I died. Yes, there’s no doubt about it. I—Claim Bradley, the fool—had been beheaded and killed. So why… why am I here?

“Huh?”

The sensation of a consciousness completely severed being pulled back again. As if drawn by an unseen force, I opened my eyes to find myself staring at a ceiling I vaguely recognized—my childhood bedroom’s ceiling.

“…What?”

Another dumb sound escaped my lips. I couldn’t process it. I was sure I had died in the capital's grand plaza, executed by beheading in front of a crowd. Yet here I was, alive and intact, with my neck securely attached.

What’s going on?

And then, reflected in a nearby mirror, I saw the unmistakable image of my childhood self—the eight-year-old version of me.

“Am I… dreaming?”

The half-black, half-red-streaked hair, the sharp features that made me look perpetually angry… That face in the mirror was unmistakably mine. The more I tried to make sense of the situation, the more confused I became.

“Why? How?” The questions piled up in my mind, causing a mental traffic jam. I’ll say it again: I’m certain I died. So why do I have consciousness now? Why have I woken up in my childhood body?

The sensations are too real. There’s no sign of waking up from a dream.

In a cliché move, I pinched my cheek hard, hoping the pain would jolt me awake. But it was no use. All I managed to prove was that this was undeniably reality.

“Clay! Are you alright?”

The door suddenly burst open. Turning toward it, I saw my mother rushing in, panic-stricken, with Kanna, our maid, close behind.

Both of them looked so… young.

The last time I saw them, they were aged, as they should have been. But now their youthful vigor, their smooth and glowing skin, was almost startling. Youth really is terrifying.

“You wouldn’t wake up! I was so worried!”

“Huh? Oh, uh, I’m sorry…?”

As my mother sobbed and hugged me tightly, I tried to calm her down while piecing together my situation. Looking toward Kanna, who stood respectfully by the door, I decided to ask her a question.

“…Kanna, why was I in bed?”

“You fainted while training with the master, young sir. You hit your head hard and lost consciousness. The doctor examined you and found no injuries, thankfully. It was simply a result of the impact, so we brought you here to rest.”

No way…

Kanna’s explanation stirred a distant memory. This exact scenario had happened to me before. It was one of the childhood traumas I vividly remembered.

As she spoke, the questions crowding my mind began to clear, replaced by a mix of relief and confusion. Then, a ridiculous thought struck me.

Time travel? A leap back into the past?

“That’s… impossible.”

“What is, young sir?”

Kanna tilted her head at my murmured words, but I had no energy to respond. I dismissed the absurd idea, clinging to the belief that this must be some kind of dream—a final gift of mercy from the gods.

“Yes… it has to be.”

“Young sir…?”

Ignoring Kanna’s puzzled look, I comforted my still-sobbing mother, allowing myself to bask in the nostalgic warmth of my childhood memories.

Looking back, I realized… This was when family ties and life circumstances were still somewhat manageable.

But at that moment, I couldn’t care less.

Two days passed since I woke up.

By then, it had become harder to deny reality. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t divine mercy, nor was it some fleeting afterlife illusion. I couldn’t explain the mechanisms of how or why I’d been sent back with the memories of my past life, but one thing became clear:

This was no miracle. It was a nightmare.

Why? Because I knew what lay ahead—the tragedies, the calamities that awaited me. I knew all too well the horrors I was destined to face again.

Who in their right mind would want to relive such a hellish existence, despised by everyone, only to be executed again?

“Damn it.”

Gripping my head in despair, I cursed the thought of being forced to endure that living hell again. I would’ve gladly accepted death and oblivion over this.

Or… would I?

As my thoughts spiraled, consumed by trauma and negativity, a sudden realization broke through. What if this wasn’t just punishment? What if this second chance had a purpose?

Could it be that some benevolent deity, moved by pity, had granted me an opportunity to redo my life?

“Is that… what this is?”

If so, it made sense why I retained my memories, even up to the moment of my death. Perhaps the gods were subtly telling me to “do it right this time.”

Maybe I was deluding myself, but I had to believe it.

“If that’s the case… then I’ll take it. I’ll seize this chance to create the life I’ve always wanted!”

For the first time in my life, I found myself offering a prayer.

“Oh, gods! Um… I don’t know which of you decided to give me this gift, but thank you! I am deeply, profoundly grateful for this mercy!”

Kneeling on my bed, hands clasped, I raised my eyes to the heavens.

I vowed, then and there:

“This time, I’ll avoid that disastrous future. I’ll live a peaceful, quiet life, far away from power struggles and responsibilities. I’ll make this life my own!”

It was a pitiful, craven resolution. But I didn’t care. Anything was better than that miserable future.

“If that means crawling in the dirt and clinging to life, so be it!”

And thus, I—Claim Bradley—resolved to face my second life.

This was the beginning of everything.

And the harbinger of a fate even harsher than my first.