"…What the hell?"
Rowan blinked hard.
The cracked, wooden ceiling above him shouldn't exist. Not anymore. Not after—
He bolted upright, breath hitching. His hands gripped the bedsheets, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
This room.
This bed.
These hands—young, lean, callused in a way they hadn't been in years.
"I… I died. I know I did."
He whispered it out loud like it would summon clarity. But all he got was silence.
The scent of old pine. The soft chatter of chickens outside the window. The faint weight of an itchy blanket. All too real.
His heart thumped erratically. He looked down and saw it—that dumb red shirt he hadn't worn since he was seventeen. The one he woke up in after he first transmigrated.
The same red shirt.
"No way."
He shot to the window and flung it open. Bascot's streets buzzed below. Fresh market stalls. Unreasonably clean cobblestone. A familiar old man yelling about overpriced turnips.
It was exactly like the first time.
A sharp laugh bubbled out of his throat, teetering on hysterical. "You've got to be kidding me…"
Rowan Mercer, aged 81 just last night, now stood in the body of Keris, seventeen years old, again.
Again.
"So let me get this straight. I transmigrated into my favorite novel-slash-RPG, lived a quiet life, died with no cheats, no skills, no hope—and now I'm back. Same world. Same useless body. No god showed up to explain jack. No system beeped in my head. No hidden status screen. I'm just… here again. Starting over.
What kind of bugged-ass, DLC-free, rogue-like permadeath regression mechanic is this!?"
He spent the morning pacing his room like a madman. No signs of divine revelation. No memories slipping away. Everything from his first life remained intact—down to the moment he'd gasped his last breath on that damn creaky farm bed.
He didn't know how it happened. He didn't know why. But…
"If this isn't a dream, then this is my second chance."
And this time… he wasn't going to waste it.
—
Keris approached the kitchen with slow, thoughtful steps. The familiar smell of smoked eggs and warm rye bread made his heart ache.
At the table sat his father, mother, and two younger siblings—Milo, the bratty one, and Rina, who always stole his books.
He swallowed thickly.
"Morning," he said.
His mother raised an eyebrow. "You're up early, love."
"Yeah. Uh. Can we… talk? All of us?"
That got some looks. He sat down, serious-faced.
"I want to enter Cradia Arcona Academy."
Forks clinked. His father coughed. Rina burst out laughing.
"You?" she asked. "The guy who failed to beat the neighbor's kid in arm wrestling?"
He glared. "Yes. Me."
His father cleared his throat. "Son… the trials are in three days. You know how intense the selection process is."
"I know. That's why I need your support."
"You couldn't cast a fire spark if your life depended on it," Milo muttered.
Keris took a breath. "I know I'm not talented. I know I don't have a awakened bloodline, or—whatever gift everyone else seems to have. But I'll do everything I can. Just three days. Let me try."
Silence.
His mother looked at him for a long moment, then sighed.
"…Alright. But if you so much as cough blood from overworking, I'm dragging you home myself."
He smiled.
"Deal."
—
On Day 1 – He ran. A lot. Push-ups, sit-ups, burpees. Muscle memory from his mercenary years helped, but his body was still soft, seventeen, and unimpressive. He collapsed more than once. But he continued on like this for hours, again and again. Constant repetition, no breaks until he collapsed from exhaustion. It was the only way he could actually improve.
On Day 2 – He visited the Bascot Library. Dusty, towering shelves. The sharp scent of parchment and candlewax. He went there for one reason only. Manuals. Books that held knowledge of how to Accumulate Mana faster within the body. How to access Ki the living energy within the body and achieve Resonance with said Ki. And some even held combat techniques maybe even spells. He needed to have an edge, anything could help, even if it was Entry level, he was going to use every means necessary to stay alive and grow stronger. However though…
That's where he met an unexpected friend. Lucile Argreevs.
"Welcome to the—oh." She paused. "New face."
Lucile looked barely older than him, maybe twenty. Auburn hair tied up, glasses sliding down her nose. Her voice was calm but not cold.
"I'm Keris," he said. "Looking for mana and ki manuals. Entry-level."
"Big dreams?"
He grinned sheepishly. "Something like that."
She helped him find books beyond his means. When he flinched at the prices, she waved it off.
"Consider it an… act of good will. For sn underdog like yourself."
They hit it off surprisingly well. Maybe because she wasn't used to people genuinely appreciating her help. Maybe because he looked at her like a person rather than just someone person ignore.
But from what Keri's-No, Rowan- could remember. Lucile wasn't a named character within the novel of Chrono Sovereign. But in the game version, she turns out to be an NPC for players who checked into the library section of the game when wanting new skills.
She provided Daily Rewards, such as extra coins, small EXP boosts, and gave out hidden maps for items that have yet to be discovered. Lucile became a fan favorite for those of the game, however some wished she was a romancable, unfortunately she was just the daily reward giver.
But seeing her up close like this, made Keris smile faintly, as an avid fan of both the novel and the game, he couldn't help but get all happy inside interacting with a character he knows. But again, he isn't sure why she seems so friendly and trusting when they've just meet each other.
Keris shrugged his shoulders.
Whatever the reason, she kept smiling around him.
Even when he didn't notice.
—
On the second evening, as he tried reaching a heavy manual on Ki Core Stabilization, the shelf tipped.
He shielded Lucile on instinct, the bookshelf collapsing over his back.
"Ow—!"
She yelped but landed beneath him—safe.
Their faces were inches apart.
Their lips almost—
"I—uh—sorry—!!"
He shoved the shelf off, red in the face.
Lucile blinked, stunned.
"…Didn't mind that," she mumbled.
He did his best not to explode from embarrassment.
He then helped her up, both of them apologizing to one another in mock embarrassment.
He returned home afterwards, exhausted but satisfied. He couldn't force mana through his circuits. He couldn't resonate with ki. But his body felt stronger. More disciplined.
He had one edge: knowledge. History, plotlines, world events—things no one else could possibly know.
He would make it through the trials.
Even if it killed him again.
—
The Next Morning—Day Of The Triwl.
He donned his gear: old shirt, fingerless gauntlets, leather boots, and his makeshift weapon—Ragis, the polearm-axe he crafted in secret.
He hugged his siblings, thanked his mother, and locked eyes with his father.
"Don't break anything," his dad said, smiling faintly.
"I'll try not to," Keris grinned back.
And then he ran through Bascot's streets, the sun rising behind the silhouette of the great academy ahead.
"This time… I won't let it all slip away."