Karma is an unseen force, binding all things. It does not discriminate, does not waver.
The righteous are rewarded. The wicked, in time, are consumed by the very sins they sow.
The world does not forget.
The wind howled through the streets, carrying with it a merciless chill. Snow piled high against buildings, blanketing the earth in endless white.
Yet, amidst the frozen silence, a tavern stood resilient, its warm golden light spilling onto the frostbitten road. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and the mingling voices of merriment.
Laughter echoed. Tankards clinked. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows across the wooden walls.
Among the bustling patrons, a man moved swiftly, weaving between tables with practiced ease. A tray in one hand, a steady presence despite the rowdy atmosphere.
His long white hair was loosely tied back, though several strands had fallen forward, framing his passable but unremarkable face.
Scars lined his hands, remnants of a past long buried.
"Oi, Vein! Another round over here!"
"Got it," he responded simply, setting down a mug before making his way to the counter.
The girl beside him, barely eighteen, had already anticipated the next set of orders. She threw him a glance, her hands deftly pouring drinks.
"You should take a break, old man. You're moving slower than usual."
Vein exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he reached into his coat.
"I'm twenty-eight, Sylvie."
"And yet you act like you're twice that," she teased, sliding another tankard across the counter.
Ignoring her, Vein retrieved a roll of tobacco from his pocket, placing it between his lips.
With a small flick of his fingers, a tiny ember ignited at the tip, casting a dim glow against the dimly lit room.
He inhaled deeply, the familiar burn spreading through his chest before exhaling a stream of smoke into the tavern's air.
And then, he let his mind wander.
Vein Reinhardt.
Once, the name had carried weight. It had been spoken with reverence, with admiration, and in many cases, fear.
Now? It was nothing more than a hushed whisper. A relic of a man who no longer existed.
A decade ago, he had been a different person. Born into nobility, raised to be the successor of the esteemed Reinhardt Duchy, he had known nothing but privilege.
Arrogance had been ingrained in him, an unshakable belief in his superiority over the common rabble.
He had wielded his family name like a weapon, treating those beneath him as little more than tools.
His gift, [Prideful One], had made it worse. A talent that thrived on unwavering belief in his own strength, granting him endless potential—so long as he never acknowledged weakness.
And for years, he had remained undefeated.
Until she appeared.
A commoner girl. A nobody.
Yet, in mere months, she had surpassed everyone. Her name spread like wildfire, her strength undeniable. And Vein—prideful, arrogant Vein—could not accept it.
"She's just a passing rumour," he had scoffed.
"She'll never surpass me," he had declared.
So he had challenged her.
And she had crushed him.
Beaten him into the dirt. Humiliated him in front of everyone.
He had seethed. Burned with hatred.
Desperation had clawed at his chest. He could not—would not—accept it.
So he turned to the forbidden.
"Vein, are you sure about this?" one of his so-called noble allies had asked, their voices filled with unease.
"We have no choice," he had spat.
"If the empire will not recognize our worth, we'll carve it ourselves."
And so, they made their pact.
Yet, even with the power of the abyss, they had failed.
Expelled. Branded as heretics. Stripped of title and magic.
His father's voice, cold and distant, still echoed in his ears.
"You are no longer my son."
His golden hair, once a mark of his noble lineage, turned ghostly white—the final punishment for his sins.
From a future of prestige to a life of misery.
"Oi, Vein, you're spacing out again,"
Sylvie's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
He blinked, then exhaled another plume of smoke. "Just thinking."
"You do that too much."
"Occupational hazard."
Sylvie rolled her eyes before turning back to her work, leaving him to his silence.
Vein tapped his fingers idly against the counter, his thoughts drifting once more.
He had wandered for years, a man with no home, no purpose. Beaten, starved, left to rot.
The world had not forgiven him.
The world never did.
But then, just as the harshest winter threatened to claim him, salvation arrived.
A simple family. A small tavern. Warmth where he had only known the cold.
The Hugart family had saved him. Given him food, shelter, a job. Asked for nothing in return.
For the first time in his life, he had lived not as a noble, nor as a disgrace, but simply as a man.
Ten years had passed since then.
He had found peace.
Until the day everything changed.
He had tripped—an embarrassingly simple accident.
His head collided with the counter, pain flaring through his skull, vision going dark.
And then—
Memories.
Knowledge that was not his own.
A story.
A novel.
His life was not his own.
He was an extra. A mere stepping stone in the protagonist's journey.
Nothing more.
As the last tendrils of smoke curled toward the ceiling, Vein leaned back, staring at the tavern before him.
Why had he been given this knowledge?
He was not a transmigrator. Not an outsider who had taken over another's life.
He was simply Vein Reinhardt.
A man whose story had long since ended.
Vein didn't understand.
He had no remarkable skills. His mana core was shattered, his circles reduced to dust.
His aspirations, his dreams—all long buried beneath the weight of time.
So why?
Why had this knowledge been imparted to him?
He tapped his fingers against the wooden counter, brows furrowed in thought.
A deity's prank? Some cosmic joke? Or was this simply madness creeping in after a decade of quiet?
Whatever the case, he found no answer.
His shift ended as usual.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, hung his apron, and threw on his fur coat. The cold bit at his face the moment he stepped outside.
Snow fell in thick, heavy layers, blanketing the streets in an endless white abyss.
"Try not to freeze out there, old man,"
Sylvie called from inside, arms crossed.
Vein smirked slightly, pulling his coat tighter.
"I'm twenty-eight."
"Yeah, yeah." She waved him off.
"See you tomorrow."
He trudged through the snow-covered streets, the tavern's warmth fading behind him.
Lanterns flickered dimly, their flames barely holding against the bitter wind.
After a short walk, he arrived home—a modest wooden house built beside the tavern.
The scent of burning firewood greeted him before the door even opened.
"Vein! You're back!"
A bright, familiar voice rang out. Menon, the youngest son of the Hugart family, greeted him with his usual enthusiasm.
The boy was only ten, full of energy that never seemed to wane.
Vein shook the snow from his coat, hanging it by the door.
"Yeah. It's cold tonight. Make sure the windows are sealed."
Menon puffed up his chest.
"I already did! Mom says I'm in charge of keeping the house warm."
"Good. You're reliable," Vein replied with a small smile, ruffling the boy's hair before heading toward the kitchen.
Dinner was a simple affair. He helped prepare the stew, sliced some bread, and listened to the usual chatter at the table.
The Hugarts spoke of everyday matters—how business was going, how Menon had helped mend a broken chair, how the snowstorm was growing worse.
It was a mundane life. A quiet life.
A life he had come to accept.
After dinner, Vein retired to his room. The small wooden space was plain but comfortable—a bed, a shelf filled with books, a small desk where he sometimes wrote idle thoughts.
He pulled off his boots, sighing as he sank into the mattress. His body ached slightly, exhaustion settling in.
And then—
The air shifted.
A faint hum, almost imperceptible, vibrated through the room.
Vein's eyes snapped open.
Above him, strange letters began to form, glowing faintly against the darkness.
They twisted and flickered, rearranging themselves until they settled into a single sentence.
[Would you like to change your story?]
His breath caught in his throat.
The words hovered, pulsing faintly, waiting.
For him.
Vein sat up slowly, staring. His heartbeat was steady, his mind strangely calm despite the impossibility before him.
A hallucination? A dream?
Or something far more dangerous?
His fingers twitched. The weight of the past, the years of regret, the acceptance of his fate
Did he really need a new chance?
After all this time?
He exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air.
And then, cautiously—
He reached out.