Ethan's knees pressed against the cold stone floor, his hands clutching his head as he tried to force the world to make sense. His heart pounded, each beat a reminder that this wasn't a dream, no matter how much he wanted it to be. He wasn't in a coma. He wasn't hooked up to some high-tech VR game. He was here, in the world of his own damn novel, Eidolon: The Sovereign's Path. Worse, he was stuck in the body of Darius Wycliffe, the arrogant, talentless noble he'd written to be crushed by his perfect protagonist, Lucien Ashford.
The thought made his stomach churn. Darius wasn't just a side character. He was a punching bag, a smug jerk designed to make Lucien's brilliance shine brighter. Ethan had crafted him to be hated, to be humiliated, to be forgotten. And now, he was living inside that failure of a character, wearing his skin, speaking with his voice.
"This is insane," he whispered, his voice too smooth, too polished, dripping with the kind of aristocratic entitlement he'd given Darius. It didn't sound like him. It didn't feel like him. But the stone walls, the creaky wooden furniture, the faint glow of magical symbols embroidered on his navy-blue robes—they were all too real. The air smelled of old parchment and faint herbs, a scent so vivid it made his head spin. This was no hallucination. This was Eldoria, the world he'd built from sleepless nights and endless revisions.
Ethan forced himself to stand, his legs wobbling like they belonged to a newborn colt. The robes clung to his frame, stiff and ornate, more suited for a fancy gala than a school dorm. Who the hell wore this to class? He tugged at the silver-trimmed collar, feeling like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's suit. Darius's body was frail, his arms thin and pale, like they'd snap under the weight of a heavy book. Ethan wasn't exactly a bodybuilder back in his old life, but this was pathetic.
"Okay, okay, think," he muttered, pacing the small room. His eyes darted to the wooden desk, cluttered with parchment, ink bottles, and a few dusty tomes. He grabbed a sheet of paper, hands shaking as he scanned the elegant handwriting. The words hit him like a slap.
"The Arcanium. First-Year Spellcraft Examination – Darius Wycliffe."
His breath caught. Darius Wycliffe. His name—no, that name—stared back at him in black ink, mocking him. He was really here, trapped in the body of the character he'd doomed to fail. The guy who existed only to make Lucien Ashford look like a god.
"Goddamn it," Ethan groaned, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and he buried his face in his hands. This was beyond ridiculous. It was a cosmic joke, and he was the punchline.
If this was real—and every aching muscle, every cold draft, every detail of this medieval dorm screamed that it was—then he was in deep trouble. Darius Wycliffe was a joke at the Arcanium, the most prestigious magical academy in Eldoria. A spoiled noble with barely enough magical talent to spark a candle, let alone survive among the world's most gifted mages. Ethan had written him that way on purpose, a caricature of entitlement to contrast Lucien's raw, hard-earned power. And in a month, if the story followed his draft, Darius would face Lucien in the First-Year Spellcraft Examination, a public duel where students showed off their magic. Darius's role? Get obliterated, humiliated, and tossed aside like garbage.
Ethan's fingers tightened around the parchment, crumpling it. He could still picture the scene he'd written: Lucien, the prodigy, weaving spells with effortless grace, while Darius flailed, his weak magic fizzling out to the crowd's laughter. It was meant to be satisfying, a classic underdog-triumphs moment. But now, Ethan was the one who'd be on the receiving end of that beatdown. The thought made his chest tighten, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"I've got a month," he whispered, his voice trembling. "One month to figure out how to not get destroyed by my own hero."
His mind raced, replaying every detail he'd written about the Arcanium. The academy was a brutal proving ground, where only the strongest survived. Magic was everything here—mana, incantations, runes, all the stuff he'd spent months fleshing out for his novel. He'd poured hours into worldbuilding, crafting spells and systems, but most of it was background fluff. He wasn't a mage. He was a burned-out writer who'd barely passed high school chemistry. How was he supposed to survive in a world where magic was real and he was the weakest link?
A sharp knock at the door jolted him, his heart leaping into his throat.
"Wycliffe!" a rough voice barked. "You planning to sleep all day or what?"
Ethan froze, his hand hovering near the doorknob. His mind scrambled to place the voice. Darius had roommates—two other first-year students at the Arcanium. Ethan had written them as minor characters, guys who tolerated Darius but barely hid their contempt for his arrogance. If he was right, these were Kai and Aiden, and they already thought he was a useless noble coasting on his family name.
He took a shaky breath, steeling himself, and opened the door.
Two boys stood in the hallway. Kai was tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped hair and a scowl that looked like it was carved into his face. Aiden was leaner, sharp-eyed, clutching a thick book under his arm like he was ready to use it as a weapon. Both stared at Ethan with a mix of annoyance and pity, like he was a problem they'd rather avoid.
"Uh… hey," Ethan said, trying to sound casual but cringing at how awkward he sounded in Darius's smooth voice. "What's up?"
Kai's scowl deepened, his arms crossing over his chest. "You're kidding, right? You're still lounging around like some pampered lord? Class starts in less than an hour, idiot."
Ethan blinked, his brain catching up. Class. Of course. This was a magical academy, not some random high school. He vaguely remembered writing about the Arcanium's grueling schedule—lectures on mana theory, practical spellcasting, history of Eidolon's magic. Missing class wasn't an option, not if he wanted to survive.
Aiden's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp with disdain. "You do realize the First-Year Spellcraft Examination is a month away, don't you? If you keep skipping classes, you won't have a chance in hell of being ready. Not that you seem to care."
Ethan's stomach dropped. A month. The exam was a month away, and these two were already writing him off, just like everyone else in the story. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What could he say? He didn't even know what class they were talking about.
Kai snorted, shaking his head. "Whatever, Wycliffe. Keep acting like your family name will carry you through. See how that works out when you're eating dirt in the exam."
"Let's go, Kai," Aiden said, already turning away. "He's not worth it. Let him crash and burn on his own."
They walked off, their boots echoing down the stone hallway, leaving Ethan standing in the doorway, his heart pounding. He closed the door slowly, his fingers trembling as he locked it. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the weight of his situation sank deeper.
"Great," he muttered, sinking back onto the bed. "Not only am I stuck in this stupid book, but everyone already hates me. Perfect."
His legs felt like jelly, his mind a chaotic mess of fear and frustration. He wasn't just fighting the story now—he was fighting the reputation Darius had built. A reputation Ethan had written, word by word, to make him the perfect villain. Arrogant. Useless. Despised.
He rubbed his temples, trying to push back the panic threatening to drown him. "Okay, Ethan. Pull it together. You're not Darius. Not really. You're the guy who made this world. You know how it works. You can figure this out."
The words felt hollow, but saying them out loud helped. He wasn't helpless. Not completely. He'd created Eldoria, the Arcanium, Lucien—every detail of this world came from his mind. If anyone could find a way to survive, it was him. He just needed to stop freaking out and start thinking like the author he was.
His eyes drifted back to the desk, to the scattered notes and textbooks. Most of it was basic magical theory—mana flow, incantations, runes. Stuff he'd written to flesh out the world but never really dug into because it was boring compared to epic battles and dramatic betrayals. Now, those boring details were his lifeline.
He grabbed a book, flipping it open with shaking hands. The pages were filled with diagrams of mana channels, lists of incantations, and notes on spell structure. It looked like gibberish at first, like trying to read a textbook in a language he barely understood. But as he stared at the words, fragments of his own writing came back to him. He'd spent hours crafting this system, tweaking the rules of magic to make it feel real. Mana was like a current, flowing through the body and shaped by intent. Spells were patterns, woven with words and focus. He'd made it simple enough for readers to follow, but complex enough to feel alive.
"I wrote this," he said, his voice steadier now. "I know this stuff. Maybe not like a mage, but I know the rules."
He turned another page, his eyes catching on a basic spell: Ignis Minor, a simple fire-starting incantation. He'd written it as a beginner's spell, something even Darius could manage. The words were clear in his mind: "Ignis, forma, accende." He whispered them, half-expecting nothing to happen.
A faint warmth sparked in his palm, a tiny flicker of flame dancing for a moment before sputtering out. Ethan stared, his heart racing. "Holy shit," he breathed. "It worked."
It was weak, barely a spark, but it was real. Magic was real, and he'd just used it. A rush of excitement cut through his fear, a small spark of hope igniting in his chest. If he could do this, maybe he could learn more. Maybe he could get stronger.
But the excitement faded as reality crashed back in. A month wasn't enough time to become a master mage. Not when he was starting from nothing, in a body as weak as Darius's. Lucien Ashford was a prodigy, a once-in-a-generation talent who could unravel any spell thrown at him. Ethan had written him that way, making him unstoppable to drive the story forward. Now, that perfect hero was his biggest threat.
"I can't beat him," Ethan muttered, his hands clenching into fists. "Not yet. But I don't have to. I just need to survive."
He flipped through another book, scanning for anything that could help. Most of the spells were basic—light, fire, small shields. Nothing that could stand up to Lucien's power. But there was something else in his story, something he'd only hinted at in the background: forbidden magic. Spells so dangerous even the Arcanium's professors feared them. He'd called it the Umbral Weave, a shadowy school of magic tied to raw, chaotic mana. He'd never fleshed it out, leaving it as a vague threat for later books he never got to write. Now, it might be his only shot.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. The Umbral Weave wasn't just powerful—it was unstable. Corruptive. In his notes, it drove mages mad, twisted their bodies, or worse. But what choice did he have? If he played by the rules, he'd end up like Darius in the original story: humiliated, broken, dead.
"I'm not going down like that," he said, his voice hard with resolve. "I made this world. I can change it."
He stood, pacing the room again, his mind racing. He had a month to learn magic, to figure out how to use Darius's pathetic mana reserves, to find a way to cheat his fate. He didn't know how, but he'd find a way. He had to.
Because no way in hell was he letting Lucien Ashford, his own creation, write the end of his story.