Altair stood in the same forest clearing he'd trained Flow Method in the day before, his cloak folded beside him, sleeves rolled up like he was about to scrub pots instead of potentially explode himself.
"Alright," he muttered, stretching his arms.
He'd read enough in the library yesterday to piece together the basics:
Six elements — Fire, Water, Wind, Earth, Yin, and Yang.
Four core functions — heat manipulation, healing, offense, internal enhancement, and whatever reality-breaking nonsense Yin and Yang pulled.
Each had its own keyword:
Goa for fire, Fura for wind, Dona for earth, and Huma for ice — which weirdly counted as either water or fire, since fire governed temperature. Because why not.
Power could be enhanced with prefixes: El, Ul, and Al, each one ramping up the strength of the spell. Altair had wisely decided not to try shouting "Al Goa" on his first go unless he wanted a crater with his name on it.
So here he was. Fingers slightly trembling — whether from anticipation or the deep-rooted fear of magically roasting his own eyebrows off was unclear.
He raised his hand toward a leafless patch of ground and took a breath.
"Goa."
A small puff of warm air emerged from his palm. Not a fireball. Not even a spark. Just... toast-level heat.
He frowned. "Okay. Not exactly 'Wizard King' tier, but no third-degree burns either."
Next:
"Fura."
A breeze fluttered out, barely enough to ruffle his bangs.
"Dona."
The ground cracked faintly under his boot, like someone snapping a breadstick two rooms over.
"Huma."
A few frost crystals danced before disappearing like confused snowflakes.
"Shamac." The result was just as underwhelming as the rest.
.
.
"…Wow," Altair muttered, hands on hips. "I'm an all-rounder. A completely unremarkable, lukewarm all-rounder."
He flopped back onto the grass with a sigh, staring at the clouds creeping through the pale morning sky.
"Apparently I've got the mana for all six elements. That sounds cool until you realize it's like owning six musical instruments but not knowing how to play any of them without breaking a string or summoning a demon."
His control was a joke, and his gate — the internal channel for mana flow — felt clunky, inefficient. Like trying to run a fountain through a straw.
"But hey, at least I didn't turn myself into a human torch. Baby steps."
Still, the fact that he could use everything at a basic level was... notable. Not common. If he could learn control, even just a bit, he'd be dangerous. Or at least competent enough to not die in the next alley ambush.
"…Maybe someday I'll actually cast something cool. Until then, I'm just a magical vending machine that dispenses disappointment."
The forest echoed softly with his footsteps and sarcasm, the rising sun casting long shadows behind him.
.
.
Five days passed.
In that time, Altair trained. Relentlessly.
He spent mornings working on the Flow Method, pushing his body until he could run faster, hit harder, and take a hit without flinching. He could now cover a hundred meters in under six seconds. Not bad for a guy who used to get winded jogging up stairs.
Afternoons were for magic. Trial and error—mostly error. But after enough fireballs, wind blasts, and failed healing attempts, he got the basics of every element down. Crude, unstable, and mana-draining—but it worked.
And in the evenings, he hit the library.
That's where things got... strange.
There were records. Sparse, but enough to piece together something. A half-elf swordsman named Altair who appeared during the last major war. Wielded a sword with a black dragon head for a hilt—the exact one he now carried.
He had the ability to nullify magic, weaken divine protections, and was known for his inhuman speed and skill with the blade.
Altair leaned back in his seat, staring blankly at the pages.
"…So yeah. That was me. Or... this body, at least."
He didn't understand how it worked. Some weird soul-transfer thing? Reincarnation? Possession with extra steps? He gave up trying to explain it. This was Isekai Land™—weird was the norm.
But surprisingly, the fear and hate people showed him weren't because of Altair.
No. It was deeper than that.
The world's collective prejudice was because of The Witch of Envy—a monstrous, supposedly insane entity who destroyed half the world 400 years ago and created the three great mabeasts (whose names he forgot because, frankly, they were long and annoying).
She was a half-elf too.
And looked suspiciously similar to how he did now. Well mostly because of the white hair and purple eyes.
"Of course she does," he muttered under his breath. "Why wouldn't the world-ending horror look like me?"
So yeah—turns out being a half-elf wasn't just hard mode. It was nightmare mode.
But at least now, he knew.
He wasn't being hunted for being Altair.
He was being hated because of a woman who committed world-ending war crimes four centuries ago.
"…I love this world," he muttered sarcastically, shutting the book and sighing.
He also found a small passage that caught his eye—something about a snow-covered forest, deep up north, near the edge of Lugunica. It used to be the residence of the elves, back when they still had something resembling a relationship with the outside world. Now? Covered in snow year-round, isolated, and avoided by pretty much everyone.
Altair stared at the page for a while.
So that's where this body probably came from. Great. Even more reason people didn't question his existence: nobody bothered going up there.
Still, that meant he needed a cover story. He couldn't just say, "Hi, I spawned in the middle of a snow forest with plot-relevant genetics and trauma in my eyes." That was a fast track to getting stabbed or studied.
So he cooked something up.
He lived with his elf father in a cabin somewhere near a village, tucked away in the woods. They came out only occasionally for supplies. After his father died from illness, he set off into the world, trying to find purpose and maybe better food.
Totally believable. 100% certified bullshit.
But hey—he'd told worse lies under worse circumstances. Probably.
"Rest in peace, imaginary forest dad," Altair muttered, scribbling down the details so he could memorize them. "You died doing what you loved—being tragically vague for my backstory."
With that, he shut the last book and leaned back.
Yeah. Not a bad five days.
.
.
Atlair walked the streets, a half-finished meat skewer in one hand—the last of the dozen he'd casually devoured during his lazy afternoon stroll.
'I wonder how long I'll be able to enjoy this… Walking around the city and training is getting boring!'
That exact boredom was why he'd been slacking on today's training session.
'Damn, I need some human interaction. Like what the fuck? I haven't even found a girl who falls in love with me on sight because of my mysterious past and overpowered abilities. What kind of Isekai scam is this?'
He never imagined he'd reach the point where he, of all people, would crave social interaction. But, well—boredom makes you do weird things.
His sarcastic inner rant was interrupted by a shift in the air.
Well, "shift" might've been dramatic—it was more like a ripple of whispers and stares, all aimed toward someone coming down the street.
A guy with… black hair?
Wait.
'What the fuck?! Is that a tracksuit?! Is he also from the modern world? Oh, shit!'
Instinct screamed at Atlair to run—full sprint, no questions asked.
But just as quickly, logic kicked in.
'Wait a damn second. He can't recognize me. I've got a whole different body now, remember?'
And just like that, the internal panic dialed down.
The new guy—frantic breaths, a nervous grin, and energy like a shaken soda can—was making a beeline for him.
The boy skidded to a halt right in front of him, staring like he'd just seen a ghost.
Passersby slowed down, not even pretending to mind their own business anymore.
"Altair! Where the hell did you go? You disappeared after the Loot House! Weird shit started happening after that, and I couldn't find Satella anywhere! I thought maybe you'd know where she—"
He was rambling. Real fast.
Altair blinked. Brows slightly furrowed.
"…What?" he muttered, completely thrown off. "You—uh… You've definitely got the wrong guy. I think."
The boy froze for a split second, confused by Altair's confusion.
"No, wait. You're Altair—come on, stop messing around. You were right there at the Loot House!"
"Loot what now? I've never even—" he paused, then gave a helpless shrug, "Look, man, I have no clue who you are. Honestly."
The boy's shoulders tensed, clearly frustrated—but something in Altair's expression made doubt creep into his features.
Before he could press further, his gaze shifted, catching movement in the crowd.
Altair noticed it too—pointed ears, silver hair that stood out even in a busy street.
A half-elf girl.
The boy's eyes widened in recognition. He sucked in a sharp breath.
"Wait here!" he barked at Altair, already pivoting on his heel. "If you are pretending, you're a dick—but if you're not, then this is gonna get real messy real fast!"
And with that, he bolted, weaving through pedestrians like a man on a mission.
"Hey! Wait—Satella!" he called out, his voice rising over the murmur of the crowd.
Altair stood there, dumbfounded.
"…The hell is happening right now?"
.
.
"I'll ask one more time. Why did you call me by the name of the Witch of Envy?" the half-elf girl demanded, voice sharp and cutting through the air like a blade.
The black-haired boy flinched under the intensity of her glare.
"Because you told me to…" he muttered, confused and clearly panicking. He looked like he'd just realized he'd walked into an ancient curse by pressing a glowing red button labeled DO NOT PRESS.
"I don't know who told you that," she snapped, "but they have terrible taste! The Witch of Envy is the symbol of taboo, and you call me by her name—one most dare not even say out loud!"
Even the bystanders chimed in.
"Yeah, that's going too far, boy!"
A few nods of agreement rippled through the crowd. People were practically sharpening their pitchforks with their eyes.
Altair chewed the last bite of his skewer and silently judged the scene.
'Well, that guy just triggered a fantasy-world cancel mob.'
Still, watching from a short distance away, something didn't sit right.
By the tracksuit alone, it was obvious that dude was from the modern world. And if he was new, then there was a solid chance he genuinely didn't know the cultural landmine he'd just stepped on.
But that wasn't what had Altair unsettled.
It was the girl.
At first, he was shocked—half-elf weren't exactly common around here, and he hadn't seen another one since getting dropped into this mess of a world. But what really caught his attention was how much she looked like… well… him.
White hair. Purple eyes. Half-elf ears. All features he'd seen in the mirror every morning for the last six days.
So either there was a default character creator template for half-elves in this world, or there was something seriously weird going on.
He scratched his head.
But just as he was about to stew deeper in conspiracy theories, the girl turned on her heel.
"If you have nothing else to say, I'm leaving. I have things to do."
And then, a blur of motion darted from the side—small, fast, with yellow hair like someone had dunked them in paint. Altair barely had time to register it before the kid made a quick grab at the girl's pocket.
The girl turned around just a second too late.
"Wait, were you stalking me? Are you working with her?!"
Ohhh, that was a hard accusation.
She glared at the still-frozen boy like he'd just admitted to summoning the Witch of Envy himself. And to be fair, considering how loud he'd been earlier, his little distraction gave the thief a perfect opening.
The girl didn't wait for his answer—she bolted, chasing after the pickpocket. The boy hesitated for a fraction of a second before cursing under his breath and running after her.