A cold breeze brushed against my skin, stirring me from the depths of unconsciousness. My fingers twitched against rough fabric—coarse, worn, nothing like the familiar softness of my bed. The air carried a scent that did not belong to my world: aged parchment, burning candle wax, and a faint musk of old wood.
Something was wrong.
I did not react immediately. My mind remained still, observing, processing. Rushing to conclusions was foolish. Instead, I let my senses expand, absorbing every detail. The distant hum of voices filtered through the walls, muffled yet distinct. The creak of wooden beams overhead, shifting under their own weight. The faint flicker of candlelight dancing along the cracks of the stone walls.
This was not my apartment.
I exhaled slowly, measured. There was no panic, no immediate fear—only cold realization.
I opened my eyes. The ceiling above was unfamiliar, lined with aged wooden beams. Shadows stretched across the dimly lit room, shifting and curling like silent phantoms. I lay upon a stiff mattress, covered by a thin, scratchy blanket. The bed frame creaked as I moved slightly, the sound reverberating through the quiet space. Across the room, a desk sat cluttered with ink-stained parchment and quills, a candle flickering atop it. A small, dusty bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, weighed down by tomes long forgotten.
I swung my legs over the bed, bare feet meeting the chill of wooden floorboards. The sensation was grounding, reaffirming the truth my mind was already beginning to accept. I stood, my movements deliberate, and walked toward the dresser against the wall. Resting atop it was an old mirror, its surface cloudy with age.
The reflection staring back at me was not my own.
Dark brown hair, unruly and unkempt. Dull gray eyes, void of any defining brilliance. A face so painfully average it could fade into any crowd without notice. No sharp features, no striking details. Just another nameless extra in the grand scheme of the world.
Lyle Vance.
The name surfaced effortlessly in my mind, and I did not hesitate to accept it. It was a name I had written before—a minor character in the very novel I had crafted. A forgettable background figure mentioned in passing, devoid of significance.
How ironic.
I took a step back from the mirror, allowing my expression to settle into something unreadable. There was no need for dramatics, no pointless questions. The facts were simple: I was here. In my own creation. In the body of a nobody.
But a nobody had freedom.
A hero was bound by fate, their destiny carved into stone. They followed a path paved by prophecies and divine will, chained to the role assigned to them.
An extra, however, was nothing. A blank slate. A ghost moving unseen between the gears of fate.
And I preferred it that way.
I turned my attention to the desk, my fingers trailing across the rough wooden surface before stopping at a single, unassuming book. A leather-bound tome, its edges worn yet its golden engravings still intricate and precise.
The Book.
The artifact of absolute authority.
I picked it up, feeling the weight of it settle in my hands. The cover felt real—solid, tangible. I flipped it open, watching as ink bled into the blank parchment before me, forming a single, immutable truth:
[Anything written in this book shall come to pass.]
A power beyond comprehension.
But power always came at a cost.
I already knew the rules. The book consumed mana. An absurd amount. Even the simplest alteration to reality would drain me dry if I was not careful.
Still, I needed to confirm its existence beyond words. I dipped a quill into ink, writing a command as minor as I could manage:
The candle's flame turns blue.
The ink shimmered before vanishing, absorbed into the parchment. A second later, the candle flickered. Its orange hue bled into a deep, unnatural blue, casting an eerie glow upon the desk.
And then, the backlash came.
A sharp pain lanced through my skull, white-hot and relentless. My vision blurred at the edges, my breath hitching involuntarily. I steadied myself, fingers gripping the edge of the desk as I exhaled slowly.
Even something this minor had drained me significantly.
I closed the book with careful precision, setting it back in its place.
Limited, but effective.
It was a tool—one that required careful management. I would not be reckless.
A knock on the door disrupted my thoughts.
I remained silent.
Another knock, louder this time.
"Lyle! Open up, you lazy bastard!"
The voice was gruff, impatient. Recognition settled in almost immediately.
Garrick. The owner of this rundown inn. A drunk, a miser, but ultimately harmless.
"I know you're in there, boy! Rent's due in three days, and you've been slacking off!"
I exhaled through my nose. Right. Lyle Vance was not just an extra—he was a broke extra.
My mind moved swiftly. Money was necessary. Not just for survival, but for influence, resources, power. I would not scrape by like a desperate rat.
I needed a source of income. Fast.
Garrick knocked one last time before grumbling something under his breath and walking away.
My eyes drifted back to the Book.
A plan was already forming.
Outside the window, the capital city of Aetheria stretched before me, bathed in the muted glow of lanterns lining the streets. Cobblestone roads twisted through tightly packed buildings, the occasional silhouette of a passerby flickering beneath the dim light.
At this very moment, the protagonist, Alden, was arriving at the Royal Academy. His journey would begin soon—the trials, the friendships, the battles. The rise of a hero destined to stand against the Demon King.
I had no intention of interfering with that.
My goal was simple.
Survival. Growth. Wealth.
I would not follow the script of a hero, nor would I entangle myself in grandiose ideals. My path would be carved in the shadows, built upon careful planning and calculated steps.
A fool's mask—that was what I needed.
People did not fear what they did not perceive as a threat. A harmless extra. A faceless background character. Someone unremarkable, invisible.
But invisibility was power.
Because no one ever paid attention to the pieces moving in the dark.
And that made them the most dangerous of all.
I allowed a rare smirk to curve my lips. It was the only emotion I would permit myself for now.
Because from this moment on, the real game had begun.