The chasm between one's dream and another's reality is a bridge you have yet to cross. But when you do, you will know how terrifying the Archives truly are.
The words echoed in Nick's head as he jolted awake.
Blinking, he sat upright in bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"That was… one hell of a weird dream," he muttered with a small, tired smile. For a moment, he even thought of curling back under the blanket, savoring a few extra minutes of rest.
But the moment he turned his head, his smile shattered.
A pale arm sprawled across the mattress beside him. A woman. Naked.
Nick's gaze traced upward, every muscle in his body stiffening until his eyes stopped at the dagger buried in her throat. Crimson had soaked the sheets, sticky and half-dried. Her glassy eyes stared at nothing.
Nick's stomach lurched. He looked down at himself, and he was also naked. His hands trembled. His breath hitched.
Everything was wrong. Too wrong.
The room wasn't his. Instead of cold, painted concrete, he was surrounded by wooden walls and beams.
The faint smell of iron clung to the air, mixed with the musty scent of old wood. His left arm, once limp and useless, flexed easily. Strong. Whole. Yet… foreign.
'Mirror. I need a mirror.'
Nothing. No glass, no polished surface in sight.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Nick pressed his temples. His head throbbed, and his thoughts were a mess.
'Calm down.'
He forced a deep breath, then crawled toward the woman's body despite every instinct screaming not to.
Her expression was frozen in shock, eyes wide as if she'd been caught off guard. A smear of blood trailed across the floorboards. She had been dragged here.
Dragged to him.
Both of them are naked.
Nick's eyes widened. The realization cut like a blade. This was a setup.
Then he recalled a plot line from the novel.
Shakily, he tore his eyes away and stumbled toward the corner, where a folded shirt and trousers lay. A white buttoned shirt, black trousers. They are simple yet formal, like something from the early steam era.
The resemblance gnawed at him. Once again, the plot line bugged him.
As he dressed, his eyes caught a broken mirror piece in the bookshelf. He grabbed it and saw his reflection.
What stared back at him was not Nick.
Silver hair. Crimson eyes. A handsome yet foreign face was looking at him.
He froze, staring blankly at the stranger in the mirror. His throat ran dry, his breath shallow.
"This… can't be real."
But the truth pressed down on him with merciless weight. He had no choice but to accept it.
He had transmigrated.
Into the very novel he had created.
Into Luke Veyra.
A disposable character, written solely to further the female lead's growth. A man destined to die early.
"How the hell… is this even possible?"
This was not the time to think.
If he hesitated, he would be dragged back, chained, and locked inside his family's estate for six months, just as the plot dictated.
Not this time.
Nick forced his pounding heart to slow. The kidnappers were ordinary thugs, nothing more. But Luke Veyra was an awakener. Even if only the {Noive stage} [Tier-1], it was enough. Enough to fight. Enough to survive this situation.
Whether this new life turned into a blessing or a curse depended entirely on what he did now.
He strode to the door and twisted the handle. No use. Locked.
Grinding his teeth, Nick stepped back, planted his foot, and kicked with all the strength Luke's body allowed.
CRASH!
The metal door blasted off its hinges and clattered down the hallway.
Gasps echoed in the corridor. Four men spun toward him, daggers in hand, their eyes wide.
"What the hell? He was supposed to be out cold for hours!"
"Shit… do we have to knock him out?"
"He's just a kid!"
Nick's fists tightened. Three years had passed since he last stepped into an MMA cage. His old body had grown weak. But Luke's? This body was sharp, honed, brimming with inhuman power.
The first thug charged. A bald man, broad-shouldered, aiming for a tackle.
To Nick, it was child's play.
His fist flew on instinct.
CRACK!
The punch landed square on the temple. A sickening, bone-snapping sound echoed. The bald man staggered, eyes rolling, before collapsing backward in a limp heap.
Blood seeped from his nose, ears, and eyes.
Nick froze for half a heartbeat. His stomach churned.
'That's… my first kill. In both lives.'
A straight punch. Nothing fancy. Just death.
The other three criminals recoiled, eyes wide with fear. They had underestimated him. Now, they looked at him as if he were a monster.
One bolted down the stairs, leaving the other two trembling but desperate.
"Damn it, we finish him here!"
Both lunged with daggers drawn.
Nick's focus sharpened. His red eyes burned.
'Concentrate. Don't flinch. Don't close your eyes.'
The first thug in a long black coat slashed down at him. Nick leaned back, caught the man's wrist, and twisted. In a single motion, he forced the dagger into its owner's throat.
The man's scream died in a wet gurgle. Blood sprayed across Nick's face, hot and metallic, soaking his white shirt crimson.
The second thug faltered, mid-charge. His eyes locked with Nick's crimson eyes.
And the man froze. His grip on the dagger trembled.
Nick stood there, drenched in blood, breathing hard. The corpses at his feet reeked of iron and fear.
He exhaled slowly, staring at his trembling hands.
"I killed… them."
Step by step, he walked toward the last man.
The last thug's dagger clattered to the ground. His lips quivered as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, with a scream strangled by terror, he rammed the blade into his own heart.
Nick's hands continued to shake. He pressed them to his face, smearing warm blood across his cheeks, his nose, his lips. The metallic taste lingered in the back of his throat.
He just stared blankly.
"…Am I that terrifying?"