Ember Reborn: The Flame That Defied Fate Chapter 3: Laying the Foundation - 3

Inside the old dormitory room.

I sat alone on the bed, absently rubbing my cheek where the sting of Iris’s slap still lingered.

"...What the hell just happened?"

Was this how Professor Lucas felt when he first saw how much I’d changed?

The Iris I rembered was gentle, warm-hearted. But the one who grabbed by the collar and cursed out? She was a stranger.

’There’s no way my return could’ve changed her...’

Then that left only one conclusion.

"To think I spent all that ti with her and didn’t even really know her."

I let out a bitter chuckle.

Now that I thought about it, Iris was always gentle—until she faced demons or monsters. Then she turned cold, efficient. Brutal, even. I thought it was her devotion as the Saint of the Seven Stars Church.

But maybe it wasn’t just faith. Maybe it was her nature.

’Turns out the Saint had fangs, even back then.’

I’d loved her, but maybe that love had blinded . I’d mistaken tolerance for gentleness, discipline for softness.

Now, I was just another stranger—not even worth her patience.

More than regret, what weighed on now was a creeping unease.

’What about the others? What will they be like?’

Yuren, Senior Sophia, Iris... We’d all attended the Academy at the sa ti, but the only one I really knew before graduation was Berald—and even that started because we were both stuck in redial classes. We didn’t beco true comrades until much later.

’I should hold off on eting them.’

Charging in fueled by emotion would only make things worse. Iris had proven that. I needed to rebuild myself first.

I needed to get stronger.

I exhaled deeply and closed my eyes, drawing in mana from my Stigmata.

The result made grimace.

"It’s a ss."

My body was in terrible shape for a Hero Cadet. Upper and lower body strength were out of balance. My core—the most critical part for combat—was underdeveloped. The previous had worked hard, but blindly, without guidance.

’I’ll need to start from scratch. Strength, endurance, conditioning.’

Physical training wouldn’t be a problem. I’d trained under Berald after all—grueling, sotis fatal routines that would’ve killed an ordinary man. But I always revived.

The real issue...

"...is this pathetic amount of mana."

In my last life, I’d suffered because of my weak mana. But now, it was even worse.

No matter how skilled your swordsmanship is, there’s a limit to what technique alone can achieve.

Against soone with overwhelming mana, even a perfectly placed strike would bounce off like a twig snapping against stone.

’Skill doesn’t matter if your blade can’t pierce their mana barrier.’

There were ways to compensate—dirty tricks, precise counters—but those were last resorts.

And last resorts weren’t plans. They were desperation.

"I need more mana."

I sighed again, deeper this ti.

For Heroes, mana is grown through breathing techniques tied to their Stigmata—each linked to one of the Seven Gods.

Sun, Moon, Stars, Sky, Earth, Sea... and Forest.

I knew all seven techniques. I’d practiced them endlessly in my past life.

I just... never made progress.

"Still, no harm in trying again. Maybe sothing’s changed."

I sat cross-legged on the bed and began with the Breath of the Forest, linked to my Stigmata.

Then ca the Breath of the Sun, Moon, Stars, Sky, Earth, and Sea.

Each breath was slow, controlled. The room felt still, expectant.

"Haaah."

When I finished, I opened my eyes.

Nothing had changed.

"Damn it."

Of course not.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never gather mana through breathing techniques. Not even a sliver. Maybe I lacked talent. Maybe there was so flaw in from the start.

’Not accumulating any mana at all... even among late bloors, that’s unheard of.’

Elixirs, mystical beasts, divine artifacts—those could raise mana too. But none of them were within reach right now. Not as a cadet under restriction.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

That’s when a thought stirred.

"...The Primordial Fla."

An ancient mory rose to the surface.

Back in my past life, I’d uncovered a half-burned scroll from a ruin. It told a different creation story—one rarely shared by the Church.

At the dawn of the world, the Tree of Creation bore Eight Gods.

Seven of them shaped the world:

One made the Sun.

Another, the Moon.

Another, the Stars.

Then the Sky.

The Earth.

The Sea.

The Forest.

But the eighth god defied them all.

This god broke the rules of creation... and forged the first Fla.

The Primordial Fla.

It burned the Tree of Creation to ash—and from those ashes, mana was born.

The breath we use now—the so-called Breath of the Gods—was born not from harmony, but from destruction.

The eighth god beca the Demon God.

’And I... I absorbed the last spark of that Fla at the end of my life.’

It hadn’t vanished with my return.

But I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t control it.

I couldn’t even find it.

"...Wait."

When did I last feel it?

My eyes drifted to the sword lying beside the bed.

The sa sword that had taken my head yesterday.

"...Tch."

A grimace tugged at my lips. But there was no hesitation as I picked it up.

’I’ve done this before.’

Death no longer frightened .

-Slash.

Cold steel bit into my neck.

I felt the blade sever skin and bone. The nauseating sensation of flesh splitting open.

Thud.

Roll.

My head hit the floor.

Then darkness.

...

Wooooong!

A pulse of power.

Light blood in my chest.

I inhaled sharply as my vision returned. My head was back on my shoulders. My body whole.

I rubbed my neck. Still sore.

But then—

"Ugh!"

A burning pain surged from my Stigmata, as if a branding iron had been pressed against my heart.

Faint flas flickered across my chest, dancing just on the edge of perception.

The Primordial Fla.

This... this had never happened in my past life.

’So death stirs the Fla...’

I sat still and focused. Breathing slowly. Recalling Senior Sophia’s ditation techniques.

Drifting. Anchoring my consciousness to the pulsing heat in my chest.

There.

A spark. Wild and ancient.

I could sense it now—a dormant fla buried deep inside .

’It’s there... but it won’t move.’

I tried to guide it. Will it to shift. Burn brighter.

Nothing.

It was like grasping at fire with bare hands. Slippery. Unyielding.

After several minutes, the pain faded. The fla’s presence vanished.

"Tsk."

I exhaled and opened my eyes.

Still no control.

But then...

"...Huh?"

Sothing felt... off.

I reached inward, spreading my mana again.

Small. Almost negligible. But different.

"...My mana increased?"

It was barely perceptible—but the change was there.

A flicker more than before.

I stared at my hands. Then down at the sword.

A hollow laugh escaped my lips.

"So now..."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"My mana increases every ti I die?"

Swoosh! — the fall.

Thud. Roll. — the impact.

Vrrrrm. — life returns.

Three days had passed since I locked myself in the dorm, dying and reviving on repeat.

Through trial and error, I made a few discoveries.

First: dying and reviving doesn’t grant infinite mana.

Second: after each death, it takes about six hours before I can increase my mana again.

Third: even though I can repeat the process four tis a day, the gains eclipse anything I ever achieved with traditional breathing techniques.

"Man, this is insane."

I looked down at the notebook cramd with notes from my suicidal experints, equal parts proud and disturbed.

The mana deficiency that shackled in my past life—

Who would’ve thought I’d solve it by killing myself?

Unconventional doesn’t even begin to cover it.

"So, let get this straight... Wake up. Die. Eat lunch. Die. Eat dinner. Die again. And one final death before bed?"

I stared at the ceiling, sighing.

"Yeah. Totally normal. Nothing psychotic about that."

Damn it. Even I think this is nuts.

"Well, what choice do I have?"

Normal thods don’t work for . If I want to get stronger, I don’t have the luxury of sanity.

If Iris were here and saw this, she would’ve beaten half to death before the first self-execution. But there’s no one left to stop now.

"...Tsk."

I brushed the thought aside and focused.

I had one major concern about all this — the stigma.

The Primordial Fla was supposed to consu and erase stigmas. Even though mine remained intact after absorbing it, I worried that repeated use of its power might eventually wipe out my blessing of revival.

So far... nothing. The stigma over my left chest was as intact as ever, unmarred and unwavering.

The blessing within it still brought back, each ti as seamlessly as before.

I exhaled a laugh.

’I endured a lifeti trying to escape death... and now I’m relying on it like a drug.’

What a joke.

Still, if the Primordial Fla can’t touch the blessing of revival — then this insane thod might just carry beyond anything I ever achieved.

Maybe this ti... I’ll save the ones I couldn’t.

Maybe this ti... no one will have to die because I was too weak.

I shut the mory floodgates before they could open.

"Right. Enough reminiscing."

With a foundation built, I needed a weapon. Sothing powerful — sothing imdiate.

Ancient artifacts, divine blades — they all crossed my mind. But I couldn’t get those now, and even if I could, my current level was too low to wield them.

’Sothing accessible. Dangerous, but usable.’

And then it hit .

The Stigma Amplifier.

Not technically a weapon, but might as well be.

A potion that drives the stigma berserk, unleashing power far beyond one’s limits — at the cost of tearing the body apart.

It was a death sentence for most.

"Good thing I’m hard to kill."

The side effects? Twisted blood vessels. lted organs. Pain beyond comprehension.

But for soone like , who could die and co back — it was a shortcut to overwhelming power.

And the best part?

The one who created the Stigma Amplifier lived right here.

Reynald Hero Academy.

The very school I’m attending.

Warrior Departnt Faculty Office

Professor Lucas glared at like I was a ticking ti bomb.

"You want to et Professor Jade?"

"Yes."

Jade Bastian — the continent’s leading expert in stigma research. And infamously... unstable.

"Why? He’s a Magic Departnt nutjob. No reason for a Warrior Cadet to visit him."

"Career counseling."

Lucas raised a brow. "Career counseling. With Jade."

"Stigma-related research isn’t restricted by departnt, is it?"

Lucas’s eyes narrowed like a hawk.

"You know what they call him, right?"

"The Student Slayer?"

"And yet you’re still going."

"Isn’t that just a rumor?"

Lucas slamd his palm on the desk.

"Two years ago, he bragged about killing a cadet. Oscar. Claid it was an accident during an experint. Investigation let him off because he’s a damn Bastian."

I shrugged. "Wasn’t that also when you punched him at Oscar’s grave?"

Lucas coughed. "Ahem. I was young."

"That was two years ago."

"Shut up, brat!"

He launched a kick at . I twisted my body, avoiding it effortlessly.

Lucas stared at , predator eyes calculating.

"How the hell did you change overnight?"

"I returned from the future."

"Bullshit."

Honestly? Fair.

"You didn’t make so kind of pact with a demon, did you?"

"You know heroes blessed by the Seven Gods’ Stigmata can’t be corrupted."

Lucas grunted. "In theory."

I didn’t correct him. The truth — that heroes can fall — belonged to a future that hadn’t arrived yet.

"Fine. No rule against eting other professors. I’ll write you a referral."

"Thank you."

"Go and die or whatever it is you do now."

He scribbled the referral and handed it over.

I turned to leave.

Click.

"...If anything happens, co straight to ."

I paused.

A soft smile tugged at my lips.

’You’re not half the brute you pretend to be, Professor.’

Jade Bastian’s Laboratory

The lab sat hidden in the farthest corner of campus — so far out that most cadets probably didn’t even know it existed.

-Knock, knock.

No answer.

-Knock, knock, knock.

Still nothing.

-Bang, bang, bang.

"Professor Jade. I know you’re in there."

The door creaked open. A wave of rot and chemicals flooded out.

Inside was chaos — books, vials, broken glass, dead plants. A scene from a mad alchemist’s fever dream.

An old man peered through the crack.

Wrinkled, blotchy skin. White, unkempt hair. A robe so stained it looked diseased.

It was him. Exactly as I rembered.

"Who are you?"

"Dale Han. Third-year, Warrior Departnt."

"What do you want?"

"I’m interested in your research. Here’s a referral from Professor Lucas."

He snatched the paper. His shoulders shook — laughter brewing beneath his ribs.

"Interested in my research?"

"Yes. Particularly the potion that affects the Stigmata."

"Uh, ha, ha, HAHAHAHA!"

The laugh echoed like a beast possessed.

"Do you even know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Heh, heh, heh... and you still ca here? You want to join ?"

Drool slipped from his lips. His eyes glead with deranged glee.

BANG!

He flung the door open and grabbed my collar.

His voice dropped to a whisper — sharp and trembling with mania.

"You... you’ll die. This research will eat you alive."

I didn’t blink.

"Good thing I’m hard to kill."

Let the madness begin.