Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Cherry Blossom Regression
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Money, power, fists.
If you ask the losers of the world to choose one, they’ll scramble for the money—the kind they can spend on snacks and momentary comforts right away.
They live for the immediate gratification of a full belly.
Probably kids like our dim-witted Irha; though, to be fair to her, she’s usually doing it for survival, not just gluttony.
Those with a bit of life experience under their belts—the mid-tier folks who have tasted the bitterness of the world—choose power.
They crave the authority that allows them to exploit and torment the rich or the tough guys.
Our hapless Prince Leon or Rizli are prime examples; odds are they’d pick power every single time to stroke their own egos.
And finally, those who have survived the absolute extremes—the true masters of existence—choose fists.
Because an overwhelmingly powerful fist can put both money and power in their place.
Problems that seem unsolvable by words or influence? You just hit them with even more overwhelming, undeniable violence.
That was exactly how I, before my regression, and the woman who was once my master solved our issues.
We spoke the language of the strike.
Having triumphantly wrapped up my momentous first Monday after regressing, I didn't head back to the dorms to rest.
Instead, I found myself in the physical training room.
This spot, usually favored by upperclassmen aiming for knighthood, was stocked with heavy weights and gear for strength training, plus an arena dedicated to sparring and martial techniques.
In my first life, having set my sights on becoming a prestigious mage, I rarely visited this place.
A stray visit to build basic fitness or stretch was the extent of my effort.
Come to think of it, how did I even get through school at this age?
At the academy, I trailed after Rizli like a devoted puppy, but after classes? We hardly spent any time together.
Back then, I wanted to spend every waking hour with her, but she flat-out refused me.
"Just because we're lovers doesn't mean you can neglect yourself. Relationships crumble fast without personal growth. A little longing keeps the fire going," she’d say.
Damn, that bitch sure had a silver tongue.
She’d sprout all this shiny wisdom, then go behind my back to cheat and try to drown me?
It makes my blood boil just remembering it.
What’s worse is that she was spot-on, which pissed me off even more.
Nothing grates on the soul like hearing a universal truth coming from the wrong mouth.
It was true back then, sure—but hearing it from her now just makes me want to slap the taste out of her mouth.
Rizli always took incredible care of herself; she kept her friendships balanced, nailed her studies, her training, and her magic practice.
And she managed to squeeze in an affair on the side. Academy life must have been a dream for her.
The sad part was that her packed schedule had no room for me.
She had drawn a razor-sharp line right next to my hopelessly smitten body and heart.
Still, I tried so hard back then to be a guy she’d be proud of—a cool one, worthy of her beauty.
Ugh... too bad my efforts went in the completely wrong direction.
I got my ass handed to me by losers like Blever every single time.
I glared at my reflection in the locker room mirror.
To get strong—truly strong—you cannot train with a soft heart.
You need a deep well of resentment that never forgets pain and humiliation.
You need the kind of viciousness that repays one hit with twenty.
Add a looming threat to your survival, and bam—you’ve got all the mental fuel required for explosive growth.
Right now, regressing had reset almost all of my old physical achievements.
The mental scars etched into my soul and my vast combat experience remained, but the hardware? The body? It was a mess.
"Ugh, why the hell is this body so damn flabby?" I muttered.
The reflection looked pathetic for someone who supposedly trained.
Muscles, build, aura—I was miles away from a honed warrior's edge.
It made sense for my "wizard-wannabe" phase, I guess.
As the young master of the Etgard Merchant Group, I didn't idolize mages on a whim.
In the Sephiros Empire, adult men got drafted at least once due to the shaky geopolitics—nobles included.
Nobles actually had it worse because of the imperial culture. Even women got called up often.
Unlike commoner girls, noblewomen trained in magic or swordplay.
In that meat grinder, mages stayed in the back; they weren't frontline fodder like knights or warriors. It was a safer spot.
But the cold truth was that I lacked the natural genius for mage mastery.
That demands early training and innate talent.
So when my life tanked and I was cast into the gutters, I rebuilt myself from scratch.
From back-alley sewers to becoming an underworld kingpin, I mastered every dirty survival and killing trick the world had to offer. It toughened me.
Second rock bottom: sold to warzones, then thrown into the Kashimir Kingdom's underground pits—endless fights just to survive hell.
Finally, the greatest witch pulled me out and became my master. Under her, I perfected my art.
Regrettably, her greatest gift—the Eastern Continent's secret martial art—is currently beyond the capabilities of this flabby body.
But as I grow, that ember in my soul and memory will blaze again.
"Ras, you're my dog. Bark and bite for me, my fighting hound. Grow fierce. Even if you tear my nape someday, I'll love you..." she used to say.
Well, I escaped you without sinking my teeth into your neck, Master. I found my freedom.
How feral will I grow this time, being the master of my own soul once more?
High odds say I’ll meet my old owner again. It makes me miss her a bit today.
I shoved the nostalgia aside and started my training.
First up: push-ups. I'd do them until my chest felt like it was on fire.
"Ras... Etgard... Making all that fuss, and then he never showed up, huh?"
Isera Bernstein, Leone Academy's top combat magic professor, was currently in a state of mild irritation.
Human anger divides into five stages across worlds and eras: tiny rage, small rage, medium, big, and extreme.
Isera was currently hovering at "small rage."
The kind that could be eased by a knuckle rap, a sincere apology, or perhaps a snack tribute.
Why was she fuming? She had explicitly told Ras to visit her office today, and the kid had ghosted her.
She had buried herself in paperwork while waiting, and over an hour later, there was still no sign of him.
He’d probably heard her reminder with one ear and let it fly out the other. Or he just forgot.
It was the start of the week, and she was procrastinating her work anyway, so she felt like she’d been personally stiffed.
"I’m definitely going to have to pinch those cheeks of his tomorrow," she muttered, tidying her desk and standing up.
"On the way out, maybe I'll hit the student gym for a workout. It’s been a while."
Lately, she had been using the professors' private gym, but today her blood was pumping. She was craving that student-day vibe.
Ras's moves in the arena today—that raw guts coming from such a soft-looking kid—had stirred something in her.
It was a bold, practical technique. Impressive.
As a slum-born woman herself, she wasn't some rear-guard spell-slinger; she was a frontline tank who clashed with foes head-on.
That’s why Ras’s fight had thrilled her so much. Before today, he was just a solid mage blasting from afar. Nothing special.
Today, he looked like a seasoned brawler.
She had planned to nudge him toward the combat track, but she knew mage-track kids rarely switched—the perks were too good.
And as a rich heir? Ras had no need to chase frontline promotions for glory.
Still, she practiced her pitch as she walked. "Trust and follow me. I'll make you the ultimate warrior. Who am I? Ugh... is that too cringey?"
Ras's talent screamed frontline. It would be a waste to leave him as a mere spell-slinger.
The top-tier combatants were usually the Sephiros royals—"royal cheats" with innate mana quantity and iron bodies.
She taught them both: the rude second-year princess and the cocky first-year prince.
And yet Ras, a commoner-blood pleb, had pulled off the princess's signature anti-mage disruption.
His body looked frail, which made the feat even more mind-boggling.
Ripping spells apart bare-handed was tougher for someone fragile like him than it was for the tanky princess.
"Heh heh... With me coaching that weak body, he'll be a monster," she thought, stoked at the prospect of polishing a raw gem.
She headed into the gym. It was Monday, and the place was hushed and empty from the entrance.
"Tch... Kids these days are lazy. Whatever, suits me fine."
She changed into her workout gear and strode in, her battle-hardened, scar-kissed physique looking stunning in the gym light.
But she wasn't alone. There was one student inside. A familiar nape of a neck...
"Ras?"
He was grunting, pushing his physical limits with a desperate intensity.
Isera smirked, approaching him.
His body was frail, yes, but his form? It was eerily precise.
There were no flaws, even to her nitpicky, professional eye.
Today seemed perfect for coaching her "cute" pupil over some fun training.
The plan to pinch his cheeks tomorrow? It vanished into the ether. Professor Isera was already beginning to enjoy herself.
She had returned.
She couldn't fathom how she had looped back from the very brink of death and returned to the past.
Even the world's greatest witch pondered if it was a twisted fate that had guided her.
What purpose could possibly drive this?
She scanned the small room—familiar, yet alien.
From the vast, sprawling palaces where she sat atop the world, she had known cramped quarters before.
In truth, she’d spent most of her life hopping between hideouts and hovels.
The mirror showed a face she knew all too well.
Sky-blue eyes, snow-white glowing skin, pink-flushed petite lips, and a pert nose.
From any angle, on any day, her beauty was undeniable. And then there was her hair.
A unique shade of pink never seen on another—a deep, vibrant cherry blossom hue that seemed like the embodiment of the blooming fragrance itself.
"How was I back then? Did I wear ponytails? Or this updo?" she murmured, toying with her lustrous, long pink locks.
If she had regressed, then so had he.
Hers, yet a man she had never truly possessed.
A wild man that no spell or bond could ever fully tame.
Her first and last love—the only thing worth more than worlds to her.
"Ras, in this life, you can lose everything else. Without you, nothing else matters."
The greatest archmage under heaven and the Queen of Kashimir, Semele Raupe, had returned to Kashimir.
She had returned to the cherry blossom day, when the spring winds scattered petals—the very same fateful day as her love's return.