Four years.
That's how long it took… for absolutely nothing to change.
The cold wind moved through the pine trees, silent as ever. A lone figure stood in the clearing, swinging his sword again and again. The same motion. Perfect. Repeated. Relentless. His grip never slipped. His breathing never broke rhythm. Each strike carried the weight of twenty years of practice—engraved deep into his body.
And yet… the sword held no soul.
He was still just… ordinary.
Ryu Hanjun. Twenty-six years old. Son of a forgotten warrior. Born without blessing or legacy.
No divine lineage. No brilliant aura. Just raw perseverance.
He started training at six.
By sixteen, he still wasn't first-rate.
By twenty-six, he could handle thugs… but not true masters.
And today, like every other day, he stood on the weathered soil of Cloud Ridge Dojo, breath heavy beneath the fading orange light.
"That's enough, Hanjun," Master Baek said, arms crossed. "You're overdoing it. Again."
"I'm still too weak," Hanjun replied quietly, wiping sweat from his brow. "I need to keep going."
The old man sighed. "You've trained like this for twenty years. There's no shame in finding another path."
Hanjun didn't argue. He just bowed, sheathed his sword, and walked away toward the dorms.
Same as always.
He had no idea… it would be the last time he lived that life.
---
That Night
Dinner was plain. Meditation was quiet. Hanjun lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His sword, wrapped in cloth, rested beside him.
"I'll push harder tomorrow…"
His eyes closed.
---
The Morning That Changed Everything
The sun rose the same way. Birds chirped the same tune.
But something felt… off.
On the path to the training field, he saw his friends—Seok Dajin and Min Jooha—laughing under the willow tree.
He paused.
They looked younger.
"Hey," he called out, squinting. "Did you two cut your hair or something? You look like you're twenty-two again."
They looked at each other, confused.
"…We are twenty-two," Min said, staring at him like he'd lost it.
Seok laughed. "What's wrong with you, Hanjun? Did you hit your head yesterday?"
His stomach turned. He looked down at his hands.
Thinner. Less worn. His calluses weren't as deep. His body felt… lighter?
He broke into a sprint.
---
He Ran to the Training Grounds
Everything looked familiar.
But not quite. The statues were clean again. The north tower hadn't collapsed yet. The archery range—still under construction.
This wasn't just memory.
This was the past.
Heart racing, he grabbed a training sword from the rack. Its surface caught the sunlight—and his reflection.
Younger. Exactly as he'd looked four years ago.
"…This has to be a dream," he whispered.
He slapped himself. Pinched his arm. Held his breath. Even hit his leg with the blunt side of the sword.
Still there. Still real.
The days blurred by. Everyone acted like nothing had changed.
But Hanjun knew the truth.
He had gone back.
---
And So, He Trained. Again.
But this time, he trained with purpose.
Smarter. Sharper. He remembered what had worked—and what hadn't. He knew when to rest, what forms to skip, who to fight, and when to walk away.
He hunted faster. Broke through limits that once held him back for years.
He reached first-rate before turning twenty-six.
But then… it happened again.
He went to sleep—
And woke up… four years earlier. Again.
Age twenty-two.
---
The Eternal Regress Had Begun
He screamed. He wept. Then he trained. Again. And again.
Every time, he changed his approach. Tried a different path. Fought stronger foes. Made riskier choices.
And every time—four years later—he'd return.
Back to the beginning.
Over and over.
A hundred million times.