Have I mentioned how scary the Year 4 teacher was?

  No, not scary.

  Terrifying.

  In my previous life, she was the closest thing our small primary school had to a final boss. A woman armed with a rattan cane and a moral compass that pointed permanently toward “discipline above all.” Her footsteps alone could silence an entire corridor.

  And yet.

  If I told you that after the final exam of Year 4 she would soften so dramatically that she transformed into something resembling a kind grandmother distributing biscuits and life advice, you wouldn’t believe me.

  I didn’t believe it either.

  The first time I lived through it, the shift felt illegal. A 180-degree personality flip. From demon general to gentle old lady in a single afternoon.

  But now?

  Now I knew.

  Right now, at the beginning of Year 4, she was still the demon. The cane still rested beside her table like a ceremonial weapon. The class still held its collective breath whenever she adjusted her glasses.

  But not me.

  I had already cleared this stage once.

  I sat in the front row as usual. Strategic position. Maximum visibility. Minimum suspicion.

  Beside me sat Potter.

  Yes, Potter. That wasn’t his real name, but it stuck because he wore round glasses and once tried to draw a lightning bolt scar on his forehead with a blue pen. It looked more like a confused zigzag.

  Potter and I shared a sacred bond: the Mega Man X4 era.

  PlayStation 1 days.

  He knew cheat codes.

  Actual cheat codes.

  The kind that turned boss fights from soul-crushing trials into playground warmups. When he first told me the button combination to unlock Ultimate Armor, I stared at him like he was a prophet descending from Mount Sony.

  In the future, he would become my long-term gaming companion. We would grind together through Monster Hunter: World, argue over builds in Elden Ring, and debate whether PlayStation 4 or 5 load times felt more satisfying.

  But right now, he was a ten-year-old boy shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Bro,” he whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “My bladder very full.”

  I turned slightly.

  “Then go toilet.”

  He looked at the teacher. She was writing on the board. The chalk made sharp, accusing noises.

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  “I scared.”

  “Just raise your hand.”

  He shook his head violently. “Later she scold.”

  In my previous life, this exact scene had played out the same way.

  I urged him.

  He resisted.

  I even raised my hand halfway once, and he grabbed it and pushed it down like I was launching a nuclear missile.

  And then—

  He peed.

  Right there.

  Warm betrayal spreading across his chair.

  I remember the effort it took not to laugh. Not out of cruelty, but out of pure absurdity. The human body had surrendered to fear of a woman holding a stick.

  Luckily, not a single drop touched me. I considered that divine protection.

  Now the moment had returned.

  Same classroom.

  Same seat.

  Same Potter.

  “My bladder very full,” he whispered again, as if we were stuck in a time loop DLC.

  This time, I did not try to persuade him about the teacher’s secret soft side. He wouldn’t believe me.

  And I wasn’t about to reveal that I had already speedrun Year 4 once before.

  So I chose a different route.

  Direct intervention.

  After school one afternoon, I approached the teacher’s desk.

  She was stacking exercise books with mechanical precision.

  “Yes?” she asked without looking up.

  Her tone could freeze lava.

  I stood straight.

  “Teacher, I want to tell you something.”

  She finally looked at me. Assessing. Calculating whether this was nonsense or substance.

  “There is a boy in class,” I continued carefully, “who is very afraid of your strictness.”

  Her eyebrow twitched.

  “He is so afraid that sometimes he does not dare to ask permission to go toilet.”

  Silence.

  I could feel the air pressure change.

  “In fact,” I added, “I think if this continues, he might hold it until accident happens.”

  Her face remained unreadable.

  “So?” she asked.

  Here was the pivot.

  “Next time, if I raise my hand and signal quietly, maybe teacher can announce: ‘Students, if anyone needs toilet break, you may go now.’ That way no one needs to feel embarrassed.”

  I expected resistance.

  A lecture.

  Perhaps even suspicion.

  Instead, she stared at me for a long second.

  Then she nodded once.

  “Okay.”

  That was it.

  No speech.

  No cane.

  Just okay.

  The next week, the moment came again.

  Potter leaned over. “Very full.”

  I raised my hand.

  The teacher paused mid-sentence.

  “Yes?”

  I made a subtle circular motion with my fingers, the pre-agreed signal.

  She looked at me.

  Then at the class.

  “Students,” she announced calmly, “if anyone needs toilet break, you may go now.”

  Three boys shot up immediately like rockets escaping Earth’s atmosphere.

  Potter stared at me.

  “You magician ah?”

  “Go,” I whispered.

  He ran.

  No accident.

  No humiliation.

  No suppressed laughter.

  Timeline corrected.

  It was a small change.

  But it felt enormous.

  Because here’s what I learned after regression:

  You cannot always change major events.

  But you can redirect small humiliations.

  And sometimes, those small humiliations shape a person more than big tragedies.

  Potter never knew how close he had been to reliving that memory.

  I never told him.

  Some timelines are best left unspoken.

  As weeks passed, I observed the demon teacher carefully.

  Her strictness was still real.

  Spelling tests were still brutal.

  Ten words.

  Nine spelled aloud.

  The tenth left in silence.

  Miss that last one?

  Triple cane.

  It was educational Russian roulette.

  The difficulty curve rivaled Dark Souls. One mistake and you paid in pain.

  But I no longer saw her as a monster.

  I saw her as someone playing a role.

  A person constructing a wall of severity to produce results.

  Because I knew what waited at the end of the year.

  After the final exam, the cane would disappear.

  Her voice would soften.

  She would smile.

  Not a sarcastic smile.

  A grandmother smile.

  The first time I witnessed it in my past life, I nearly short-circuited. It contradicted everything I thought I understood about adults.

  Now, knowing the ending, I could endure the middle.

  Regression does not always give you cheat codes for money.

  Sometimes it gives you cheat codes for empathy.

  I used to think surviving Year 4 was about avoiding punishment.

  Now I realized it was about understanding fear.

  Potter feared the teacher.

  The class feared the cane.

  The teacher perhaps feared failure.

  And I?

  I feared repeating tragedies I already knew too well.

  So I adjusted what I could.

  One toilet break at a time.

  The demon still stood at the front of the class.

  But this time, I was no longer just a frightened player in her dungeon.

  I was someone who had already seen her second face.

  And that knowledge made all the difference.