Chapter 01
“Ah….”
With a small sigh, Velia blinked twice, just as she always did.
“Velia?”
Inside the glass conservatory filled with gentle sunlight, maids spread out dresses while people from the salon watched Velia with tense expressions.
Among those excited about the upcoming ball, Velia’s face slowly hardened as she dug through her memories.
“Is the banquet… the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, my lady. Is something wrong?”
She had returned to the time just before the debutante ball she had grown sick of repeating.
As expected, this was her fourth regression—and once again, she was sixteen.
“Velia, do you not like this one?”
A familiar voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Velia quickly turned her head toward the voice. Soft orange eyes, unlike her own black ones, met hers kindly—it was Soph Arphedi, her mother. It had been so long since she last saw her.
There was a time, after regressing, when she sobbed and clung to the living Soph. But now, she didn’t have the strength.
She was simply sick of it all—this endless cycle of returning.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
Soph’s eyes filled with concern the moment Velia’s focus drifted.
Even after all these repeated lives, her mother’s kindness remained unchanged.
“No, Mom.”
Instead of the rough, hoarse voice she’d had before dying, a beautiful, clear voice flowed out.
Feeling the difference made Velia struggle to manage her expression.
“Really? If you’re not feeling well, just tell me. You can choose your dress later.”
Startled by the affectionate term “Mom” instead of “Mother,” Soph gently stroked Velia’s head.
The warmth of her touch made Velia’s eyes instantly moist.
She lowered her head.
Just moments ago, she had died.
As the vivid memory of that moment replayed in her mind, Velia trembled.
“Aaaagh!”
Velia let out an internal scream and clutched her head.
“Velia!”
Soph’s startled voice didn’t even register for Velia, who was lost in shock.
“The fourth time…”
She had tried so hard to avoid reaching this point, and yet she was back again.
Unlike her first two regressions where she desperately tried to prove her identity, her third time had been different—she had simply run away to survive.
As the moment of her death approached, she narrowly managed to seek asylum and board a carriage.
She believed the regression had ended then—but the carriage fell off a cliff, ending her third life.
And now… this life.
“Shit…”
Velia bit her lip.
There was no stopping the curse words.
Ten, twelve, fourteen, and now sixteen.
With each regression, the return point crept forward. This time, she had gone back to two years before her death at eighteen.
“Ughhh!!”
Velia’s frustrated scream silenced the entire conservatory.
“V-Velia?”
Her hysterical outburst was unlike her usual quiet demeanor, leaving everyone—Soph included—blinking in surprise.
But Velia continued screaming as if nothing was wrong.
If she didn’t scream, she felt like she’d go insane right then and there.
This repeated life didn’t just bring disillusionment—it was driving her to suicidal thoughts.
At eighteen…
“She’s a fake! I’m the real one!”
The more she regressed, the hazier her memories became—but not this one. That memory remained crystal clear.
“Fake.”
On the proud day of her coming-of-age ceremony in her first life, someone named Rene appeared, claiming to be the real daughter of House Arphedi.
“Are you feeling sick? Maybe we should go home? Do you want to rest? I’ll handle the debut….”
Velia looked calmly at the hand stroking her shoulder.
Her beloved mother always disappeared in the fall of her eighteenth year.
In every regression, her eighteenth year brought the same tragedies.
Her father would die in a carriage accident in spring. Her mother would fall ill in summer. Rene would appear in fall. Her mother would die, and Velia would follow in winter.
As awful as her parents’ deaths were, nothing compared to Rene—who appeared at every coming-of-age ceremony.
“When I was eight, we were switched in the fire! That fake girl handed me over to kidnappers!”
At eight, a fire broke out at the mansion hosting the crown prince’s birthday celebration.
Velia had been so injured her face was unrecognizable, and she lost her memories.
Even now, she remembered nothing from when she was eight.
So when she first heard Rene’s claim, she dismissed it as nonsense.
She had lived as the daughter of a marquis and firmly believed she couldn’t have been part of a crime like that.
She shouted that Rene’s words were lies—but everything changed when Rene awakened her powers.
The girl who once shared Velia’s black hair and eyes now had gray hair and blue eyes.
Velia still vividly remembered the goosebumps crawling over her skin.
Rene had awakened the magic unique to the Arphedi bloodline.
Velia, who had lived eighteen years as the Arphedi heiress, had not.
Everyone’s attitude changed in an instant.
Even when she denied being a fake, people believed Rene, who had awakened.
Even her eldest brother—who she thought would be on her side—looked at her coldly.
“You are a disgrace to the family.”
The reason was simple.
She had not awakened.
That fact made Rene’s claims seem more credible.
With her black hair and black eyes unchanged, she was dragged to the execution platform.
A fake who stole the real one’s place.
The moment her neck was severed in her first life, the shame was unbearable.
After regressing, she considered it a divine opportunity and fought to clear her name in her first and second regressions.
She searched the marquisate’s archives, enrolled in the academy, and tried to awaken.
But she failed.
So in the third life, she chose to run.
She even reconciled with her sworn-enemy second brother and escaped with his help.
Yet she still died in a ridiculous carriage accident.
No matter what she did, she died.
Whether she tried to solve it or escape—it always ended in death.
“This is bullshit.”
Velia lifted her head.
Everyone had stopped what they were doing and stared only at her.
The way they looked at her—the daughter of the noble House Arphedi—felt strangely unfamiliar now.
“But I’m not….”
She no longer had any confidence in her own words.
Maybe she really had to accept it now.
“Fake.”
Maybe it was time to carve that hateful word into her heart and live with it.
There were nearly two years left until her eighteenth birthday.
Velia looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Black hair, black eyes. A plain look, but refined from years of noble upbringing.
Large eyes, a high nose—she was beautiful.
Her characteristically pale skin made her appear delicate and gave her a cold aura.
The elegant purple dress she wore sparkled, paired with luxurious earrings and a necklace of the finest quality.
Before her first life’s eighteenth year, she had always lived like this.
Just another quiet, introverted noble girl.
A surge of emotion welled up inside her, and she bit her lip.
She was not someone destined to correct anything.
She had no power, and she was exhausted from being shackled by the labels of “real” or “fake.”
“Again?”
As that internal question echoed—Do you still want to struggle?—Velia looked into her own eyes.
Their deep black was beautiful, as if one could fall right in.
No matter what others said, to her, these black eyes and this life were real.
She had never once wished to die as a fake—yet this was her fourth regression.
The point of return moved forward by two years each time. If she died this time, she would return at eighteen.
That thought made her feel it clearly:
“This is my last chance.”
She was tired of struggling.
Tired of clawing to survive, only to die in rags.
She saw her past self in the mirror, layered over her reflection.
“Let’s just live like this.”
She laughed in resignation.
If she was doomed to fail anyway—why not just enjoy the ride?
If this really was her last life, dying in a beautiful dress by her own hand seemed better than dying in tatters again.
She had already failed clinging to false hope.
If she really was the fake, then she wanted to live short and fierce until her eighteenth birthday.
Tears and laughter burst out at once.
It was cathartic—so much so it hurt.
The world had finally made her give up.
Velia wiped away her tears with her graceful hands.
Not the rough hands from before her death—but the smooth, pampered hands of a noble lady.
“Darling, let’s go inside, hmm? Everyone, clear out… Velia? Oh my—”
Seeing Velia cry, Soph hurriedly tried to usher everyone away.
“It’s okay. It’s just… I’m about to debut into society. I guess I’m feeling sentimental.”
Velia offered a random excuse and buried herself in Soph’s warm embrace.
Soph gently patted her back with worried eyes.
“Are you really okay, darling?”
If she truly was the fake, then even this warmth had been stolen from Rene.
But she was already resigned to die—so she desperately needed this warmth.
She no longer hoped to escape death.
All she wanted… was to feel something warm.
