The Weight of Regret
Edwin Roenhart, the master of the Roenhart family and Ilia's father, called out to his daughter in a heavy, authoritative voice.
His attitude showed not even a speck of courtesy. It overlapped with the image of a certain someone—his son, the scoundrel.
"Father, that's...!"
Ilia wanted to pour out all her resentment and injustice to her father right then and there. But if he learned the truth, her mother, Merry, would...
While Ilia hesitated, Merry smoothly changed the subject.
At her words, Edwin frowned. If there was one thing at the academy that could cause stress, only one name came to mind.
"Ah, no, it's not..."
It was true, but the nuance was entirely different. What Ilia felt toward Aren was guilt, not resentment.
At her reaction, Edwin shook his head.
A deep sigh escaped him, laced with thick contempt. It was the calm, irritated attitude of someone who had expected exactly this.
Ilia hurriedly tried to explain.
"That's not it, Father..."
"It's just..."
Ilia knew this moment was critical. It was the only chance to restore the honor of Aren, which she had worked so hard to ruin. If she gained the family's support and her father's backing, she could clear all the misunderstandings and insults. He could come back.
But.
Come back? Back to that time...?
If Aren returned to the 'bright' version of himself from before, could she truly go back to that time as well? Could she stand by his side again, smiling...?
Disgusting.
The words she had heard earlier refused to leave her mind. They stuck like nails driven deep into her chest, impossible to shake off.
"......No. I misspoke."
In the end, Ilia said nothing. It was the same as back then. When Aren had trusted her and supported her. When he had gathered others to clear up the misunderstanding. She muttered the same thought she had held at the time.
It's not my fault...
After all, she had only done as she was told. She had tried to stop it. She had tried to help. In the end, it had all fallen apart, but she had at least made the effort.
I didn't do anything wrong.
On that day when they had gathered the people who had been closest to Aren, Ilia had delivered a new revelation that completely destroyed his life. Just like then, she chose not to act and avoided it once again.
......
Unlike the faint noises from outside, the room was deathly silent. Lying blankly on the bed and staring at the ceiling, time passed surprisingly quickly.
When I closed my eyes, the events of that time suddenly resurfaced. Familiar faces forcibly dragged out forgotten memories.
How did it all start again?
It began, yes, with a tiny little game.
A medieval-style fantasy game. This open-world title forced players to confront various incidents and accidents within the academy. It featured a wide array of charming main and supporting characters, along with countless DLCs. Of course, it was criticized for being too messy and complicated, but among minor games, it belonged to the fairly major category.
One day, I woke up without warning inside the body of 'Aren'.
After that, things flowed like a typical 'scoundrel' novel. I wasn't exactly a veteran, but I had a decent grasp of the game's knowledge. I discovered hidden pieces, cleared them step by step, and built connections with friends who would become the main cast in the future.
The problem started at the beginning of the second semester of the first year.
I still don't know who spread it, but Aren's past spread throughout the entire academy. The fact that he had acted like a scoundrel within the family. Since I had been quite famous in the department at the time, it caused an even bigger uproar.
Afterward, everything unfolded exactly as if scripted, tearing me down one piece at a time.
The past year hadn't been spent simply rotting away in my room. I had tried to explain myself multiple times. It was embarrassing, but I had even appealed to emotions in desperation.
But none of it worked.
My explanations only twisted the rumors further into something even stranger. The 'achievements' I had built at the academy were handed over to others. Some even circulated as rumors that I had orchestrated them as self-staged plays.
Now, people no longer listened to me. No one believed me. No one comforted me. Not my friends, not my fiancée, not even my family.
Loneliness and self-loathing. Resentment toward the being that had sent me here. Even murderous intent toward the original Aren, whom I wanted to kill.
Carrying all those negative emotions, I stared at the slowly rotting core of my heart and opened my eyes.
"...Where did I put the magic grass?"
I wanted a cigarette. No, I wanted to smoke magic grass. My body felt quite stiff from lying down all day. I forced myself up.
As I rummaged around looking for the magic grass, someone knocked.
Knock, knock—
Before the door even opened, a bright and cheerful voice rang out.
"......"
Outdated, archaic proselytizing. If I thought of it as primitive medieval times, it made sense.
More importantly, a theology club? Did something like that even exist?
I tried to recall the 'game' knowledge that had long been painted over in black. Maybe it was because I had smoked so much magic grass, but I couldn't even remember properly.
In this world, there was indeed an entity called holy power, but the actual existence of gods remained largely a mystery. For example, the Magic Tower described it as primitive healing magic derived from ancient spells. Most academy students were nobles, so their faith in gods wasn't particularly strong. Joining a theology club wouldn't bring any networking or financial benefits anyway.
It was useless—nothing but commentary and debates on scriptures. Prayer was a meaningless waste of time with no productivity. It was something I hated most.
But.
A voice full of anticipation came from outside. How long had it been since someone had relied on me? The mere fact that they were speaking to me felt like a miracle.
Now I see why people fall for cults.
Mentally weak people instinctively seek something to lean on. Because I wanted to prove that I still had some use. Because I wanted to feel like I was still a human being worth living for.
I knew it was a terribly wrong and uncharacteristic choice, yet I couldn't stop myself.
Creak—
I grabbed the doorknob. What I was grasping wasn't hope. That had disappeared long ago. I simply needed something to replace the familiar magic grass.
Anyway, I'm leaving the academy soon. One day won't matter.
I opened the door. There stood an unfamiliar woman. Or perhaps, a familiar one.
***
Beautiful white hair. Features so perfect they seemed sculpted by a god himself. The woman, whose appearance bordered on inhuman, looked at me with round eyes.
"Does the club have any grade restrictions?"
The moment she saw my face, a spasm of panic crossed hers. Well, I was used to that kind of treatment.
"If it's uncomfortable, I won't force myself to join."
I didn't know about anything else, but getting on the bad side of the woman before me wouldn't end well. She was far more familiar to me from the game than from reality.
The Saint. Cecilia.
She was one year below the game's protagonist and possessed such immense holy power that it was believed God had personally blessed her. Combined with her innate benevolence, she was rapidly building her position as a saint within the Holy Order. In the future, she would become the protagonist's companion, but she carried the tragic heroine narrative that never continued after the 'ending'.
There's nothing good about getting on her bad side.
My interest had flickered for a moment, but there was no benefit in getting close to someone like her. As I tried to close the door again, Cecilia suddenly grabbed my arm.
"......?"
"......Did God say it was okay to lie?"
What nonsense. I clicked my tongue and pushed her away. Unable to resist my strength, Cecilia was lightly thrown back.
Thud.
"Ouch..."
Anyway, the woman in front of me already knew I was a scoundrel, so she would probably just ignore me and move on. As I tried to close the door again, leaving her fallen on the ground—
An unpleasant voice rang out from a distance. The game's protagonist, and the person who had pushed me the hardest once I became a 'scoundrel'.
"......"
Righteous. Hot-blooded. Hardworking. A commoner. If you stitched together every clichéd, forced setting, you would end up with the person before me. As if prepared in advance, she appeared like an advertisement for being the protagonist of her world.
Her short black hair fluttered with a healthy sheen. Her clear, glaring eyes sparkled with vitality. The petite girl raised her sword and pointed it at me.
The protagonist of this world. The Hero.
Teodora.
"Were you watching the whole time?"
It was such perfect timing that the question genuinely crossed my mind.