Rain fell hard that morning—relentless, cold, and grey.
Rowan Mercer didn't mind. His hoodie was soaked, his sneakers squeaked with each step, and his bag sagged under the weight of both textbooks and untouched dreams. His part-time shift started in twenty minutes, and his coding project was still only half-finished. But that was fine. That was life. His life, anyway.
He was 27 years old. A nobody.
An average university student, juggling courses, freelance code gigs, and late-night ramen. His only escape was fiction—specifically, Chrono Sovereign, a sprawling high fantasy webnovel that had, over a decade, evolved into a full-fledged MMORPG. It wasn't just a game or a book anymore. It was a world. A beautiful one.
One he wished he could live in.
He knew the story by heart—the rise of the orphaned prodigy Aeren Valenhardt, the fall of kingdoms, the birth of Sovereigns. The rich lore, the tragic heroines, the impossible odds. He devoured every update like gospel, grinding in-game just to brush shoulders with legendary NPCs, poring over fan theory threads at 3 A.M. It was an escape. His only one.
He stepped onto the crosswalk.
The light was red.
He never saw the car.
—
Rowan awoke to sunlight filtering through a rustic ceiling. A quiet breeze rustled linen curtains. The scent of bread and morning dew filled the air.
He blinked. His body felt… different. Smaller. Lighter. Younger.
There was a woman humming in the kitchen. A man chopping firewood outside. Siblings arguing down the hall. The warmth of a family home he didn't recognize.
Then came the name:
"Keris!".
They called him Keris.
A boy of seventeen, living in a quiet town called Bascot—nestled not far from a prestigious academy known across the continent: Cradia Arcona.
Rowan's breath caught in his throat.
It was real. The names. The places. The academy. This was Chrono Sovereign.
He had transmigrated.
But the euphoria quickly soured.
He wasn't the protagonist. Not a hidden villain. Not even a named side character. He flipped through his memories—this body's memories—and came up empty. Keris didn't exist in the story. He was an extra. A nobody.
And worse—he had no cheats. No status screen. No "system loading" in his vision. No inventory. No overpowered gift from the gods.
Just a quiet body. And a quiet life.
Still, Rowan tried.
He wanted to see the story unfold. If he couldn't be a main character, he could at least witness them.
So he applied to Cradia Arcona.
The entrance exam was brutal—four tests:
Historical Knowledge: Essays on the world's great wars, sovereign treaties, and fallen gods.
Magical Aptitude: Attunement tests with arcane stones—his flickered once.
Ki Resonance: Measured in raw pulse output—his didn't even register.
Combat Evaluation: A simulated dungeon trial—he barely made it out conscious.
Out of 647 applicants, Keris ranked 600th.
But he passed.
Just barely.
—
The next four years were unforgettable.
Not because he shined—he didn't.
But because he watched.
He watched Aeren Valenhardt rise from obscurity.
Watched the three heroines—each broken in their own way—find meaning in battle, purpose in pain.
Watched the rivals clash and grow stronger.
Watched history rewrite itself in real time.
It was everything he'd dreamed of…
And none of it belonged to him.
—
After graduating, Keris drifted.
He went home, worked in his father's bar. Then tried adventuring—but only ever took D-rank requests. Fought goblins. Gathered slime cores. Almost died more times than he could count. After ten years, he gave up.
Then came mercenary work—brutal, dehumanizing, and far from glorious. He killed. He aged. He lost sleep. And when it became too much, he left that life behind too.
Eventually, he bought a farm with what little savings he had. A modest stretch of land where he grew herbs, vegetables, and lived a simple life.
The years dragged on. His joints ached. His back hurt. His dreams dulled.
At 81, Keris was alone in his home, coughing blood into cloth napkins, tended to occasionally by kind children from the nearby village who owed their meals to his land.
He wondered, sometimes, where Aeren was now. Probably in the final arcs—maybe fighting the Fallen Sovereign. Maybe saving the world. Maybe already dead.
He wished he could have seen the ending.
He wished a lot of things.
That he had talent.
That he mattered.
That this world—this second life—had meant something.
But as his vision dimmed, his heart slowed, and silence swallowed the corners of his lonely room…
Rowan Mercer—Keris—died.
—-
Then… he breathed.
Gasped.
Sat upright.
Sunlight again.
Same ceiling.
Same smell of bread and dew.
His hands—young, smooth. The calendar on the wall—dated the exact day he first transmigrated.
He stumbled to the window. Outside: the streets of Bascot, bustling just as they had before. And in the distance, standing proud as ever—
Cradia Arcona.
Keris stared. Disbelieving. Terrified. Hopeful.
He remembered everything.
And in that moment, as the noise of the world rushed back in, he understood one thing with perfect, terrible clarity:
"I've gone back in time. Have I Regressed?"