Chapter 1: A Second Chance

By October, the northern plains were swallowed in a thick blanket of snow, endless and unforgiving. The sky stretched overhead like a vast white canvas, heavy with the weight of another coming storm.

At the far edge of this frozen desolation, a colossal city stood tall—bold and unyielding—rising like a challenge against the bleak horizon. Its towering walls reached a hundred meters high, thick enough for two heavy-duty trucks to roll side by side along the top without ever brushing shoulders.

Built from reinforced concrete, the wall wasn't just a barrier—it was a statement: we are still here. For miles around, the snow hid a deadly network of induction mines, waiting in silence to explode at the slightest misstep.

Lining the walls, gun barrels protruded like a forest of cold steel, their shadows dancing in the pale light, each one aimed outward with quiet menace. The message was clear—whatever lay beyond the wall, it wasn't welcome here.

Even beneath the surface, the city's defenses ran deep. Tens of meters down, solid concrete formed an unbroken shell, and guarding the only entrance was a colossal alloy gate—hundreds of tons of unyielding metal, sealing Frosthaven like the lid of a fortress tomb.

From sky to soil, this was a city built for war. Every inch bristled with defenses, a steel-clad bastion meant to outlast the end of the world.

It stretched for hundreds of miles—massive, cold, alive—a living testament to humanity's refusal to go quietly. Once known as Anchorage in the old world, the Great Shift had wiped that name from memory. Now, it was Frosthaven. Reborn. Reforged. A last stand against the mutated beasts that prowled the snow-blasted wilds. The final heart of the north, still beating.

In the northern district, Northview High School stood like a quieter fortress within the great one. A sprawling campus that housed thousands, it buzzed with tension. Today was the final class for the seniors, and the halls crackled with nervous energy. In just three days, their graduation exam would begin—the day that would define who they became, and what they were allowed to dream of.

In Classroom 3, the atmosphere was heavy. The teacher, a man whose face bore the quiet scars of a lifetime spent preparing others for battle, stood at the podium. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the familiar faces for what might be the last time.

"This will be the last lesson I ever give you," he said, voice steady but low. "Three days from now, you'll face the graduation exam. Cultural knowledge in the morning. Physical trials in the afternoon."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"That day will write your future in stone. The results will be announced on the spot. The military will be there. So will the major combat academies. Eyes will be watching—deciding if you're worth their time. Whether you rise… or vanish into the crowd… depends on how you face that day."

A beat of silence. Then, softly but firmly, he added, "As your mentor, I can only wish you courage—and a little luck. You'll need both."

The teacher quietly gathered his things, gave the class one last nod, and stepped out. Just like that, school was over.

Students drifted out into the crisp afternoon, but many lingered in the open courtyards and familiar halls, reluctant to leave behind the place that had shaped so much of their lives. Northview wasn't just a school—it was memories. Late-night cramming, whispered secrets, hallway crushes, and dreams too big for the classroom walls.

They weren't ready to say goodbye.

In small groups, they gathered—twos, threes, voices weaving through the cold air. Some talked of parting, others dared to speak of the uncertain road ahead.

"I'm freaking out," one boy admitted, breath fogging in front of him. "Graduation's almost here. I don't wanna go to university—I want to fight. My cultural scores are decent, but my physicals? My punch barely breaks 150 kilos. No academy's gonna take me like that."

"I hit the 200-kilo line," another replied, burying his hands in his coat pockets. "That's second-tier fighter material, but my punch speed's trash. Only 4.5 per second. If I'm lucky, they'll stick me with the mobilizers, hauling ammo and crates."

"There's still hope with 4.5," a third chimed in, giving him a reassuring slap on the shoulder. "If you ace the cultural test and clock a 0.1-second neural response, you might get picked. Worst case, the military's always an option—they train a ton of fighters."

"Yeah, but the military's all about numbers," the second boy grumbled. "Real legends? They come from the academies. Look at Storm Academy—top of the line. Their founder's the Thunder King himself. Strongest fighter alive. I'd give anything to train under someone like that."

"Storm's a pipe dream," the first said with a shake of his head. "Even Ironclad and Apex are out of reach for most of us. If anyone from our class makes it, it'll be Alex Reed, Philip Cole, or maybe David Holt. They're our best shot."

"Alex and Philip, sure," another voice agreed. "But David? I heard he's in deep. Word is, he pissed off Alex over Claire—you know, the school's poster girl. Alex swore he'd crush his chances at any academy."

"No way," someone gasped. "Would the academies really take Alex's side like that?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," came the hushed reply. "Alex's dad sits high up on the Frosthaven Council. He's got serious pull. Unless David absolutely kills it in the exam, the academies might steer clear. Too much trouble."

"Damn," the first boy muttered, his brow furrowed. "David's already skating the line. His scores are just above the cutoff. He can't afford a single mistake." He looked around, puzzled. "Wait, where is he? I saw him earlier."

They followed his gaze.

In the distance, a lone figure moved quickly across the snow-covered yard. David Holt.

His silhouette cut clean through the falling snow, every step sharp and deliberate. And in his eyes—black as night—a fire burned. Not a flicker, not a spark, but a flame that hadn't stirred in years.

He couldn't remember the last time his heart had raced like this, the last time his frail body felt so alive. Though his limbs were weak, his blood surged, molten and fierce, as if every cell in his body thrummed with untapped strength.

Fate had granted him a miracle. At the end of his life, when his body had crumbled and his time had run dry, the universe had intervened.

A black hole's collapse, a storm of shattered space and reversed time, had torn his soul from the void and hurled it back to Earth, to the eve of his high school graduation.

In his last life, David had given everything to the path of a fighter. He trained, bled, and struggled—not just for glory, but for something more personal: to change his fate and give his family a better future.

But the world had never made it easy. His talent wasn't bad, just... unremarkable. And in a realm where talent opened doors, being average was a curse. No powerful backers. No endless resources. Just a commoner clawing his way forward, one bitter inch at a time.

If you had no talent, you could fade into obscurity and live quietly. If you were a genius, you could soar.

But David? He had just enough to dream, and never enough to succeed.

That was the real torment.

He pushed harder than most, endured longer than many prodigies, and made it further than anyone expected. But none of it was enough. In the end, the Great Shift came and went. Earth changed. Humanity left for the stars. And David kept fighting.

He even reached the Astral Realm—a feat that should've been cause for celebration. But up there, in the vast silence of space, the difference between average and great only grew more brutal. He remained at the bottom, a shadow among the bright, blinding stars.

In his final days, as his strength failed and his lifespan dwindled, clarity struck. He'd spent his life being careful—too careful. He'd played it safe, thinking survival was enough. But survival without purpose was just another kind of death.

The path of a fighter was never meant for caution.

It was meant for defiance. For taking risks. For reaching toward the impossible, no matter the cost.

And he hadn't done that. Not really.

If he had the chance again, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd seize every opportunity, claim every treasure, crush every obstacle in his path. He would stop trying to survive—and start trying to rise.

That was the final truth that came to him in the end... too late, or so he thought.

Then the universe answered.

The stars screamed. A black hole ruptured the sky. Time unraveled like thread pulled too tight. And in that chaos, something pulled his soul free.

And when David opened his eyes—really opened them—he was staring at the worn-out ceiling tiles of Northview High's classroom.

He was back.

David Holt, reborn, every memory from his past life intact, had returned to the moment he had prayed for more than anything.

Stepping out of the classroom, David stopped in his tracks. The cold hit him first—a sharp, biting wind that made his skin tingle. Then came the sight: the familiar layout of the campus, the snow-covered paths, the distant chatter of students wrapped in winter coats.

It was all real.

The snow crunched beneath his shoes with every step. He turned his head slowly, soaking it all in—the laughter, the rustling trees, the sound of a bell in the distance. It wasn't a dream. He was really back.

A breath escaped his lips, shaky and filled with something raw.

"My family…" he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "I haven't seen you in so long. I'm here now. I'm home. My love… I'm here."

A storm of memories surged in his chest—failures, regrets, the people he couldn't protect, the choices he never took.

Not this time.

Not in this life.

This time, he would chase every chance, hold onto every bond, and forge a future with his own hands.

Every regret of his past life, every chance he'd let slip away, he would seize in this one. This time, he would not fail.