There was no pain.
No scream.
No final breath.
Just—
Darkness.
The last thing Muhan Lockhart saw…
…was a hand.
Not human.
Not divine in the way stories described.
Something beyond both.
A god.
It rose lazily, as if brushing dust from existence.
Effortless.
Uninterested.
"Mortals… are such a bother."
The voice did not echo.
It replaced sound.
For a moment—
Reality forgot what silence was.
Around him, the dungeon had already begun to distort.
The sky fractured—not shattered, but incorrect.
The ground lost meaning beneath his feet.
Pressure descended—not on his body—
—but on the idea that he could resist.
The Divine Realm.
They weren't supposed to be here.
That much was certain.
Mi-cha.
Vibe.
Ji-hoon.
He saw them.
Frozen.
Not by force— But by something far worse.
Understanding.
Their minds had reached something they were never meant to comprehend—
And broke.
The gods did not even look at them properly.
"We descend soon anyway."
"Handle them."
A command.
Not cruel.
Not angry.
Just—Irrelevant
Then—
One stepped forward.
A "low-tier god."
Not the strongest.
Not the highest.
Not even worth remembering.
And yet—
Muhan understood.
This alone—
Was enough to end him.
Something deep within him screamed.
Not instinct.
Not fear.
A truth.
Run.
Fight.
Protect—
Impossible.
The god did not chant.
Did not move.
Did not even acknowledge their existence.
It simply looked.
And—
Something went wrong.
For a fraction of a second—
Muhan felt it.
Not death.
Absence.
As if reality had already decided he was no longer part of it—
And was correcting the mistake.
The world went black.
No explosion.
No resistance.
No end.
Just—
Erasure.
…
...
...…
Silence.
Muhan drifted.
No body.
No thought.
No time.
But something remained.
Something that should not.
Then—
[System Notification]
Red Origin… is watching.
The words did not appear.
They existed.
Already there.
As if they had always been part of him.
Then—
A presence.
Not approaching.
Not emerging.
Revealing itself.
It had always been there.
Before the gods.
Before existence.
Before the idea that something could begin.
And it spoke.
"I'll give you… one more chance, boy."
The voice was quiet.
Reality bent to listen.
"Don't waste it."
For the first time—
Muhan felt something.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Resolve.
And beneath it—
Something else.
A faint, unbearable sensation—
Like something far greater…
Was now aware of him.
Then—
Everything shattered.
Light tore through nothingness.
Time folded inward.
Causality twisted—
And snapped.
— Regression —
Golden light poured through stained glass.
Warm.
Soft.
Gentle.
Wrong.
Footsteps echoed across polished marble floors.
Small.
Measured.
Too measured.
A three-year-old boy walked through the halls of Wysteria Academy.
Black hair.
Straight posture.
Aether-blue eyes dim beneath lowered lashes.
But those eyes—
Were not new.
They carried weight.
Memory.
Contradiction.
Muhan Lockhart had returned.
Damn this regression.
The thought surfaced—
Then shifted.
Damn this—
He paused.
Why did that feel… wrong?
He continued walking.
Around him, voices filled the hall.
Students whispered.
Girls laughed.
Teachers observed.
"Kyahhh!! He's adorable!"
"Those eyes…!"
Noise.
But something about it—
Felt delayed.
The laughter came— A fraction too late.
Muhan's gaze flickered.
No.
He suppressed it.
The dungeon.
The gods.
Mi-cha—
His steps did not falter.
But for a moment—
The world overlapped.
The hallway—
Collapsed.
Mi-cha stood before him—
Bleeding.
Her arm—
Gone.
"…Muhan…"
—
He blinked.
She wasn't there.
The hallway was normal.
Students were laughing.
His breathing did not change.
But something inside him—
Shifted.
Aether surged.
Wild.
Violent.
Unstable.
The air trembled—
Then stilled.
Suppressed.
Buried.
Not yet.
At the top of the stairs— Someone was watching.
Professor Su-ho.
Her gaze narrowed.
Not at his appearance.
Not at his aura.
At the contradiction.
"…What is that child…?"
Her instincts screamed.
Not danger.
Something worse.
Wrongness.
She descended slowly.
"Girls," she said calmly, "he's not a toy."
But her eyes never left him.
Not once.
She knelt.
Smiled gently.
"I'm Professor Su-ho. I'll be guiding you—"
Muhan looked at her.
And something broke.
Not in him.
In her.
For a moment—
She couldn't breathe.
Not because of power.
But because—
Those eyes had already accepted death.
"…I see," she whispered.
She didn't.
"Come. Your class awaits."
He followed.
Silently.
But inside—
Thoughts moved.
Fast.
Precise.
The gods.
The Divine Realm.
The low-tier existence that erased him.
And the voice.
One more chance.
The classroom doors opened.
Students turned.
The world resumed.
And then—
He saw her.
Mi-cha Lawson.
Alive.
Untouched.
Seated near the front.
Elegant.
Calm.
Smiling at him.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she had never died.
As if—
He was the only one who remembered.
Something moved in his chest.
His Aether flickered.
Her eyes widened.
A connection.
Unseen.
Unspoken.
…You're alive.
He said nothing.
She stood.
"…Hi… I'm Mi-cha Lawson."
Her hand extended.
For a moment—
Muhan saw it again.
That same hand—
Gone.
Blood spilling into nothingness.
"…Muhan…"
—
He walked past her.
Not indifference.
Restraint.
Because if he stopped—
If he spoke—
If he allowed even a fragment of memory to exist outside himself—
This fragile world—
Might correct itself again.
He sat at the back.
Silent.
Watching the sunlight.
But something was wrong.
The light flickered.
Once.
Then again—
Before the first flicker had happened.
He closed his eyes.
Low-tier god…
His gaze darkened.
Next time—
The air dropped.
Subtle.
Unnoticed.
Except—
Mi-cha froze.
Her hand still half-raised.
"…Why…?"
Her voice trembled.
"…does it feel like I just lost you?"
Silence.
"…He ignored me…?"
Muhan didn't turn.
But his eyes—
Softened.
Just slightly.
And somewhere—
Far beyond perception—
Something pulsed.