Flip— Flip—
He flipped to a page that showed common Kyrian phrases. The script looked like angular and symbolic etched onto the paper, each symbol holding multiple layers of meaning depending on context and tone. He sounded out the words slowly, his voice rough and hesitant.
"Tihren loush—'May the winds guide you.' He paused, furrowing his brow. "That... sounded horrible."
Despite his frustration, he practiced the phrase again and again, his pronunciation improving with each attempt.
Mythralis proved even more challenging. He struggled to maintain the rhythm of the sentences, often tripping over the complex rules.
"Lethrei vara shuun—'The waves carry us forward.'" His tone wavered awkwardly, prompting him to sigh.
Hours passed as he jotted down notes, creating flashcards for key phrases and conjugation rules.
He practiced aloud, sometimes laughing at his mistakes but determined to push forward.
"If I'm going to travel or even survive outside the Empire's Capital, I'll need to speak like a local," he thought.
His efforts paid off, little by little. Soon, he could manage basic sentences in Kyrian and Mythralis, though fluency remained a distant goal.
As Arlon closed the final book for the night, he felt a sense of satisfaction. Learning these languages was a daunting task, but it was also a vital step toward understanding the world he now inhabited.
"Knowledge is power," he reminded himself, his resolve firm. "And in this world, I'll need all the power I can get."
The next day, while searching through the study, he stumbled upon an old, unused door. Without thinking, he opened it and peered inside.
As Arlon pushed open the unlocked door, a faint creak echoed through the air. He stepped into a dimly lit room, much smaller than he expected, with only a table and chair in the center.
The light filtering through the half-closed window barely illuminated the sparse space. Old, tattered curtains swayed gently with the breeze, and the entire room had an air of neglect, but also... something else. A mystery hung thickly in the air.
The room was devoid of bookshelves, paintings, or any décor that a study might usually have. Arlon felt an odd sense of déjà vu, as if he had stepped into a familiar place—something eerily similar to his small work area in his old apartment from his original world. For a brief second, it felt like he had returned home.
He moved closer to the solitary table, spotting an old, worn-out book resting on it. The book's cover was cracked with age, its pages yellowed, adding to the room's ancient and forgotten atmosphere.
As Arlon reached for the book, the golden screen—no, the narrator—flashed into view with sudden urgency.
Flutter—
[Arlon left the room—] Arlon ] left the room—] Arlon left ] the room—]
"..!"
The words blinked repeatedly on the screen, filling it with commanding phrases over and over again like a broken record.
"Whoa!" Arlon exclaimed, stumbling back as the text multiplied before his eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and the book slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
What the heck?! Are you serious right now?! Arlon thought, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The narrator was glitching out, trying to force him to leave the room as if it couldn't handle the situation.
Just as he bent down to pick up the book again, the screen froze, glitching once more before going completely still. Arlon's breath steadied as he noticed the sudden change. It felt like the narrator was trying to push him away from something... but what?
He dusted off the cover of the book, curiosity outweighing his wariness. Opening the pages, his eyes skimmed through strange, forgotten titles:
"The Ruin Mansion," "Ancient Dragons," "Magic Scrolls," "Record of the Sky," and "Maps of Cursed Treasures."
Each title sparked a flicker of memory in his mind. Wait... I've read about these in the novel, but the story never went into detail... The excitement of discovery flooded him. This book was a trove of hidden information, things that should have existed in the plot but were either left unexplained or purposefully omitted.
Flip— Flip—
Arlon flipped through the pages with growing intensity, a fire of curiosity burning inside him. Why were these details left out? And more importantly, why are they here? He was about to delve deeper when—
"My Lord," Dimitri's voice cut through the silence, making Arlon jump. Crap!
Arlon hastily closed the book and returned it to its place on the table, his fingers brushing against its worn cover one last time. He turned on his heel and left the room without a backward glance, his mind already racing with plans.
The moment he stepped out, the golden screen flickered faintly, as if acknowledging his departure, before resuming its usual rhythm.
["Arlon left the room casually, answering his butler with calm authority."]
"Yes?" Arlon answered, carefully masking any sign of panic in his voice.
Dimitri stood at the entrance of the hallway, his expression as composed as ever. But there was something about him—something subtle, yet distinct, that Arlon hadn't noticed before. The narrator screen flashed with the text:
["Dimitri is nervous—"]
Arlon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the butler's calm façade. "What is it?"
Dimitri hesitated for a split second before replying, "There is a visitor, my lord. A passing traveler, of sorts."
Shin—no, Arlon—felt a shift in the atmosphere. His instincts told him that this wasn't just any visitor— The first major event was about to unfold —it was someone important. Someone tied to the plot.
It was time to meet the members of Pry, the mysterious group that would shape the path ahead.The tension in his chest tightened, but he smiled and nodded.
"Well then, Dimitri," Arlon said, keeping his voice calm and in control, "let's go meet our guest."
He smirked inwardly. So, it's finally time to play my part in the first arc.
The game begins now…
———
As Arlon and Dimitri walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, their footsteps echoed softly against the stone floors. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Dimitri followed closely behind, his expression as unreadable as ever, though Arlon couldn't help but notice the faint furrow in his brow.
Why is Dimitri acting so oddly?, Arlon wondered, stealing a glance at the man out of the corner of his eye. Does he know something about the Pry? Or the Celestia Clan? Does he know more than the original Arlon ever did?
They approached the mansion's grand lobby, where a row of guards and maids stood at attention, their uniforms immaculate. Arlon descended the staircase with calm confidence, his gaze fixed on the figures waiting just beyond the line of servants.
The Pry had finally made their move.
The visitors were draped in long, dark robes that obscured their features, the deep hoods casting shadows over their faces. Only one stood apart, his hood pulled back to reveal a sharp, angular face marked by piercing red eyes and dark gray hair that fell in loose strands around his temples.
The man stepped forward, his voice smooth and polished. "Greetings, my Lord. I apologize for disturbing your afternoon." He gestured vaguely toward the doors behind him. "We were passing through when one of our carriage wheels broke—an unfortunate delay on our journey."
Arlon's lips twitched at the corners, suppressing a smirk. A "broken carriage"? How convenient.
So, this is their excuse to get close to me, he thought, his mind already dissecting the man's story. The Pry have finally decided to show their hand.
He glanced at Dimitri, catching the faintest twitch of the butler's eyebrow. Dimitri's composure was otherwise flawless, but Arlon could sense the undercurrent of tension in his silence. He's angry. Or maybe suspicious. Either way, he knows something.
["A faint trace of anger simmered beneath Dimitri's composed exterior."]
The golden screen's quiet observation only confirmed Arlon's suspicions.
"Of course, you're welcome to stay for a while," Arlon said, his tone smooth and noble, masking the amusement bubbling under the surface. "Perhaps a meal while your carriage is repaired?" He turned to Dimitri, adding, "Do help our guests with their… predicament."
For a fleeting moment, Dimitri's emerald eyes betrayed a flicker of panic. "Of course, my Lord," he said, his voice tight with barely concealed urgency.
Arlon bit back a laugh. Is he… trusting me? Or just resigned to whatever madness I'm about to stir up?
The Dining Room.
The Pry members were seated at one end of the long, ornately decorated dining table, with Arlon at the other. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the flicker of flames reflected in the polished silver platters piled high with glazed meats, delicate pastries, and fresh fruits.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft clinking of silverware and murmured thanks as the Pry members dined. Arlon maintained his calm exterior, his gaze flicking occasionally toward their leader, who seemed far too comfortable.
Finally, the robed man set down his fork and lifted his cup of tea. His red eyes locked onto Arlon's with a gleam of calculated gratitude. "My Lord, your hospitality is truly remarkable. It's rare to meet someone so gracious."
He paused, his tone shifting ever so slightly. "As a token of our appreciation, allow me to offer you something in return."
Arlon leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest. Here it comes. The Pry's pitch about Celestia.
The man's voice took on a reverent quality as he continued, his words measured and deliberate. "We would like to share the story of our god, Celestia, and the legacy of the Soul Guardians."
Wow, they're really laying it on thick, Arlon thought, suppressing a yawn. He kept his face impassive, but his mind drifted briefly to the novel's plot.
This was exactly where the original Arlon had been drawn into the Pry's schemes—hooked by their tales of ancient gods and forbidden power.