I stood in front of the human-sized mirror in the room, blinking a couple of times just to make sure what I was seeing was real. I looked at myself properly, studying every part of my reflection like it was someone else entirely. It was a little weird—no, really weird—to see myself like this.
My hair was brown and kind of messy in a good way, soft and thick, with a few strands falling over my forehead and slightly covering my eyes. It made me look like one of those moody, mysterious guys from a drama. My eyes though—that was the real kicker. They were a deep brown, sharp and clear, like they could cut through glass. There was something intense about them, like I was always thinking, always watching. Honestly, it made me look kind of cool.
My skin had a light tan, like I'd spent just the right amount of time outside without even trying. My face looked like something off a magazine—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, not a single pimple or scar in sight. It felt unfair.
Then I looked down at the rest of my body and nearly laughed out loud. My abs were actually visible—like real abs, not the kind you get from sucking in your stomach. My chest looked firm, my biceps flexed without even trying, and my shoulders were wide in a way that made my waist look even narrower. I wasn't huge, like a bodybuilder or anything, but I was built just right—strong, lean, and kind of perfect.
I moved closer to the mirror, inspecting my arms, my legs, my neck, even my collarbones. Everything looked sculpted—like I'd been drawn instead of born. Like I'd been built from the ground up by a team of artists who really took their job seriously. I tilted my head side to side, then tried some poses I remembered seeing online. I couldn't lie—I looked good. Maybe too good. It felt fake.
"Damn…" I muttered under my breath, still staring. "Is this really me?"
I raised up my hands, slow and cautious, like the reflection would suddenly break character and do something different. But no, it mirrored me perfectly. The hands moved the same way mine did, fingers twitching and all. I let out a small gasp.
"It really is me."
At first, it was just a fleeting suspicion. A feeling in my gut that something wasn't quite right. The way the people looked. The words they used. The setting. The small things. But then I started noticing characters—people I recognized in ways I shouldn't. Faces and names that only existed in one place: my mind. And as I saw more and more of them, the suspicion became certainty. I had somehow transmigrated into my own book.
Somehow, that made me a little angry.
The fact that I transmigrated didn't make me angry. If anything, that part was fine. I had wanted to escape. Desperately. And I got my wish. So no, it wasn't that. What annoyed me was that it happened in such a cliché way—and to such a cliché book.
Veins of A New World.
That was the name of the book. The dumb, over-the-top, chaotic fantasy I wrote when I was thirteen. And it was exactly how you'd expect a thirteen-year-old's book to be. Disorganized, messy, full of plotholes, and absolutely bursting with overdramatic nonsense.
In the book, the Titans—yeah, the same ones from Greek mythology—were banished by the gods millions of years ago. But then, surprise surprise, they found a way to return. They crashed into the Earth like vengeful comets, destroying everything in their path and killing billions of humans. Why? Because they wanted revenge against the gods. Naturally.
Humanity, having long abandoned myths and legends, suddenly found themselves running back to those same stories they used to laugh at. Desperate times, right? So when the gods saw how much humans were suffering, they finally decided to step in. They descended to Earth and trapped the Titans inside this place called the Mirror Realm. A big, empty void filled with reflections and shadows and other weird stuff.
But because I didn't think through the consequences of that, I added that the portals to this Mirror Realm started appearing all over the world. They were called Bridges, because apparently I thought naming them after architectural structures was cool. These Bridges were like scars—reminders of a past humanity couldn't forget.
And since the Titans weren't technically dead, just trapped, the gods figured humanity needed more than just luck if they were gonna survive the next time. So they blessed people—gave them powers. Magic, abilities, weird talents. Demigods, basically. Because apparently I thought throwing some Greek mythology into my post-apocalyptic mess made it more interesting.
Thousands of years passed in the book's timeline, and wouldn't you know it—the Titans were starting to get restless again. Of course they were. That was how I set up the conflict. That's what my thirteen-year-old brain thought was compelling.
I burst into laughter when I remembered the plot. If only I'd known I was going to actually be here, I wouldn't have made it a wartime setting. I would've written a cozy slice-of-life story where the worst threat was running out of coffee.
But hey, too late now. The world was already built. I was stuck in it.
Thankfully, I didn't transmigrate as the main character. Now that would've been a disaster. That guy was basically a walking trauma magnet. He was an extension of myself in the worst way possible. Everything I hated about my life, I gave to him. And then I doubled it. Tripled it. Made it worse. His father was like a superpowered version of mine—cruel, twisted, larger-than-life. I did give him one thing though. I gave him the satisfaction of killing his father. I let him do the thing I never had the courage to do.
But I wasn't him.
No, the person whose body I ended up in was someone else entirely. Someone I designed to be perfect. He had everything I never had. Loving parents. Caring siblings. An entire household of people who adored him. I made him soft and sheltered, someone who didn't know true pain, because I wanted at least one character in that world to be okay.
Lorien Silverstone. The person I so desperately wanted to be. The person who I am now.
Unlike the other demigods with flashy powers and overwhelming magic, he had nothing. No fire. No lightning. No telekinesis. Just a sword. That's all I gave him.
I glanced toward the corner of the room where the weapon rested. A rusted katana stood there, leaning against the wall like it had been forgotten. But it hadn't. Not by me.
The sight of it brought a smile to my face. A real one.
"Ah, yes... his trusty katana," I said with a slight chuckle. "I guess it's my trusty katana now."
With a smile, I grabbed the katana and left the room. I had escaped to a new world. A world that I wrote. It was time to see the world that I escaped to.