Chapter 3 - Laying the Foundation

Inside the old dormitory room.

I sat alone on the bed, absently rubbing my cheek where the sting of Iris's slap still lingered.

"…What the hell just happened?"

Was this how Professor Lucas felt when he first saw how much I'd changed?

The Iris I remembered was gentle, warm-hearted. But the one who grabbed me by the collar and cursed me out? She was a stranger.

'There's no way my return could've changed her…'

Then that left only one conclusion.

"To think I spent all that time with her and didn't even really know her."

I let out a bitter chuckle.

Now that I thought about it, Iris was always gentle—until she faced demons or monsters. Then she turned cold, efficient. Brutal, even. I thought it was her devotion as the Saint of the Seven Stars Church.

But maybe it wasn't just faith. Maybe it was her nature.

'Turns out the Saint had fangs, even back then.'

I'd loved her, but maybe that love had blinded me. I'd mistaken tolerance for gentleness, discipline for softness.

Now, I was just another stranger—not even worth her patience.

More than regret, what weighed on me now was a creeping unease.

'What about the others? What will they be like?'

Yuren, Senior Sophia, Iris… We'd all attended the Academy at the same time, but the only one I really knew before graduation was Berald—and even that started because we were both stuck in remedial classes. We didn't become true comrades until much later.

'I should hold off on meeting them.'

Charging in fueled by emotion would only make things worse. Iris had proven that. I needed to rebuild myself first.

I needed to get stronger.

I exhaled deeply and closed my eyes, drawing in mana from my Stigmata.

The result made me grimace.

"It's a mess."

My body was in terrible shape for a Hero Cadet. Upper and lower body strength were out of balance. My core—the most critical part for combat—was underdeveloped. The previous me had worked hard, but blindly, without guidance.

'I'll need to start from scratch. Strength, endurance, conditioning.'

Physical training wouldn't be a problem. I'd trained under Berald after all—grueling, sometimes fatal routines that would've killed an ordinary man. But I always revived.

The real issue…

"…is this pathetic amount of mana."

In my last life, I'd suffered because of my weak mana. But now, it was even worse.

No matter how skilled your swordsmanship is, there's a limit to what technique alone can achieve.

Against someone with overwhelming mana, even a perfectly placed strike would bounce off like a twig snapping against stone.

'Skill doesn't matter if your blade can't pierce their mana barrier.'

There were ways to compensate—dirty tricks, precise counters—but those were last resorts.

And last resorts weren't plans. They were desperation.

"I need more mana."

I sighed again, deeper this time.

For Heroes, mana is grown through breathing techniques tied to their Stigmata—each linked to one of the Seven Gods.

Sun, Moon, Stars, Sky, Earth, Sea… and Forest.

I knew all seven techniques. I'd practiced them endlessly in my past life.

I just… never made progress.

"Still, no harm in trying again. Maybe something's changed."

I sat cross-legged on the bed and began with the Breath of the Forest, linked to my Stigmata.

Then came the Breath of the Sun, Moon, Stars, Sky, Earth, and Sea.

Each breath was slow, controlled. The room felt still, expectant.

"Haaah."

When I finished, I opened my eyes.

Nothing had changed.

"Damn it."

Of course not.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never gather mana through breathing techniques. Not even a sliver. Maybe I lacked talent. Maybe there was some flaw in me from the start.

'Not accumulating any mana at all… even among late bloomers, that's unheard of.'

Elixirs, mystical beasts, divine artifacts—those could raise mana too. But none of them were within reach right now. Not as a cadet under restriction.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

That's when a thought stirred.

"…The Primordial Flame."

An ancient memory rose to the surface.

Back in my past life, I'd uncovered a half-burned scroll from a ruin. It told a different creation story—one rarely shared by the Church.

At the dawn of the world, the Tree of Creation bore Eight Gods.

Seven of them shaped the world:

One made the Sun.

Another, the Moon.

Another, the Stars.

Then the Sky.

The Earth.

The Sea.

The Forest.

But the eighth god defied them all.

This god broke the rules of creation… and forged the first Flame.

The Primordial Flame.

It burned the Tree of Creation to ash—and from those ashes, mana was born.

The breath we use now—the so-called Breath of the Gods—was born not from harmony, but from destruction.

The eighth god became the Demon God.

'And I… I absorbed the last spark of that Flame at the end of my life.'

It hadn't vanished with my return.

But I couldn't feel it. I couldn't control it.

I couldn't even find it.

"…Wait."

When did I last feel it?

My eyes drifted to the sword lying beside the bed.

The same sword that had taken my head yesterday.

"…Tch."

A grimace tugged at my lips. But there was no hesitation as I picked it up.

'I've done this before.'

Death no longer frightened me.

-Slash.

Cold steel bit into my neck.

I felt the blade sever skin and bone. The nauseating sensation of flesh splitting open.

Thud.

Roll.

My head hit the floor.

Then darkness.

…

Wooooong!

A pulse of power.

Light bloomed in my chest.

I inhaled sharply as my vision returned. My head was back on my shoulders. My body whole.

I rubbed my neck. Still sore.

But then—

"Ugh!"

A burning pain surged from my Stigmata, as if a branding iron had been pressed against my heart.

Faint flames flickered across my chest, dancing just on the edge of perception.

The Primordial Flame.

This… this had never happened in my past life.

'So death stirs the Flame…'

I sat still and focused. Breathing slowly. Recalling Senior Sophia's meditation techniques.

Drifting. Anchoring my consciousness to the pulsing heat in my chest.

There.

A spark. Wild and ancient.

I could sense it now—a dormant flame buried deep inside me.

'It's there… but it won't move.'

I tried to guide it. Will it to shift. Burn brighter.

Nothing.

It was like grasping at fire with bare hands. Slippery. Unyielding.

After several minutes, the pain faded. The flame's presence vanished.

"Tsk."

I exhaled and opened my eyes.

Still no control.

But then…

"…Huh?"

Something felt… off.

I reached inward, spreading my mana again.

Small. Almost negligible. But different.

"…My mana increased?"

It was barely perceptible—but the change was there.

A flicker more than before.

I stared at my hands. Then down at the sword.

A hollow laugh escaped my lips.

"So now…"

I shook my head in disbelief.

"My mana increases every time I die?"

Swoosh! — the fall.

Thud. Roll. — the impact.

Vrrrrm. — life returns.

Three days had passed since I locked myself in the dorm, dying and reviving on repeat.

Through trial and error, I made a few discoveries.

First: dying and reviving doesn't grant infinite mana.

Second: after each death, it takes about six hours before I can increase my mana again.

Third: even though I can repeat the process four times a day, the gains eclipse anything I ever achieved with traditional breathing techniques.

"Man, this is insane."

I looked down at the notebook crammed with notes from my suicidal experiments, equal parts proud and disturbed.

The mana deficiency that shackled me in my past life—

Who would've thought I'd solve it by killing myself?

Unconventional doesn't even begin to cover it.

"So, let me get this straight... Wake up. Die. Eat lunch. Die. Eat dinner. Die again. And one final death before bed?"

I stared at the ceiling, sighing.

"Yeah. Totally normal. Nothing psychotic about that."

Damn it. Even I think this is nuts.

"Well, what choice do I have?"

Normal methods don't work for me. If I want to get stronger, I don't have the luxury of sanity.

If Iris were here and saw this, she would've beaten me half to death before the first self-execution. But there's no one left to stop me now.

"...Tsk."

I brushed the thought aside and focused.

I had one major concern about all this — the stigma.

The Primordial Flame was supposed to consume and erase stigmas. Even though mine remained intact after absorbing it, I worried that repeated use of its power might eventually wipe out my blessing of revival.

So far... nothing. The stigma over my left chest was as intact as ever, unmarred and unwavering.

The blessing within it still brought me back, each time as seamlessly as before.

I exhaled a laugh.

'I endured a lifetime trying to escape death... and now I'm relying on it like a drug.'

What a joke.

Still, if the Primordial Flame can't touch the blessing of revival — then this insane method might just carry me beyond anything I ever achieved.

Maybe this time... I'll save the ones I couldn't.

Maybe this time... no one will have to die because I was too weak.

I shut the memory floodgates before they could open.

"Right. Enough reminiscing."

With a foundation built, I needed a weapon. Something powerful — something immediate.

Ancient artifacts, divine blades — they all crossed my mind. But I couldn't get those now, and even if I could, my current level was too low to wield them.

'Something accessible. Dangerous, but usable.'

And then it hit me.

The Stigma Amplifier.

Not technically a weapon, but might as well be.

A potion that drives the stigma berserk, unleashing power far beyond one's limits — at the cost of tearing the body apart.

It was a death sentence for most.

"Good thing I'm hard to kill."

The side effects? Twisted blood vessels. Melted organs. Pain beyond comprehension.

But for someone like me, who could die and come back — it was a shortcut to overwhelming power.

And the best part?

The one who created the Stigma Amplifier lived right here.

Reynald Hero Academy.

The very school I'm attending.

Warrior Department Faculty Office

Professor Lucas glared at me like I was a ticking time bomb.

"You want to meet Professor Jade?"

"Yes."

Jade Bastian — the continent's leading expert in stigma research. And infamously... unstable.

"Why? He's a Magic Department nutjob. No reason for a Warrior Cadet to visit him."

"Career counseling."

Lucas raised a brow. "Career counseling. With Jade."

"Stigma-related research isn't restricted by department, is it?"

Lucas's eyes narrowed like a hawk.

"You know what they call him, right?"

"The Student Slayer?"

"And yet you're still going."

"Isn't that just a rumor?"

Lucas slammed his palm on the desk.

"Two years ago, he bragged about killing a cadet. Oscar. Claimed it was an accident during an experiment. Investigation let him off because he's a damn Bastian."

I shrugged. "Wasn't that also when you punched him at Oscar's grave?"

Lucas coughed. "Ahem. I was young."

"That was two years ago."

"Shut up, brat!"

He launched a kick at me. I twisted my body, avoiding it effortlessly.

Lucas stared at me, predator eyes calculating.

"How the hell did you change overnight?"

"I returned from the future."

"Bullshit."

Honestly? Fair.

"You didn't make some kind of pact with a demon, did you?"

"You know heroes blessed by the Seven Gods' Stigmata can't be corrupted."

Lucas grunted. "In theory."

I didn't correct him. The truth — that heroes can fall — belonged to a future that hadn't arrived yet.

"Fine. No rule against meeting other professors. I'll write you a referral."

"Thank you."

"Go and die or whatever it is you do now."

He scribbled the referral and handed it over.

I turned to leave.

Click.

"...If anything happens, come straight to me."

I paused.

A soft smile tugged at my lips.

'You're not half the brute you pretend to be, Professor.'

Jade Bastian's Laboratory

The lab sat hidden in the farthest corner of campus — so far out that most cadets probably didn't even know it existed.

-Knock, knock.

No answer.

-Knock, knock, knock.

Still nothing.

-Bang, bang, bang.

"Professor Jade. I know you're in there."

The door creaked open. A wave of rot and chemicals flooded out.

Inside was chaos — books, vials, broken glass, dead plants. A scene from a mad alchemist's fever dream.

An old man peered through the crack.

Wrinkled, blotchy skin. White, unkempt hair. A robe so stained it looked diseased.

It was him. Exactly as I remembered.

"Who are you?"

"Dale Han. Third-year, Warrior Department."

"What do you want?"

"I'm interested in your research. Here's a referral from Professor Lucas."

He snatched the paper. His shoulders shook — laughter brewing beneath his ribs.

"Interested in my research?"

"Yes. Particularly the potion that affects the Stigmata."

"Uh, ha, ha, HAHAHAHA!"

The laugh echoed like a beast possessed.

"Do you even know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Heh, heh, heh... and you still came here? You want to join me?"

Drool slipped from his lips. His eyes gleamed with deranged glee.

BANG!

He flung the door open and grabbed my collar.

His voice dropped to a whisper — sharp and trembling with mania.

"You… you'll die. This research will eat you alive."

I didn't blink.

"Good thing I'm hard to kill."

Let the madness begin.