The laughter still lingered long after the training session ended.
Even back in his dorm, with the door shut and the cracked ceiling dripping steadily, Nika could still hear their voices—mocking, jeering, dismissing him as nothing more than a joke. The sound clung to him like smoke, impossible to wash away.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the turtle resting on a folded piece of cloth. The little creature had curled tightly into its shell, exhausted from the morning's ordeal. Its breathing was faint, almost fragile, but steady.
Nika exhaled, running a hand through his messy black hair. His reflection in the window looked pale, eyes shadowed, shoulders slumped. The uniform sagged on his thin frame, the faded trim catching the dim light. He looked like someone already defeated.
And that thought terrified him.
Because he remembered what came next.
In the novel, Nika Arlen hadn't lasted long.
He remembered the line clearly, burned into his memory from countless re-reads:
"Among the students lost in the F-rank Gate outbreak was a boy named Nika Arlen. His name was barely remembered, for his death was swift and meaningless."
That was it. One line. A death so insignificant the author had tossed it in as an afterthought. A reminder to readers that the world was cruel, that not everyone survived.
A reminder that nobodies were disposable.
Nika closed his eyes, heart pounding. He could picture it vividly: the Gate that had gone out of control, the swarm of monsters spilling out, the chaos, the blood. Students screaming. Hunters struggling to hold the line. And Nika Arlen, weak and useless, crushed beneath claws and teeth.
Forgotten.
Disposable.
Gone.
His hands trembled. He pressed them into his thighs to steady himself, but the fear didn't fade. It coiled in his chest like a cold serpent, tightening with every memory.
That's what should have happened to me.
But he wasn't just Nika Arlen anymore.
Masato's memories—his life, his obsession with Chronicles of the Gate—burned in his mind. He knew the future. He knew the paths, the choices, the events that shaped this world.
And he refused to let his story end in the footnotes.
He leaned forward, staring at the turtle. Its cracked shell glimmered faintly under the lantern light. Weak. Pitiful. Mocked by everyone.
And yet still alive.
Something inside Nika hardened.
"I won't die like that," he whispered, voice hoarse but steady. "I won't be the forgotten boy who gets eaten by monsters and left behind. Not this time."
The turtle shifted faintly, its tiny head peeking out of the shell. Its black eyes blinked at him, slow but unyielding.
Nika's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.
"You and me, we're the same, aren't we? Everyone thinks we're useless. Everyone's already written us off. But that's exactly why we'll survive. Because they'll never see us coming."
The turtle blinked again. For just a second, Nika thought he saw a glimmer—small, but undeniable—in its gaze.
The night deepened. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world silent except for the steady drip from the ceiling. Nika lay back on the bed, staring at the darkness above. Sleep didn't come easily. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the scene from the novel—the Gate bursting open, the monsters pouring out, the blood, the despair.
His pulse quickened. His breath grew shallow.
But each time, he forced himself to whisper the same words.
Not me. Not this time. Not ever.
He repeated it like a mantra, until the fear dulled into determination, until his trembling stopped.
Because he knew something no one else did.
The turtle wasn't just trash. It was the start of a hidden evolution. A Guardian Turtle, then an Abyss Leviathan Turtle, and eventually the Eternal World Turtle. A beast strong enough to carry continents, to shield worlds.
That was his trump card. His one hope.
But hope alone wouldn't save him.
He needed to prepare. To train. To seize every opportunity before the protagonist or the villains could.
He needed to fight against fate itself.
By dawn, his decision was clear.
Nika stood before the cracked mirror, studying the boy who stared back. Messy black hair that refused to stay down. Dull gray eyes that seemed lifeless at first glance—but behind them, a spark burned. His face was narrow, forgettable, framed by a uniform that hung loosely over his thin shoulders. He looked like nothing.
But he clenched his fists, the contract seal on his hand glowing faintly.
"I don't care if I look like a nobody," he muttered. "I'll rewrite this story. I'll live. I'll grow. And I'll make them all regret laughing at me."
The turtle wheezed from the bed, as if answering his vow.
Nika's smile sharpened.
"Good. Then let's survive together."
Later that day, he walked back to the training grounds with the turtle nestled in his arms. Students glanced his way, some smirking, some shaking their heads. The whispers followed him again, clinging to his every step.
"Why's he still carrying that thing?"
"He should've asked to re-roll his summon."
"He'll be the first to die."
The words stung less this time. He heard them, but they no longer pierced as deeply. Because deep down, Nika knew the truth.
He wasn't just Nika Arlen anymore.
He was Masato—reader, reinkarnator, thief of fate.
And he would prove that even the forgotten could rise.
That night, as the lantern flickered low in his dorm, he carved the vow into his heart:
I will not be the forgotten figuran. I will survive, I will steal fate itself, and I will climb from the bottom to the very top. Even if the world laughs at me.
He glanced at the turtle, now asleep in its shell.
"Especially because the world laughs at me."
His gray eyes glimmered in the dark.
The fate of the forgotten had ended tonight.
From here on, Nika Arlen would begin to carve his own destiny.