Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

I made a mistake.

The thought rang through Kerrick's mind with the clarity of a temple bell. Not his first mistake, certainly. But this one had a particular sting to it.

Three weeks ago, he'd been sitting in the Unicorn's Tavern, cocky and unbothered, listening to old Jarl the Red refuse a contract on some Academy brat. Kerrick had laughed at the caution. Mocked it, even. After all, what's a boy mage to a veteran mercenary with seventeen successful contracts under his belt?

The problem with experience is you can only gain it the hard way. And sometimes, by the time you've gained it, it's too late to use it.

His adventures since accepting that contract had been brief and embarrassing. No epic chase across city rooftops. No clever magical traps he'd outsmarted. No duel of wits with his target.

Just three days of asking questions around town before being grabbed by what he now understood was a spy network with connections to the kid. He hadn't even laid eyes on his target before ending up in a basement with his hands tied behind his back.

He'd met a Freeman with hands like stone hammers and a vocabulary that consisted mainly of grunts and creative threats. The Freeman had been bad enough, but then there was the mouse.

A fucking mouse beastkin. Not even a wolf or a bear or something respectable. A mouse, barely coming up to his knee, with oversized ears and whiskers that twitched when he talked. Which was constantly.

"Fascinating electrical discharge capabilities in the human nervous system," the mouse had chirped, adjusting a small device attached to Kerrick's arm. "Do you know your pain receptors conduct energy at approximately three times the normal rate? That's quite rare! Most humans I've worked with only manage about twice the standard threshold before losing consciousness."

"What kind of mouse—" Kerrick had started to ask before another jolt shot through him.

"Ooh! Did you see that? The reading jumped by a full point! I wonder if anger increases conductivity? Let's test that hypothesis..."

Another shock, stronger this time.

"Oh my God! I should publish a paper on this! Right Thormund? 'Emotional States and Their Effects on Electrical Conductivity in Human Subjects.' What do you think? Too wordy? Maybe something punchier?"

"I think you're getting a bit too comfortable with questioning, little boss"

"Oh, come on, this is for science!"

The little bastard couldn't stop marveling at his own twisted experiments, going on and on about "revolutionary findings" while Kerrick twitched and sweated in his bonds.

"It's completely unnatural," Kerrick had managed through gritted teeth. "What kind of mouse beastkin even has this sort of power? It's unfair! It's—"

But that wasn't the point.

The point was: I made a mistake.

Now Kerrick stood on the doorstep of Eastwick Manor, straightening his borrowed coat with his one good hand. The other arm still twitched occasionally—a souvenir from the mouse's "research."

He raised his fist and knocked three times, precise and measured.

The door swung open to reveal a severe-looking steward with eyebrows that appeared to be waging war against each other.

"Yes?" the steward asked, his gaze traveling from Kerrick's eye patch to his twitching hand with the sort of disdain usually reserved for something found stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

"Good evening," Kerrick said. "I'm here to see Lord Varnham. I believe he's expecting a report on a certain Academy student."

The steward looked Kerrick up and down with thinly veiled contempt. "You may enter. Young master Varnham and his associates are expecting your report."

Kerrick stepped into the marble-floored foyer, his boots suddenly feeling too loud, too dirty for such pristine surroundings. The steward led him through a series of hallways, each more opulent than the last, before stopping at a set of double doors.

"Wait here," the steward instructed. "Refreshments will not be provided."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow managed to sound judgmental.

"Shit," Kerrick whispered. "Shit, shit, shit."

He paced the room, five steps one way, five steps back. The communication crystal tucked into his pocket felt heavier than it should. The mousy little bastard had been very clear about its operation—get them to admit everything, don't cut them off, keep them talking.

Easy to say when you're not the one doing it.

He fingered the hilt of his dagger—the only weapon they'd let him keep. Fat lot of good it would do if things went sideways. But the Freeman had been insistent: "You go alone. More believable. Besides, who'd suspect a broken mercenary?"

The door swung open. Three young men entered, none of them looking a day over twenty. Polished boots, tailored jackets, and the unmistakable swagger of privileged youth who'd never faced consequences.

"Ah, our man of action returns," said the tallest one—young Varnham, Kerrick guessed. "I trust you have good news for us?"

"My lord," Kerrick bowed, buying time. "The mission... had complications."

"Complications?" A thin boy with spectacles perched on his nose stepped forward. "What sort of complications? We paid for results, not excuses."

"Did you get close to him at least?" asked the third, a stocky young man with a half-grown beard attempting to compensate for his baby face. "Did he suspect anything?"

Kerrick tugged at his collar, eyes darting around the room. "Perhaps if my lords would explain exactly what prompted such... measures against a student? Might help me understand what I'm dealing with."

"Understand?" Lord Varnham laughed. "Your job isn't to understand. Your job is to eliminate the problem."

Seeing Kerrick's reluctance to elaborate, the young man sighed. "That Xerkes drama got the crown prince arrested. Do you have any idea what that's done to our families' positions?"

"Three generations of trade agreements," Spectacles said, his voice tight with anger. "Import licenses for Karthian silk that my family controlled exclusively through the prince's favor. Gone. Overnight."

"My father's shipping company lost half its imperial contracts," Baby Beard added. "We had to sell two estates already. My sister's dowry is practically worthless now."

Varnham stepped closer, lowering his voice. "That brat had no right to interfere in matters beyond his understanding. The prince was our ally, our path to securing our families' futures. Now he's rotting in a cell because some self-righteous Academy student couldn't mind his own business."

"So," Kerrick said slowly, "just to be absolutely clear—you want Adom Sylla dead because he was responsible for the crown prince's arrest?"

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"Not just dead," Baby Beard snapped. "I want it to look like an accident. Something painful but not suspicious."

"Our families have supported the crown for generations," Spectacles added, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger. "We trusted the system, followed every rule. Then this upstart from Xerkes Academy ruins everything because he thought he knew better than centuries of tradition."

"So," Varnham said, leaning forward, "is it done? Is Adom Sylla dead?"

Kerrick suddenly saw them clearly—not calculating villains but angry young men lashing out at a convenient target for their families' downfall. Their rage was personal, raw, and completely blind to consequences. And he, desperate for coin, had stepped right into their emotional vendetta without considering what came next.

Fuuuuuuuck....

Kerrick exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing as if a great weight had been lifted. He stepped back toward the wall, his hand dropping away from his dagger.

The young nobles exchanged confused glances.

"What are you—" Varnham began.

The doors burst open with a crack that echoed through the room like thunder. Six city guards poured in, swords drawn, followed by a stern-faced woman in a magistrate's robe.

"So sorry about the interruption," Kerrick said, not sounding sorry at all. "I should have mentioned my new employment situation."

The magistrate stepped forward, holding up a communication crystal that glowed with the same blue light as the one hidden in Kerrick's pocket.

"Tristan Varnham, Edwin Kellridge, Harmon Duren," she said, "you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder against a member of the Magisterium. Specifically, the attempted assassination of Adom Sylla, protected student of Xerkes Academy."

"This is absurd!" Varnham sputtered. "You can't—we didn't—"

"We have your confession," the magistrate said, tapping the crystal. It emitted their voices with perfect clarity: "So, is it done? Is Adom Sylla dead?"

A new feature Adom added to the recent versions.

Chaos erupted. Spectacles—Kellridge, apparently—made a dash for the side door only to be tackled by two guards. Baby Beard Duren stood frozen in shock. Varnham lunged for Kerrick, who sidestepped with the ease of someone who'd spent years avoiding people trying to kill him.

"You set us up," Varnham hissed, his composure cracking like thin ice. "Do you have any idea who my father is?"

"Probably not as intimidating as the people who actually hired me," Kerrick replied with a shrug. "But I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to name-drop from your cell."

As the guards restrained the struggling young nobles, Varnham twisted around, face contorted with rage.

"This isn't over! Our families will—"

"Your families will likely disown you to save what's left of their reputations," the magistrate cut in coolly. "Conspiracy to murder is frowned upon even in the highest circles."

Kellridge's glasses had been knocked askew in the scuffle. "You don't understand," he pleaded to the magistrate. "That Xerkes student ruined everything. Our families were counting on us."

"And now they'll be counting the years until your release," Kerrick muttered.

The magistrate's eyes narrowed. "Take them away."

As the guards dragged the young men out, Kerrick leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Well," he said to no one in particular, "that went about as well as a cat bath."

Sometimes, he reflected, watching the door close behind the last guard, mistakes taught you exactly what you needed to learn. Just rarely in the way you'd choose to learn it.

The crystal in Kerrick's pocket began to pulse with an irritating rhythm.

He fished it out, wincing as his arm twitched again. The crystal glowed an agitated blue.

"—absolutely need that back immediately!" A high-pitched voice erupted from the crystal at a volume that made Kerrick nearly drop it. "Hello? Hello? Is this thing working? Can you hear me? Of course you can hear me. The transmitter is functioning perfectly. Adom's design is flawless!"

Kerrick held the crystal at arm's length. "I can hear you just fine."

"Excellent! Now listen carefully. That crystal is an extremely delicate prototype. One of a kind. Irreplaceable. Well, not literally irreplaceable because we could make another one, but it would take approximately two hours and fourteen minutes of continuous work, and Adom would absolutely murder me if it fell into the wrong hands. Do you understand the gravity of the situation? It contains proprietary runes that—"

"Yes," Kerrick interrupted.

"What was that?" The voice paused.

"Yes, sir."

"Ha! He called me 'sir,' Thormund! Did you hear that? I'm 'sir' now. I could get used to this authority thing."

A deeper voice rumbled in the background. "I'm afraid you're becoming a bit too tyrannical for my taste, little boss."

"Tyrannical? Me? I prefer the term 'efficiently authoritative.' And only to our enemies, I assure you."

"And mercenaries," Thormund added.

"Well, obviously mercenaries. They're basically enemies we're temporarily employing. It's a very fine distinction."

Kerrick cleared his throat. "Should I... bring the crystal somewhere specific?"

"What? Oh, right. Yes. Back to the place where you were before. You know the one. With the basement. And the chair. And the thing with the wires that made you scream like a—"

The connection abruptly cut off, leaving Kerrick staring at the now-silent crystal.

"I made a mistake."

Was all he had to say.

*****

"So," Valiant asked, whiskers twitching with barely contained excitement, "what do you think of our operation?"

Adom sat at a desk, one hand curled around a steaming cup of tea, the other idly flipping through a textbook on advanced Fluid and mana theory. He took a deliberate sip before answering.

"Thanks, Valiant. Really appreciate it."

"That's it?" The mouse beastkin's ears drooped slightly. "That's all you have to say? I personally coordinated a complex intelligence operation that just resulted in the arrest of three high-born conspirators. Do you realize what we've accomplished? We've completely disrupted a shadow network of anti-mage sentiment! We've sent a message that will echo through every noble house in the city! This could change the entire political landscape for beastkin and students alike!"

"It was good work," Adom conceded, not really sure what it changed for beastkin. But Valiant was Valiant, and asking him would make him keep talking.

Not ideal.

"Good work?" Valiant threw his tiny paws in the air. "We just prevented an assassination! Your assassination! We've secured evidence that will put three noble heirs in prison for years! This is historic! Revolutionary! Absolutely—"

"Humble as ever, little boss," Thormund said from his position by the door.

"Humility is inefficient," Valiant replied without missing a beat. "When you're preventing murders and toppling conspiracies, stating facts isn't bragging, it's just accurate reporting."

Adom set his cup down. "The recording feature on the crystal worked well. I'm glad you made the suggestion."

"I told you it would come in handy!" Valiant hopped onto Adom's desk, careful to avoid the tea. "And the mercenary! Using their own hired blade against them! Absolutely brilliant strategy on my part, if I do say so myself."

"Your part?" Thormund raised an eyebrow.

"Well, our part," Valiant amended, whiskers twitching. "Though I was the one who suggested the electrical persuasion techniques."

Adom closed the textbook and stood, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. "Thanks for the tea, by the way."

"Whatever," Valiant waved a tiny paw dismissively. "I bought it specially for your visits. You're the only one who drinks the stuff here."

"I like tea," Thormund said from his position by the door.

Both Adom and Valiant turned to stare at the massive Freeman.

"What?" Thormund's brow furrowed. "A man can't enjoy a civilized beverage?"

"Nothing," Adom said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think I like you even more now, Thormund."

The Freeman grunted, but there was a hint of pleasure in it.

"Keep me updated on the situation, would you?" Adom gathered his notes. "And let the cats in before you leave. They'll be hungry."

Valiant's whiskers twitched. "I still can't believe you're working with cats. Not even cat beastkin—actual cats. Do you know what cats do to mice in the natural order of things?"

"We're hardly operating in the natural order of things," Adom replied. "You electrocute people for fun."

"For science," Valiant corrected. "And information gathering. Very different. But seriously, I feel deeply betrayed on behalf of all mousekind."

"You'll get along fine," Adom said. "They're quite intelligent. Almost as intelligent as you."

"Now you're just being insulting."

Adom waved goodbye, ignoring Valiant's continued protests about feline treachery as he made his way out of the safehouse and into the streets of Arkhos.

The city hummed with early evening activity—merchants closing up shop, taverns opening their doors, couples and families strolling in the mild spring air. Lamplighters moved methodically down the cobblestone streets, bringing a warm glow to replace the fading daylight.

None of them knew what was coming. None of them understood how fragile this peace really was.

Adom had come back to change things.

To stop Dragon's Breath from being created—that was the first priority. A weapon that could level entire cities wasn't just a threat in itself; it was the beginning of an arms race that would leave all nations weakened, fractured, and vulnerable when the World Dungeon finally rose. There needed to be strong, unified kingdoms when that happened. Places where people could seek refuge while the world changed around them.

And yet, here he was, dealing with privileged boys seeking revenge. The Crown Prince, who'd struck a deal with Farmus that would have kickstarted the Dragon's Breath project. Now these noble idiots trying to assassinate him.

He was fighting on too many fronts, spreading himself too thin. Every day spent dealing with these distractions was a day not spent on his real mission.

Lost in thought, Adom rounded a corner and slammed straight into someone. The impact nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Oh, sorry about that," he said automatically, still half-trapped in his own worries and slightly impressed that he was actually pushed back despite his current strength.

"Do not be sorry, young man. It was entirely my fault." The voice was deep, cultured, and painfully familiar.

Adom's head snapped up, eyes widening as he stared at the old man towering over him and smiling.

"Sir Gaius?" The name escaped Adom's lips in a shocked whisper.

The old man's smile widened.