A fire seared through Tristan's lungs, a raw, blistering agony that tore him from oblivion. But no air came. His chest convulsed, his body screaming for oxygen, yet only the faintest, shallowest breaths escaped.
Too weak.
Too little.
His ribs ached with the effort, but it wasn’t enough—it was at this moment he learned what drowning in open air felt like.
"He's not breathing!"
A cluster of frantic voices filled the room.
"Check again!"
"His chest isn’t moving!"
"Oh gods, we’re doomed—"
"Move! Someone do something!"
"Does anyone actually know how to do CPR?"
"I know how!" a boy declared confidently. "First, tilt young master's head back like this—"
A rough hand jerked his head back.
There was a pause.
"Wait. Or was it forward?"
A collective gasp.
"You fool!" another voice hissed. "If you snap young master's neck, we're all dead!"
Oh, great. he wasn’t just dying—he was at the mercy of a group medical emergency led by morons.
"Okay, okay! It was definitely backward. Definitely. Then we push on his chest—"
Before he could even process what was happening, hands pressed down on his chest. Hard.
PAIN jolted through him as something inside shifted. His lungs reacted, forced into movement, contracting against the pressure, dragging out the air even as he still felt like he was suffocating.
What the hell?! Was this what CPR felt like?
One… two… three… four…
The boy counted under his breath, his palms pushing down methodically. "Thirty compressions, then two breaths,"
Wait. Two breaths?
"Alright, time for air!"
Oh, hell no—
If that bastard even thought about blowing air into him, Tristan is going to resurrect just to strangle him.
"Wait!" A horrified girl interrupted. "A girl should do it!"
Silence. The boy spluttered. "What?! Why?!"
Phew. At least someone here had a brain. She deserved a raise.
"Because the young master will be angry if a boy kisses him!"
"I would gladly do it!" A girl sounded.
"Me too! Anything for the young master!"
"So you think you’re better than me?!" the first one snapped.
"Obviously! I’ve got the softest lips here!"
"Ha! Your lips are as dry as the desert!"
"At least I don’t breathe like a horse!"
A boy snorted. "Or maybe he'd be angry if an ugly one did."
"Ugly?! Who are you calling ugly?"
"Just saying, if you go for it, he might wake up just to scream."
His fingers twitched—slight, barely there, but desperate. Something within him clawed back to the surface. Oh, for the love of—just pick someone and let me live!
"I—he think he twitched!"
"That’s just his body settling—keep pressing!"
"Can we pick before he actually dies?!"
"Then who?" The room went dead silent.
A dull, burning ache curled in his chest before his lungs lurched on their own, dragging in the air like a man surfacing from deep waters. Cold and sudden. His ribs shuddered with the effort.
"The prettiest girl should do it!" someone declared.
The room went dead silent again. Then a boy muttered, "Damn it, our prettiest is about to be sacrificed..."
"Wait! He's breathing!"
"Are you sure?"
"I saw his chest move!"
"Oh, thank the gods—"
"Wait, no! What if that was just a reflex?! People do that when they’re about to die, right?"
"You absolute idiot, that means he's alive!"
"Oh. Well. Then… should we still do the breath part?"
"You just want to kiss him!"
"I do not!"
"Then why are you leaning forward?!"
"I WASN’T—"
"Liar! Let me do it!"
"Oh for the love of—HE’S ALREADY BREATHING!"
He groaned. Instantly, gasps filled the air.
"He's awake!"
A stampede of relieved cheers erupted.
He cracked his eyes open. The world swam, blurred light and shadow, then resolved into the shape of anxious faces hovering over him.
Young servents. Maids.
And a cluster of nervous boys who looked particularly relieved that their crush didn’t have to perform the so-called ‘kiss of life.’
He exhaled weakly.
Idiots.
His entire body ached, his ribs protesting even the shallowest breaths. Every limb felt like lead, weighed down by exhaustion, but the fog in his mind was clearing rapidly.
“Help me up.”
The voice that came out wasn’t mine.
Too smooth. Too young.
No, wait. His breath hitched. His chest tightened—not from pain, but from realization.
He knew this voice.
He had heard it before. Long ago.
His heart pounded in his ears as he forced his gaze downward, towards his hands.
Small. Slim. Not the ink-stained hands of a librarian who had spent countless nights poring over the royal library.
No smudged fingertips. No scent of old parchment.
Even the old battle scars from his warrior days were gone.
Just pale, unblemished skin.
Too young.
Too familiar.
He felt the blood drain from his face. His fingers twitched, testing the reality before him, but the truth was undeniable.
He wasn’t just alive.
He had regressed.
Is it a dream?
That was the first thought that popped into his head, but then he remembered the suffocating burn in his lungs when he almost drowned—when his body had screamed for air, but the world had given him none.
"Young Master, are you alright?"
He barely had time to process it before hands reached for him. Several pairs, of trembling, hesitant—servants rushed to obey.
"Be careful!" a girl yelped. "His body is still weak!"
"Someone bring a pillow!"
"Here!"
A soft cushion was placed behind his back as gentle hands guided his upright. He gritted his teeth against the ache but said nothing.
"Young Master," a maid whispered, kneeling beside me. Her voice trembled. "You… you were not breathing. We thought you had—"
Died?
He did.
But he couldn’t say that.
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. His mind was catching up, piecing things together. This wasn’t the day he had died. Hell, he couldn't even remember how he died.
"Young Master?"
He opened his eyes again. The servants were still watching him, their faces tight with anxiety.
He exhaled. “I’m fine.”
They didn’t look convinced.
"Should we call the physician?"
"Or the head maid? She should know—"
"What about the Butler Kael? He’ll want to—"
“No.” His voice was quiet, but firm. The murmuring stopped instantly. That was one of the names that he least wanted to hear. Not after the last betrayal which nailed his destroyed future.
Right. That was another thing.
They feared me.
Of course, they did. He—no, I—had been difficult. Short-tempered. Harsh. A spoiled young noble who had wasted his privilege.
Before everything had been taken.
Before when he had been exiled.
But that wasn’t who he was anymore.
Not this time.
He flexed his fingers once more, feeling the warmth of life in them, the steady beat of a heart that had long since stopped.
A second chance.
He wasn’t about to waste it.
The room was silent, save for the rustling of fabric as the servants fidgeted nervously. He could feel their unease, the way they stole glances at each other, unsure whether to speak.
It made sense.
The last time someone had dropped a spoon, he had lashed out. Thrown things. Screamed at them for their incompetence.
That was the old me. The me that was dealing with severe stress when he was exiled.
He exhaled, slow and measured, before shifting against the pillow they had placed behind his back. His body was weak, every movement an effort, but he had been through worse.
Far worse.
His gaze sweeped across the faces in the room.
Some were familiar. Others… less so. But that was expected. This was before everything had gone to hell. Before the betrayals.
Before the apocalypse.
His stomach twisted. How far back have I gone?
"Young Master… should we fetch Butler Kael?"
He tensed.
No. Not yet.
Not until he knew exactly when he was.
"Later," he said, keeping his voice even. "Not now."
The maid who had asked flinched, bowing her head quickly. "Of course, Young Master."
They were scared.
He could use that.
No—he would not be that person again.
Not this time. They were young. Newly employed in this backwater province.
Instead, he sighed and lifted a hand to his temple. "I need water," he murmured.
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There was a pause. Then—
"Water! Someone get water!"
A flurry of movement erupted. Two maids nearly tripped over each other in their rush to fetch a pitcher. A boy darted forward with a goblet, hands trembling as he poured.
Tristan took it carefully, noting the way the boy flinched when his fingers brushed his.
That, too, made sense.
The old me would have thrown the cup if the water was too cold.
He raised it to his lips, let the cool liquid soothe his parched throat, and handed it back without comment.
The boy blinked, as if he had expected worse.
Good. Let them be confused.
He glanced down at his hands again.
They were still unfamiliar. Too smooth, too small.
But he could feel the strength within me. Dormant. Waiting.
The weight of his past—my future—settled onto his shoulders.
he had been given another chance.
A chance to change everything.
A chance to survive.
No.
A chance to win.
But first…
he needed to remember exactly when he was.
And who his enemies were.
Because if he had learned one thing in his last life, it was this—
They would not wait for me to be ready.
He inhaled deeply, steadying his thoughts. Everything felt wrong—or rather, too right.
No pain. No stiffness. No lingering wounds or exhaustion. His body was young, free from the scars of apocalypse, untouched by the burden of years.
It was impossible.
Yet here he was.
He needed time to think. To breathe. And he couldn’t do that with a dozen anxious servants hovering over him like he might keel over at any second.
"Leave."
The room fell into a stunned silence.
The servants exchanged uneasy glances, hesitant. One maid stepped forward cautiously. "Young Master, are you—"
"Now."
That snapped them into motion. They scrambled, bowing hastily as they rushed toward the exit. Some nearly tripped over each other in their eagerness to escape.
One boy hesitated at the door. "Sh-should we fetch the physician—"
"No one is to disturb me." His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it made them flinch. "If anyone asks, tell them it was a prank."
They gawked at me.
"A... prank?" one girl echoed, baffled.
Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Is there a problem?"
"N-No, Young Master!" She bowed so fast her forehead nearly smacked the floor.
"Then go."
They fled.
The door shut behind them with a muted click.
Finally. Silence.
He exhaled, running a hand down his face.
Think.
He didn’t know when he had died.
Or how.
All he knew was...
Was...
His last moment—hazy, distorted—drifting just beyond his grasp. A dimly lit chamber. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax. The distant crackle of a dying hearth.
And her.
The Puppet Empress.
We had been in the royal library. Alone.
Not that kind of alone. He was the head librarian. Aged even with the enhancement from the system because of the overuse of his lifeblood.
Something about regrets.
Something about chances.
A chance to relive?
A chance to do it all again?
He exhaled sharply. The memory skittered away like smoke through his fingers.
But oh, he had many regrets.
Too many.
The weight of them settled onto his shoulders like a familiar cloak. The battles he had lost. The comrades he had failed. The betrayals he had never seen coming until the knives had already pierced his back.
The people he couldn’t save.
A second chance.
Was that what this was? Had she done this?
But how...? Had I really returned to the past? The idea was absurd, impossible, yet... here he was.
Or was this something else entirely?
He pressed a hand against his forehead. It didn’t matter—not yet. The why could wait.
Right now, he needed to confirm when he was.
And what had changed?
Because whether this was a blessing, a trick, or a curse—one truth remained.
He was alive.
And he wasn’t going to waste it.
After thinking it through, he focused on his present situation. Silken canopy drapes, the deep gleam of mahogany carved with impossible detail, and the cloying sweet smell of expensive incense – none of it familiar.
He pushed himself up, the plush mattress sinking beneath him like a quicksand of feathers.
Cool, smooth sheets pooled around his waist as he sat on the impossibly soft bed. Like liquid silver, moonlight spilled through an arched window, painting the room in shades of shadow and light.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. His lungs expanded without the familiar twinge of strain, his breathing was remarkably easy, the earlier burn already nowhere to be found.
He flexed his fingers and wrists, rotating his shoulders in a smooth, fluid motion. The aches that usually plagued his joints, the stiffness that greeted him each morning, were gone.
He felt... lighter, more agile, a stark contrast to the weariness that usually clung to him like a second skin due to his old age.
If this was the past, then... He concentrated, focusing his will, attempting to summon the familiar glow—the blue, semi-transparent interface that had been his constant companion, his lifeline.
Nothing.
He waited. Still nothing.
No. No, that’s not possible.
The absence of it sent a wave of cold panic crashing through him. What in the abyss was happening?
DING!
He froze.
That sound—
A sharp, metallic DING thundered through his skull—a sound he hadn't heard in... well, ever.
Not the soft ding of a level-up. Not the crisp chime of a quest alert.
No.
This was different.
Deeper.
Colder.
It was followed by a chilling system window in his vision, stark and red against the backdrop of the opulent room.
?? WARNING: BUG DETECTED...
Tristan's breath hitched.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against his suddenly fragile bones.
Bug detected. The phrase echoed in his mind, each syllable a death knell.
He knew what that meant. He'd seen it happen, witnessed the devastating consequences firsthand.
‘A bug can only be used once.’ That was the golden rule drilled into every person from the moment they logged in.
All systems had them – glitches, exploits, loopholes in the fabric of reality itself due to System Integration.
Flaws hidden deep in the code, waiting for the ambitious, the reckless, or the desperate to exploit them.
Some had tried. Some had succeeded. And all had paid the price.
Like the infamous Ghost of Galado, who'd discovered a bug that allowed him to duplicate items in the marketplace. He’d amassed a kingdom’s worth of wealth overnight—until the system admins caught on and patched the exploit, leaving a trail of the angry mob in his wake. And a system debt with ten times the penalty.
Or the tragic case of Seraphina the Swift, who'd found a way to manipulate the time flow within a dungeon, only to become trapped in an endless loop until the System Evolution rewrote the laws of time itself.
The world had bugs too. Rare. Well-hidden. And swiftly eradicated. But the consequences of triggering one... those were often irreversible.
Sometimes a person might gain a temporary advantage, a boost in stats, or a rare item. But there was always a price to pay. A backlash, a karmic debt that would come due, often with devastating consequences.
BUG FIXING ROUTINE INITIATED...
Bug Details: Datetime Insynchronization.
Future Datetime Detected.
A cold sweat broke out on Tristan's forehead.
Future Datetime?
He stared at the words, his mind reeling. “Was I really… reborn?” His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
The system didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
CORRECTING USER DATA...
Lines of indecipherable code scrolled across his vision, running faster than he could track. Tristan crossed his fingers and waited, his breath caught in his chest.
INITIALIZING TERMINATION PROCESS
A brutal finality settled over him.
Termination.
That meant death.
Again.
His stomach plummeted, a hollow abyss swallowing his insides.
No. No, this can’t be it.
He had barely arrived. Had barely drawn his first breath in this second life, and already—already—he was being erased like a clerical error?
Before he could even understand what the hell was happening?
The sheer absurdity of it nearly made him laugh.
So this is it? After all this time? After everything… I die again?
He slumped back against the pillows, the earlier panic dimming into a cold, quiet numbness.
But then—
FAILED: INSUFFICIENT SYSTEM AUTHORITY; COULD NOT TERMINATE USER.
Tristan blinked.
What?
The system—couldn’t—terminate him?
For a moment, he could hardly believe his luck.
Why?
Then, like a slow-moving landslide, realization hit.
The world—Earth—was already broken. Fifty years ago, a hundred beings had fought to stop System Integration. And they had succeeded— partially.
Instead of a clean transition, reality had fractured. The apocalypse—true Integration—had been delayed by twenty years.
The result? Monsters spilling into reality before the system was ready. Technology frozen in stagnation. Dungeons appearing in inhibited areas, their governing laws incomplete.
ALERT
THE AGENT ./SYSTEM SX13c54h/ REPORTED AN ERROR 401 AND IS ACTIVELY TRYING TO TERMINATE ./PERSONAL SYSTEM 1HCpXwx2EK9oYluWbacgeCnFcLf/
DO YOU WANT TO GRANT IT ACCESS?
YES / NO
But one thing was clear.
It was asking for permission to erase him.
A cold laugh bubbled in his throat.
It really think I’d agree to my own execution?
His hand shot out, slamming against NO with a force that sent a jolt of pain through his aching body.
The system blinked.
Then—
The alert appeared again.
And again.
And again.
What the—?
The same message flashed across his vision in a maddening loop, cycling over and over, demanding his submission.
Tristan grit his teeth, each click of NO chipping away at his patience, his frustration mounting like a pressure valve about to burst.
Fifty times.
Seventy.
Ninety.
One hundred.
And then—
The screen changed.
ERROR CATCHING ROUTINE STARTED.
CORRECTING DATETIME DATA.
DO YOU WANT TO GRANT THE AGENT ./SYSTEM SX13c54h/ ACCESS TO CHANGE DATETIME DATA? YES / NO
Tristan hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then, with a scowl, he hit NO again.
Nice try.
He had some inkling what this agent was trying to do, but he wasn't about to grant it any more power.
But the system was relentless. The alert popped up again, flickering insistently in the dimly lit room. Even after a hundred times.
Tristan's fingers twitched, hovering over the NO button once more, but something gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.
What if this was just some security protocol? What if it was a failsafe? What if refusing to fix the datetime bug was only making things worse?
He had already sidestepped the termination hurdle. And denying the system might go wrong.
His pulse thundered against his temples, nerves stretched to their limit.
This loop—this back-and-forth of defiance and system overrides—was wearing him down. He couldn’t keep going like this.
With a frustrated growl, he slammed his hand against YES.
Fine. Have it your way.
DATETIME CHANGE FINISHED;
BUG FIXING ROUTINE TERMINATED;
RESUMING OPERATION;
And just like that—
The screens vanished.
The glowing red warnings, the suffocating tension, the oppressive feeling of being one keystroke away from oblivion—gone, like a nightmare dissolving at dawn.
Tristan lay there, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline.
He was alive.
Alive.
For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, waiting for another alert, another trap, another cruel twist.
Nothing came.
The tension inside him—coiled so tight it felt like steel wires in his gut—snapped.
A shaky, breathless chuckle escaped his lips. Then another. And then—
Laughter.
Loud, uninhibited, borderline hysterical laughter.
It burst out of him in waves, echoing through the vast, opulent room, filling the silence with something raw and wild. His shoulders shook, tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he didn’t even care.
He had done it.
He had survived.
He was in the past.
He had an entirely new life ahead of him.
The sheer, absurd ridiculousness of it all hit him like a punch to the gut, and he laughed even harder, his voice ringing off the polished marble and velvet drapes.
This was real. This was happening.
He was Tristan Von Astar, not a broken relic of a dying world.
And this time—this time—he wouldn't waste it.
A sudden knock at the door made him freeze.
The laughter died in his throat.
A soft, hesitant voice followed. “Young Master, is everything alright?”
Tristan winced.
Shit.
In his victorious mental breakdown, he’d completely forgotten that he wasn’t alone in this house.
Quickly, he wiped at his eyes, struggling to compose himself. Dignity, damn it.
"Yes!" he called out, voice still laced with the remnants of laughter. "Just... a bit of excitement!"
Excitement?
Hell, if the maid knew he had just narrowly avoided system-wide deletion, she’d probably faint on the spot.
A pause. Then, the maid giggled softly. “The Young Master has much to celebrate! Your engagement to the most beautiful lady is wonderful news for the city.”
Tristan's breath caught.
His what?
Engagement?
His veins turned to ice.
The words hit him like a brick wall, an immediate, sinking weight in his chest.
The maid was still talking—something about admiration, the luck of the city, the joy of the household—but her voice faded into a dull, distant buzz.
Engaged? Who the hell was I engaged to?
His memory—his precious, supposedly perfect memory—was blank.
No, not blank. Blurry.
Like trying to remember a dream that had been lost to the morning light.
That period of his life—before he had acquired [ Eidetic Memory ]—was a fragmented mess of half-formed recollections and fleeting emotions. Faces without names. Events without clear context.
He clenched his jaw, trying to grasp at the elusive threads, but it was useless.
And before he could make sense of it—
SYSTEM UPDATE DETECTED…
A new status screen flashed before his eyes.
Name: Tristan Von Astar
Level: 0
Class: ---
Race: [G] Human
Titles: Chrononaut
Abnormal Status: Locked System Functions - Stats, Skills. Awaiting User Awakening.
Authority: 1572
Nexus Coins: 0