The morning light seeped through the worn-out curtains of my small, shabby room, casting long, golden streaks across the wooden floor. The air held a lingering chill, a remnant of the night, though it was soon dispelled by the creeping warmth of the rising sun.
I sat at the edge of my bed, my fingers lightly tapping against my knee as I stared at the book resting on the desk. Its presence was a silent reminder—one that cemented my situation as reality. I wasn't waking up from this dream.
This is my world now.
I exhaled slowly, then ran a hand through my disheveled hair. The weight of the situation should've been suffocating, but I felt nothing. No panic. No dread. Just quiet acceptance.
I had already concluded that emotions—fear, hesitation, attachment—were unnecessary burdens. This was a world of fiction, crafted from my own mind. The people, the cities, the conflicts… all elements of a story I once controlled. And even if my position had changed, my understanding of this world hadn't.
That alone gives me an advantage.
I rose from the bed and approached the desk, my fingers trailing along the book's cover. Its golden engravings shimmered under the soft morning light, the intricate patterns seeming almost alive. My tool, my weapon, my greatest asset—yet also my most dangerous one.
I flipped it open, my mind already calculating the possibilities. The book allowed me to rewrite reality, but at a severe cost. Last night's experiment, a mere color shift in candlelight, had drained me enough to cause immediate backlash. It was a warning: reckless usage could kill me before I even had the chance to make a difference.
My eyes trailed over the empty pages, thoughts swirling.
I need mana.
It was an obvious conclusion. Without a stable source, the book was useless. This world operated on magic, and like any other resource, mana could be trained, refined, and expanded. The stronger my mana reserves, the more influence I would have over the book's power.
But that takes time.
A soft knock on my door snapped me out of my thoughts. I didn't react immediately. Instead, I waited. Three seconds. Five. Seven. Then, another knock, followed by a familiar voice.
"Lyle, open up. I know you're in there."
Garrick again.
I sighed, closing the book before moving toward the door. As expected, the moment I opened it, I was met with the sight of my landlord—a man in his late forties, his thick beard barely concealing the permanent scowl etched onto his face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over me with scrutiny.
"You've been quiet lately." He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Not causing trouble, are you?"
I offered a lazy smile, tilting my head slightly. "I've just been contemplating the meaning of life, Garrick."
His scowl deepened. "Don't start with your nonsense. Rent's due in three days."
"I haven't forgotten."
"Good. Because if you don't have the coin by then, you'll be sleeping in the streets."
He turned on his heel and walked away, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floorboards.
I watched him leave, my expression returning to its natural, unreadable state.
Money. Another problem that needed solving.
Time to make a move.
The streets of Aetheria were bustling with activity, merchants shouting their wares while customers haggled with exasperated expressions. The scent of fresh bread, roasted meat, and aged spices mixed in the air, forming a blend both enticing and overwhelming.
I walked with a casual gait, hands tucked into my coat pockets as I observed my surroundings. Information was power, and even the smallest details could prove useful.
I already knew the major players of this world—noble families, influential merchants, criminal organizations. But my current self was in no position to interact with any of them. Not yet.
For now, I needed to start small.
I turned a corner, stepping into a quieter part of the district. A row of buildings lined the street, their signs old but well-maintained. And among them, a familiar name caught my eye.
Edgar's Pawn & Trade.
I entered the shop, the scent of aged wood and ink immediately filling my senses. Shelves lined the walls, displaying trinkets, jewelry, old books, and miscellaneous artifacts. Behind the counter, an old man with round glasses and a thinning mustache peered up from a ledger, his sharp eyes studying me the moment I entered.
"Ah," Edgar hummed. "If it isn't Lyle Vance. What brings you here today?"
I met his gaze, my posture relaxed. "Information."
The old man chuckled. "Information isn't free, boy."
"Neither is opportunity."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't dismiss me outright. That was enough.
I pulled out a small pouch and placed it on the counter. "Silver. Enough for a tip, I'd say."
Edgar's lips twitched in amusement. "And what exactly are you looking for?"
"High-profit, low-risk ventures." I leaned slightly forward. "Something that doesn't require connections but offers a reasonable payout."
The old man studied me for a long moment before sighing. "You're lucky. There's been a recent influx of magical relics from the western territories—most of them fake, but some… legitimate." He tapped his ledger. "People are eager to buy, and if you know how to identify the real ones, you can make quite a profit."
That was all I needed to hear.
I nodded. "Thank you, Edgar."
"Don't thank me yet, boy. The business of magic is a tricky one."
I merely smiled.
Tricky? Perhaps. But nothing was more dangerous than a man who already knew how the story would unfold.
And in this world, I was that man.