Thirty-One Lifetimes
I woke up standing in a grand corridor lined with watercolor paintings, holding something heavy in my hands.
A silver tray bearing a plate of steak and a glass of water.
Before I could even process where I was or shake off my daze, a furious voice barked from behind, ordering me to hurry up and take the young master his meal. I truly had no idea what was happening. My mind was a total blank.
Without thinking, I glanced down—and caught sight of two heavy mounds of flesh clinging to my chest.
"...Huh?"
Twelve years. That was how long I lasted after tumbling into this world before dying for the first time.
Waking up in an unfamiliar realm trapped inside a woman's body was bewildering enough, but my immediate circumstances were pure chaos on top of it. I spent the first three months scrambling just to learn my duties and keep my head above water. From day one, a massive scandal had rocked the estate, and I knew nothing—not the layout of the mansion, not the responsibilities of the maid I had possessed, nothing. There was a mountain of information to memorize: floor plans, daily chores, and the names and faces of every resident under the roof.
Because I constantly fumbled around looking clueless, I was scolded repeatedly and had to swallow my fair share of petty tyranny from the family's young aristocrat. Still, it was bearable enough. At least it wasn't a total gutter existence, and I took comfort in that. The folks outside these walls worked sixteen grueling hours a day in soot-choked factories only to earn a fraction of what I made comfortably here, so who was I to complain? Whenever I ventured into the streets to buy groceries, a single glance toward the Back Alleys served as a stark reminder.
This other world I had transmigrated into felt like the Industrial Revolution retrofitted with magic and fantasy elements. After about ten years of living as an ordinary estate maid, strange rumors began to swirl. Two years after those whispers started, the world came to an end. It happened so fast it was hollow.
And then, I was thrown right back to the beginning.
What on earth was I supposed to do now?
Back at the start once again.
In the previous loop, being familiar with my daily duties bought me a modest amount of free time. I used it to study the fundamentals of magic and look into the strange rumors that had circulated just before the apocalypse. But right in the middle of my investigation, I died.
Someone murdered me.
Most likely the masterminds behind the world's destruction. They dragged me into a dark alley, muttered something about an annoying fly buzzing behind them, and slit my throat. That taught me an undeniable lesson: snooping around those rumors out in the open was a death sentence.
I didn't know if this regression would repeat forever, but surely preventing the apocalypse would put an end to it. That was usually how novels went—drag you into another body, grant you an absurd power, and leave you to stop the end of the world. I resolved to build up my strength first while quietly gathering information. Since open investigation meant certain death, and since I seemingly had infinite attempts anyway, there was no reason to go stirring up trouble right off the bat.
I spent my days training my magic and reading the newspapers with utmost care. Sure enough, with me staying out of the way, the same strange rumors began circulating around the tenth year. It turned out I had a respectable talent for magic, allowing me to attain considerable power. At that point, taking on fixer contracts in the slums proved far more lucrative than domestic service, so I had already resigned from the estate halfway through.
With that power, I resumed my investigation—
And died within a single month.
I was slaughtered without even putting up a fight.
Was standing among the elite fixers of the Back Alleys still not enough? Then again, why would an organization capable of annihilating the entire world bat an eye at a petty slum mercenary? The wall before me felt so insurmountable that I couldn't even summon disappointment. And here I thought I had been careful.
This time, I resolved to focus even harder on amassing raw strength. And while I was at it, sift out people I could genuinely trust.
I was scouted by the Magic Tower.
The mage who recruited me showered me with praise, hailing me as an unprecedented prodigy whose internal mana stability and delicate control were astonishing for my rank. In truth, I was only adept because I had already walked that exact path before, but either way, the Magic Tower did wonders for my growth. Receiving intensive private tutoring from mages far greater than myself caused my abilities to blossom rapidly.
Hope seemed to be on the horizon.
At least, until I slammed headfirst into the wall.
Twelve years.
Twelve years was far too short. Just reclaiming the 5th Circle—the peak I had previously achieved—took a full four years. Condensing mana circles takes an eternity even when started in childhood when the body is malleable. Attempting to forge them under the wretched handicap of an adult body with fully settled mana pathways felt like scaling a sheer cliff.
My mentor at the Magic Tower tried to comfort me, insisting my progress was miraculous for someone who started as an adult. But with a strict twelve-year time limit hanging over my head, that miracle was agonizingly sluggish. By the tenth year, I finally broke through to the 6th Circle and became the youngest Elder in the tower's history, yet I felt not an ounce of joy.
I had to find a way to grow stronger, faster. No matter what it took.
Two years after ascending to the 6th Circle, the world met its scheduled destruction.
I had no idea what to do anymore. No matter how many relationships I cultivated, how many circles I constructed, or what heights I attained, everything snapped right back to square one. A crushing sense of futility hollowed me out. For now, I suppose I will head back to the Magic Tower.
I found a fantastic method.
Whether it truly qualifies as "good" is debatable, but it is undeniably what I was looking for. Chervil, a toxic mana herb saturated with virulent magic. Inhaling its acrid smoke throws bodily mana circulation into complete disarray. In that destabilized state, condensing mana circles becomes exponentially easier.
Naturally, there is a minor drawback: it wrecks your body and violently shaves away your lifespan. But who cares? I'm living on a twelve-year death clock anyway.
I struck a match and touched the flame to the dried herb packed inside my wooden pipe.
I died while forming a circle.
Because internal mana becomes so violently unstable, the slightest slip in control proves instantly fatal. Even so, this cycle was a resounding success. I poured every coin saved from maid duties straight into toxic herbs, reclaimed the 3rd Circle, and took on fixer contracts to fund the rest. Through that shortcut, I rebuilt the 5th Circle in just a single year.
My health took a catastrophic hit, but it was well within tolerable limits. Finally, a glimmer of real hope seemed within reach.
"Haah... gh... ugh..."
God. I want to vomit. It's sickening. It hurts so much.
In the last loop, they took me alive. Instead of slaughtering me on the spot like before, they dragged me off, murmuring that I would make a splendid test subject. I need suicide poison. Something fast, lethal, and instantaneous.
My mind was half-frayed, so I prioritized buying lethal poison over mana herbs—even though there wasn't a single threat anywhere near me yet. Because of that detour, reclaiming the 3rd Circle took a bit longer. Once at the 3rd Circle, working as a fixer rakes in money far faster than dusting furniture. With practiced steps, I strode into the Back Alleys.
The moment I crossed the threshold, a rough hand grabbed my ankle. It was a derelict sitting by the entrance who squandered whatever pennies he begged on cheap streetwalkers.
"Down on your luck, sweetheart? How 'bout a quick roll over there?"
Words I had heard from him several times across past lives. Impoverished women from the factories frequently drifted into the slums when their wages ran dry. In the past, I would have understood his wretched sort and simply brushed past him...
When I finally came to my senses, I was sitting inside a cold iron cell.
I blew an entire lifetime rotting in prison because I couldn't control my temper. Yet the universe handed me another chance anyway. Perhaps it would have been better to perish blissfully ignorant alongside the rest of the world during that very first apocalypse.
God, this is infuriating. Should I just slaughter them all?
My perspective had been far too narrow. If I possess infinite retries, why not infiltrate enemy territory first to uncover their master plan and identify the key players? To think I hadn't realized that sooner.
The criminal underworld was a convoluted labyrinth, yet even there, faint threads connected back to them. How ironic that living as a wanted fugitive proved more useful than all those cycles spent sweating through honest labor. If I keep chipping away, won't I eventually tear them down from the inside out?
I gave up. I can't do this anymore.
The enemy is perched far too high in the heavens. There is no earthly way I can pull this off alone. If only I had more time, maybe, but twelve years is far too fleeting. It is far too short to earn someone's absolute, unshakable trust; too short to cultivate overwhelming personal might; and far too short to dismantle a grand design carefully orchestrated over four decades.
My talent is middling. I have aptitude, sure, but stacked against the monstrous prodigies dwelling above the clouds, it's laughably mediocre. I have no charisma to rally and command followers, nor the silver tongue to charm strangers into allies. Mentally, I've reached my absolute breaking point. I was just an ordinary citizen back home. I have no idea how many more lifetimes I'm supposed to endure.
If they wanted me to stop the apocalypse so badly, the least they could have done was hand me some ridiculously broken cheat skill. Wait... did anyone actually tell me to save this world? Do I even need to stop it? I'll just loop back to the start anyway, won't I?
Why am I breaking my back living through such misery?
In the last loop, I scraped together just enough money to eat and drink until the apocalypse, living like an absolute bum. Armed with knowledge hoarded across dozens of regressions and a competent grasp of magic, coasting comfortably through twelve years was remarkably easy. With a massive labor surplus keeping wages dirt cheap, hiring domestic servants to cater to my every whim made life thoroughly effortless. I plan on doing the exact same thing this time.
The only real downside is the complete absence of entertainment. No television, no internet, no modern media whatsoever. The plays staged in local theaters fail to stir even a flicker of excitement. Top-billed dramas, traveling circuses—all dull as dishwater.
Just lying around inside my room.
Eating. Sleeping. Eating. Sleeping. Eating. Sleeping.
A numbing lethargy sets in. I just don't want to do anything anymore.
"Aria! Hurry up and take the young master his meal!"
"Understood."
Back here again. Deliver the food, quit a few days later, run a few fixer jobs for quick cash, then shut myself away in a rented room. Fast ways to make easy money—in my recent lifetimes, concocting schemes like that was practically the only productive thought crossing my mind.
In this gray metropolis, money is everything. Just drawing breath amidst the thick, rolling smog costs a small fortune. With rural laborers flooding into the city chasing work, rent has soared to astronomical heights, while the dwindling farming population means produce prices are far from cheap either. Meanwhile, outside the wealthy districts, basic sanitation is an absolute horror. In a filthy, crime-ridden city like this, obsessing over financial security and just enough personal power to keep yourself safe is only natural.
I climbed the stairs toward the room on the second floor. When I open the door, he'll tell me to leave the tray on the desk. Then I just set it down and walk out. Having witnessed this exact sequence over thirty times, the entire scene played out in my mind before it even happened.
I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside, standing before the full-length mirror and hard at work pinching his own cheeks, the young master turned to look at me.
"W-Who... are you...?"
Something had changed.