dodging, tried fighting back with my fancy new 'athletic build', but raw potential doesn't translate to actual combat skill. They were faster, meaner, and knew exactly where to stick the pointy ends.
White-Hair lunged. Pain, sharp and searing, exploded in my gut. I looked down, dumbfounded, at the hilt of a knife protruding from my abdomen. Blood bloomed, warm and sickeningly real against my new tunic. Oh. Crap. This wasn't a cutscene. This wasn't theoretical. This hurt. This was death, coming again, far quicker and more ignominiously than even the Puck-sicle incident.
Panic flared, cold and sharp. But this time, it wasn't absolute zero snuffing out thought. This time, there was a microsecond, a sliver of horrified clarity. The Idle Trainer hummed faintly, its background processes churning away at the 'Law of Time'. That nascent understanding, that fragile connection... it was there. Not the big 'reset to 4 AM' button linked to death, but something smaller, more immediate.
No! Not like this! Back! Go BACK!
I didn't cast a spell. I didn't incant. I yanked. With desperate, instinctual mental force, I pulled on the thread of the immediate past, focusing on the moment before the blade slid home.
Reality stuttered. The world flickered like bad reception. The searing pain vanished, replaced by the ghost of its memory. White-Hair was lunging, more like accidentally twitching forward, again, the knife trajectory identical, frozen for a nanosecond in my rewind-adjusted perception.
No time for finesse. No time for cleverness. Adrenaline surged. I threw myself backward, clumsy but effective, the knife slicing empty air where my gut had been. And then, fueled by terror and outrage, I swung. My fist connected with White-Hair's jaw with a deeply satisfying crack. Surprise flashed in his eyes before they rolled back in his head. He crumpled, knives clattering uselessly on the cobblestones.
The other two stared, momentarily stunned by the sudden reversal. That was my cue.
Nope! Not dealing with this!
I turned and bolted, heart hammering against my ribs, the phantom ache in my gut a potent reminder of my own stupidity. Screw the Loot House alley. Screw confronting random thugs. I needed a different approach.
I navigated the winding streets, relying on hazy memories from the anime map, heading towards a wider thoroughfare. Maybe, just maybe, some part of the timeline was still intact. Maybe Emilia and Felt would still pass this way. I needed information, and maybe, just maybe, clinging to the ghost of the plot was better than running completely blind. I found a deep doorway in a less traveled alley overlooking the main street and melted into the shadows, adrenaline still singing in my veins, trying desperately to get my breathing under control.
Okay. Lesson learned. Potential means jack without skill. Fodder is still lethal. But... the rewind. The short rewind. It worked. I could control it. A tiny spark of actual power, finally ignited. Maybe I wasn't completely screwed.
Right, that ten-second rewind… it wasn't much, but it was mine. A tiny, flickering candle of actual ability in the overwhelming darkness of my incompetence. The phantom pain in my gut was a stark reminder: bravado gets you stabbed, potential gets you killed slightly slower. Skill? Skill is what keeps the pointy things on the outside.
Okay, Idle Trainer, time to earn your keep. My primary mental partition was still grinding away at the 'Law of Time' – understanding that rewind, and the big 'Bonfire Reset', felt crucial. But I had more slots thanks to Idle Study Partitions. Let's diversify the portfolio of 'Shamrock Not Dying Instantly'.
Mental Command: Activate Idle Trainer Partition Two. Task: Skill Acquisition - Martial Arts. Input Data: Analyze recent combat encounter (Thug Takedown v0.1 - Near Fatal Failure), extrapolate effective defensive/offensive maneuvers from current physical parameters. Goal: Transform 'panicked flailing' into 'basic, functional self-defense', progressing towards actual competency. Priority: High.
A faint acknowledgement pinged in the back of my mind, like a background process kicking off. Simulated Shamrock was now presumably getting virtual beatdowns and analyzing fight choreography while real Shamrock focused on not having a panic attack. Maximum efficiency, minimum conscious effort during moments of abject terror. Good system.
Satisfied that future me might eventually learn how to throw a punch without breaking his own nose, I focused on the present. This alley felt… better. Wider than the last two death traps, cleaner, and crucially, opening onto a bustling main street. Just across the way, I could see the edge of a small, picturesque stone bridge arching over a canal. This felt more like the area where Felt would lead Emilia during the chase, according to the blurry mental map pieced together from anime episodes.
I retreated deeper into the recessed doorway, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. A stranger in clearly non-local (though thankfully generic) clothing loitering in an alley was probably suspicious, but less so than bleeding out on the cobblestones.
Now? Now, I waited. Waited for a glimpse of silver hair or a flash of blonde pigtails. Waited for any sign that this broken timeline still held fragments of the story I knew. Waited for anything that wasn't another knife aimed at my vital organs. The Irish blood simmered with impatience, but the fresh memory of nearly becoming shish kebab enforced a grudging stillness. Waiting. And hoping the Idle Trainer learned faster than I attracted trouble.
My brief moment of cautious optimism lasted precisely as long as it took for the thought to fully form. Because, of course, trouble didn't just find Shamrock Starson; it apparently had him on speed dial and GPS tracking.
Footsteps echoed from the main street end of the alley. Not the hurried clip-clop of passersby, but the deliberate, predatory tread of someone looking for something – or someone. I instinctively pressed myself flatter against the cold stone of the doorway, hoping the shadows were deep enough.
No such luck.
Three figures rounded the corner, backlit by the growing daylight from the street. Short guy, big guy, and… oh, son of a biscuit. White-Hair himself, Kan. The knife enthusiast I'd just punched into next Tuesday, or rather, ten seconds ago Tuesday.
He looked different. There was a nasty, purpling bruise blooming high on his left cheekbone – a shiner exactly where my panic-fueled fist had connected. How? The rewind should have… did it only rewind my experience? Did the consequences for him somehow stick? Or did he just pick another fight immediately after I vanished? The implications were dizzying and terrifying.
Whatever the reason, the bruise was there, stark and ugly. And the look in his eyes wasn't stunned confusion anymore. It was pure, undiluted venom.
He spotted me instantly, his thin lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. It wasn't a friendly expression; it was the look a cat gives a cornered mouse.
"Well, well," Kan drawled, his voice smooth but laced with malice. He took a step closer, the other two fanning out slightly, blocking any easy escape back towards the main street. "Fancy seeing you here!"
The casual words hung heavy in the air, thick with threat. He remembered me. The punch, the escape… it wasn't reset for him. My ten-second do-over hadn't wiped the slate clean; it had just pissed him off and given him a very specific target for his anger.
My stomach plummeted. 'Oh, crapbaskets,' went the internal monologue, upgrading its profanity in response to the escalating threat level. 'Rule two: Don't be an idiot. Failed spectacularly. Again.' The Idle Trainer could simulate martial arts all it wanted; right now, I was facing three angry thugs who clearly held a grudge, and my only proven combat move was 'punch one guy then run away screaming'. This was not going well.
Trouble definitely wanted me dead, and the smug certainty radiating off White-Hair was intensely irritating. He thought he had me figured out, cornered and predictable.
"Don't care what divine protection you got that lets you go backwards," Kan sneered, cracking his knuckles ominously. His eyes gleamed with malice, fixated on me. "Gotta have a limit, right? Run outta luck sometime."
He was wrong about the limits – thanks, infinite Estus loop and conceptual bullshit – but explaining the intricacies of my post-mortem CYOA build felt unproductive. Besides, the condescending tone, the assumption that I was just some lucky schmuck… it pushed a button. The simmering adrenaline from the near-stabbing, combined with the sheer annoyance of being hunted down again, boiled over. Fear took a backseat to pure, unadulterated Irish temper.
A growl rumbled in my chest. "Limit?" I spat, the word coming out thicker, rougher than usual. The accent I usually kept buried under layers of internet neutrality clawed its way to the surface. "Yer worried 'bout my bleedin' luck?"
I pushed myself off the wall, planting my feet. The Idle Trainer's martial arts partition pulsed faintly in the back of my mind. It wasn't mastery, not even close. But the chaotic energy of my earlier panic felt… different. More focused. Less 'flailing arms and hoping for the best', more 'plant feet here, turn hips so, aim fist there'. My stance felt a tiny bit more solid, my balance less precarious.
"So," I continued, my voice dripping with newfound, probably unwarranted confidence, the brogue thickening with every word. "Ye want me actual fightin' 'ands, eh? After jumpin' me with yer mates?" I cracked my own knuckles, mimicking his earlier gesture, though it probably looked far less intimidating. "Grand! FOEHCK YOU! 'M GIVIN' YOU DEM!"
Forget running. Forget hiding. Shamrock Starson, Theoretical Demigod and Practicing Idiot, was apparently picking a fight. Again. This time, maybe, just maybe, with slightly better footwork and a punch aimed vaguely at the face instead of the general vicinity of the planet. Time to see if simulated training translated into slightly less pathetic real-world face-popping.
Kan, clearly not expecting defiance after my earlier panicked retreat, let out a snarling laugh and lunged. He came in fast, leading with a wild right hook, aiming to overwhelm me with sheer aggression. In my previous encounter, that probably would have connected, or at least forced me into a clumsy block that left me wide open.
But this time, something clicked. The Idle Trainer's simulations, the endless loops of virtual combat analyzed in the background, translated into instinct. Before Kan's fist was even halfway to its target, my feet moved. Not a panicked scramble, but a smooth, economical sidestep to the left. My body flowed around the incoming punch with a grace that felt utterly alien and deeply surprising. The wind from his missed swing ruffled my hair.
He stumbled slightly, overextended and momentarily off balance from the whiffed attack. And in that split second, another simulated sequence surfaced. Plant right foot. Pivot hips. Drive through the shoulder. Extend left fist.
My punch snapped out, faster and cleaner than anything I'd ever thrown before. It wasn't a powerhouse blow, not yet, but it was precise. My knuckles connected squarely with the bridge of Kan's nose.
CRUNCH.
The sound was wet, visceral, and utterly unambiguous. Kan cried out, a sharp yelp of pain cutting through the alley air. He staggered back, hands flying to his face, blood instantly welling between his fingers. His eyes, wide with shock and agony above his cupped hands, watered profusely.
And the feeling? Watching him recoil, hearing that distinct sound of cartilage giving way? It was… satisfying. Deeply, unexpectedly satisfying. Not just the petty revenge for the earlier stabbing attempt, but the simple, pure validation of it worked. The training, the potential, the stupid CYOA bullshit – for one brief, glorious moment, it had translated into tangible, nose-crunching reality. A small victory, maybe, but after dying twice and nearly dying a third time? It felt huge.
And then euphoria hit as conquest activated the moment he passed out.