The second time Duke Theron woke up on the day of his execution, he didn't waste time on panic. Panic was for the first loop. This time, he had a plan.
His eyes opened with cold clarity. There was no gasp, no frantic check of his neck. He simply sat up, the silk sheets pooling around his waist, and focused on the space in front of him. The familiar blue box shimmered into view.
**[SYSTEM STATUS]**
**Current Loop: 2**
**Time Remaining: 23 Hours, 47 Minutes**
**Save Slots Used: 1/3 (Auto-Save)**
He dismissed the interface with a thought. 8:00 AM. Exactly where he had loaded from. His mind was already a whirlwind of analysis, dissecting the previous failure with the detached precision of a project manager reviewing a failed launch.
*Conclusion one: Running is a fool's gambit.* The timeline had accelerated, the guards arriving an hour earlier than the game's script dictated. Something—or someone—was reacting to his changes. He couldn't outrun a world that could bend its own rules to catch him.
*Conclusion two: Sir Gareth is loyal to a fault.* That loyalty was a powerful tool, but it was also a fatal liability. Gareth had died for him once already, a brutal, pointless death that had left a surprisingly bitter taste of guilt in his mouth. He couldn't let that happen again.
*Conclusion three: The root problem isn't the arrest, it's the evidence.*
"In the game, they find poisoned wine bottles in my study at 10 AM," he murmured, his voice a low, determined whisper. "If I destroy the evidence before then…"
He swung his legs out of bed, moving with a newfound purpose. He ignored the lavish robes laid out by his servants and instead pulled on a simple black tunic and sturdy trousers—practical clothes for a man with work to do.
The inevitable knock came at the door. "My Lord, the morning council…"
"I'm not attending," Duke cut the servant off, his tone sharp and final. "Tell them I'm ill. And do not disturb me again."
There was a surprised silence from the other side of the door, then a faint, "As you wish, my Lord."
He was already moving, his mind fixed on his destination: the study. This time, he wouldn't run from the script. He would tear the page out before anyone had a chance to read it.
***
Duke's private study was a sanctuary of dark wood and leather-bound books. A large, imposing desk sat before a cold fireplace, the entire room steeped in the scent of old paper and sealing wax. Using the memories inherited from the original Duke Theron, he walked directly to a bookshelf filled with historical texts. He ran his fingers along the spines of the third row, pressing a specific volume—*The Conquests of King Theron I*—which clicked inward, causing a section of the wall to slide open with a quiet groan.
Inside the hidden compartment sat three ornate wine bottles. The glass was dark, almost black, but he could just make out the faint, sinister shimmer of a dark purple liquid within. The evidence.
He stared at them, a flicker of confusion clouding his focus. He accessed the original Duke's memories again, pushing past the arrogance and paranoia, searching for the truth of this moment. And he found it.
*He did it.*
The realization was a cold shock. This wasn't a frame-up. The original Duke Theron, consumed by ambition and fear of being marginalized by the Hero's rising influence, had actually poisoned the wine intended for the king.
"The original Duke was actually guilty," he breathed, a strange mix of disgust and detachment washing over him. For a moment, the moral weight of his actions settled on him. He was about to cover up a genuine act of treason, an attempt on the king's life.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away. "Doesn't matter. I'm not him anymore. I'm just trying to survive."
He reached in to grab the bottles, his fingers closing around the cool glass. He would take them to the manor's furnace, a place hot enough to melt glass and secrets into nothingness.
"My Lord… are those—"
Duke froze, spinning around. Sir Gareth stood in the study's doorway, his expression unreadable. He had entered as silently as a shadow. His eyes were fixed on the bottles in Duke's hands.
Duke's mind raced. Did Gareth know? Was his loyalty about to be tested?
Gareth's gaze flickered from the bottles to Duke's face, and his expression softened into one of deep concern. "My Lord, if the Royal Inspectors find those during their search…"
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. *Gareth knows.* He didn't just suspect; he knew what they were and had been protecting the secret all along. The knight's loyalty ran deeper and darker than he had ever imagined. He wasn't just a bodyguard; he was an accomplice.
The revelation changed everything. This wasn't just an NPC with a "loyalty" stat. This was a man who had made a conscious, dangerous choice.
Duke made a split-second decision. There was no time for explanations. "Gareth, help me dispose of these. Now. No questions."
Gareth hesitated for only a heartbeat, his internal conflict visible in the tightening of his jaw. Then, he gave a firm, resolute nod. "The furnace in the lower level. It burns hot enough to destroy glass and leave no trace."
***
They moved through the manor's back corridors, Duke carrying the three bottles carefully wrapped in a thick burlap sack. The urgency was a physical pressure, a weight on his chest. They had less than an hour, by his calculation, before the search was scheduled to begin.
They were halfway to the lower levels when the sound of heavy, frantic knocking echoed from the main hall. It wasn't a polite summons; it was a demand. A moment later, a terrified servant came sprinting down the corridor, his face pale.
"My Lord! Royal Inspectors are here! They have a warrant to search the entire premises!"
Duke's heart plummeted into his stomach. "No…" he whispered, the word catching in his throat. "They're not supposed to be here until 10 AM. It's only 9:15!"
The timeline was fighting back again, harder and faster.
"The back stairs, quickly!" Gareth hissed, already changing direction.
They rushed through a labyrinth of servant's passages, but the sounds of armored footsteps were everywhere. The manor was being systematically surrounded and infiltrated. They burst back out into a main hallway only to find their path blocked. They were forced to double back, their only route leading them directly toward Duke's study.
As they rounded the corner, Duke saw them. The study door was wide open. Inside, a cold, bureaucratic man with thinning hair and merciless eyes was directing four Royal Guards as they began to pull books from shelves. The lead Inspector.
He turned as they approached, his gaze landing on Duke with a look of mild, predatory satisfaction. "Duke Theron. How convenient. We have received credible reports of treasonous materials being housed on these premises."
Duke forced his voice to remain steady, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Reports? From whom?"
"That information is confidential," the Inspector replied coolly. "Now, if you and your man would be so good as to stand aside while we conduct our search."
Duke's mind was a maelstrom. The evidence, the very thing they were searching for, was in the sack Gareth was holding, mere feet away from the Inspector. It was a trap, and he had walked right into it.
One of the guards, a brutish man with a scarred lip, pointed a thick finger at Gareth. "You there. What's in the sack?"
***
The guard took a menacing step forward. "Open the sack. Now."
Gareth's hand shifted, his thumb brushing the hilt of his sword. He looked to Duke, his eyes asking a single, silent question: *Give the order.*
Duke's options flashed through his mind, each one a path to failure.
*Option 1: Fight.* Gareth was skilled, but it was two of them against five trained guards in a confined space. They would be overwhelmed. Gareth would die. He would be captured.
*Option 2: Surrender.* They would find the bottles. The evidence would be undeniable. He would be executed.
*Option 3: Bluff.*
He chose the only path that offered even a sliver of a chance. "Careful with that," Duke said, his voice laced with an arrogance he didn't feel. "Those are rare vintage wines from the southern provinces. Family heirlooms. Surely your warrant doesn't extend to confiscating my private collection?"
The Inspector's eyes narrowed into slits. He studied Duke for a long moment, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips. "A fine story, my Lord. Then you won't mind if we verify their contents."
He gestured, and the brutish guard snatched the sack from Gareth's grasp before the knight could react. Duke's facade began to crack, a cold dread seeping into his bones. It was over.
The Inspector pulled one of the dark bottles from the sack, holding it up to the light. "It does seem a bit… dark for a southern vintage." He turned to one of the other guards. "Fetch the taster."
A few minutes later, a trembling young servant was brought into the room. The Inspector uncorked the bottle and poured a tiny amount into a silver cup. "Your duty to the crown," he said simply.
The boy, shaking, took the cup and downed the liquid in a single, terrified gulp. For a second, nothing happened. Then, his eyes went wide. A choked, gurgling sound escaped his throat as he clawed at his neck. He collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing as foam frothed at his lips.
Chaos erupted.
"Duke Theron, you are under arrest for attempted regicide and the murder of a royal servant!" the Inspector bellowed.
Guards lunged, grabbing Duke's arms and binding them behind his back.
"Unhand my Lord!" Gareth roared, his sword finally free of its scabbard. He moved like a whirlwind of steel, cutting down the brutish guard in a single, brutal strike.
But it was hopeless. A spear shaft slammed into his side, making him grunt in pain. Another guard engaged him head-on while a third circled around. Duke watched, helpless, as a spear was thrust through Gareth's back, the tip emerging from his chest in a gout of crimson.
Gareth fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor. His eyes found Duke's, filled not with anger, but with apology. "My Lord… I'm sorry… I failed…" He collapsed onto the polished wood, his blood pooling around him like a dark halo.
"Gareth!" Duke screamed, his voice raw with a guilt that was sharp and real. He was dragged from the room, the image of his loyal knight's lifeless body burned into his mind.
***
He was back in the same cold, damp cell. This time, however, there was no panic. Only a cold, simmering rage and the bitter taste of failure. He sat on the stone floor, the darkness a comforting blanket, and he analyzed.
"Two loops. Two failures," he muttered to the shadows. "Different approaches, same result."
Running didn't work. Hiding the evidence didn't work. The timeline wasn't just a script; it was an intelligent, adaptive adversary. Someone was pulling strings, accelerating events the moment he tried to deviate.
"The game's script isn't just strong," he concluded, his frustration mounting. "Someone is rewriting it specifically to counter me."
The psychological toll was beginning to set in. The memory of Gareth's dying apology, the sight of the taster choking on the floor—these weren't pixels on a screen. They were real, and they were his fault.
He heard the soft scuff of shoes on stone. He looked up, expecting Elias. But the figure that approached the bars was smaller, shrouded in a dark, veiled cloak.
"Duke?" a soft, trembling voice asked.
Lady Seraphina Ashford. His childhood friend. The memories he'd inherited from Duke Theron were filled with her—shared laughter in the palace gardens, whispered secrets during boring galas.
She lifted her veil, her eyes red and swollen from crying. "Theron… is it true? Did you really…?" She couldn't finish the sentence.
The genuine pain in her eyes was a physical blow. He saw himself through her eyes: a monster, a traitor, a murderer.
"Does it matter?" he answered, his voice hollow and bitter. "I'm dead either way."
"It matters to me!" she cried, her hands gripping the cold iron bars. "I thought… I thought I knew you. The boy I grew up with… he would never do this."
He had no answer for her. He wasn't that boy. He was a stranger wearing her friend's face, a man guilty of crimes he hadn't personally committed but was paying for nonetheless. After a few more moments of painful, choked silence, she lowered her veil and fled, her quiet sobs echoing down the corridor.
He was alone again, the weight of her sorrow added to his own. He was beginning to understand. He couldn't just survive. He had to change the entire narrative.
***
The heavy tread of armored boots announced the final visitor. It was Elias, his expression as righteous and unpitying as it had been on the execution platform.
"Your execution is in one hour, Duke Theron. Make your peace."
Duke didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on the blue screen only he could see.
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]**
**Time Remaining Until Death: 47 Minutes**
**Quest: [SURVIVE THE FIRST DAY]**
**Status: FAILING**
**Attempts: 2**
**Deaths: 2**
**Hint: The definition of insanity is trying the same thing twice and expecting different results. Perhaps it's time to try something… unexpected.**
He read the hint, and a dark, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "Unexpected? Fine." His mind began to churn, moving past the simple goals of running or hiding. "If I can't avoid the execution… maybe I shouldn't try to." The thought was insane, but it sparked something in his mind. *What if the execution itself is the key?*
The guards were coming. He didn't have time to finish the thought. He mentally selected [LOAD SAVE POINT].
The world dissolved.
He woke in his bed for the third time. The morning light, the silk sheets, the distant sounds of the manor waking up—it was all achingly familiar. But this time, he didn't move. He stared at the ornate canopy above his bed, his mind racing.
Then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
"They want to execute Duke Theron?" he whispered to the empty room. "Fine. Let's give them a show they'll never forget."
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]**
**Save Point Loaded Successfully.**
**Time Remaining: 23 Hours, 47 Minutes**
**Attempts: 3**
**New Option Unlocked: [Manual Save]**
**You may now create custom Save Points at any moment.**
**Use wisely.**
Duke sat up, his eyes gleaming with a new, wild light. He opened the System interface, his intent sharp and clear. For the first time, he wasn't relying on an automatic function. He was taking control.
**[SAVE POINT CREATED]**
**Name: "The Third Attempt - 08:00 AM"**
**Slots Used: 2/3**
He closed his eyes, the plan—insane, audacious, and utterly unexpected—beginning to take shape.
"Let's see how much I can break this script."