When the world faded back into focus, it wasn't the same world Marcus Evans had known. The ground beneath him felt hard, cold, unlike the city streets he had last walked. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the unfamiliar brightness that flooded the room.
Where was he?
His head pounded with a dull ache as he sat up, every movement feeling strange, like his limbs were out of sync with his mind. Slowly, he took in his surroundings. He wasn't in his apartment or a hospital bed, but in some kind of large room—a study? The walls were lined with shelves, packed with books from floor to ceiling, and sunlight filtered in through towering windows, casting a golden glow across the wooden floors.
What happened?
He tried to remember, but everything was fuzzy. He could recall the rain, the screech of tires, the car barreling toward him, and then… nothing. His mind felt heavy, weighed down by unfamiliar thoughts, sensations that didn't belong to him.
Panic set in.
He needed to figure out where he was, and more importantly, who he was. For some reason, his body felt wrong. Every movement was stiff, awkward, as if it didn't belong to him. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he adjusted to the new weight and height of his limbs. His legs felt longer. His arms heavier.
Marcus stumbled toward a large mirror across the room, his footsteps echoing off the wooden floors. As he reached it, he froze, staring at the reflection that greeted him.
That wasn't his face.
The person looking back at him was someone entirely different—young, probably around eighteen or nineteen, with sharp, striking features. Tousled dark hair framed his face, and his eyes, an unsettling shade of amber, seemed to almost glow in the sunlight. There was a subtle smirk on his lips, a mischievous, dangerous look that Marcus knew he could never pull off.
The stranger wore a pristine uniform: a crisp white shirt tucked into black pants, with straps and buckles running along his boots and legs, giving him a strangely militaristic yet stylish appearance. The uniform itself seemed old-fashioned, yet somehow futuristic—a perfect blend of elegance and functionality.
Who the hell is this?
Marcus took a step closer to the mirror, raising a hand to his face. The reflection mimicked his movements perfectly. He touched his cheek—smooth, no stubble. His jawline was sharper than his own had ever been. His fingers brushed through the messy black hair, and he marveled at how unfamiliar it felt.
His chest tightened. This wasn't a dream, was it?
He stepped back, looking down at his body—the body of someone much stronger and more refined than he'd ever been. His mind raced, trying to piece together any possible explanation. But there wasn't one. At least not one that made sense.
The clothes, the face, the entire situation—it was like something out of one of those webnovels he used to read. But that couldn't be possible, could it?
He glanced around the room again, looking for any clues. The books on the shelves, the furniture, everything looked ancient yet preserved with meticulous care. He noticed several strange devices scattered across the desk—tools or gadgets that seemed out of place in a traditional study. Everything about this place felt like a fusion of magic and technology, like something pulled straight from the pages of Decade Long Crusade.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Could it be? Was he… inside the novel?
"No," he muttered aloud, shaking his head. That was insane. Ridiculous.
But then again, so was waking up in a different body in a strange world.
Marcus—or rather, whoever he was now—took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Panicking wouldn't help. He needed to figure this out, and fast. If this was anything like the stories he used to read, he could already tell one thing for certain: this world wasn't going to be forgiving.
His eyes drifted back to the mirror. Whoever this person was, they looked like they belonged here. They looked dangerous, like someone with power and purpose.
But Marcus? He was an ordinary guy in his own life, someone who always kept his head down and stayed out of trouble. If he was in the world of Decade Long Crusade—and he wasn't sure that he was, yet—then that meant one thing.
He wouldn't last long.
He stepped away from the mirror, his hands trembling slightly as the reality of his situation began to sink in. He didn't know who this person was or what role they played in this world, but one thing was clear: if he wanted to survive, he'd have to learn fast.
He cast one last glance at the mirror, staring into the unfamiliar amber eyes that now belonged to him. The handsome face that reflected back at him wasn't his, but maybe, just maybe, it could be.
Because if this was the world of Decade Long Crusade, then the only way to stay alive was to stop thinking like Marcus Evans, the ordinary guy.
In this world, it was better to live in the background.