"Hm? How… can this be?"
When Sean saw the sudden lines of black text flickering across his vision, his face did not show shock, but his brows knit tightly.
Edison once said: Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.
Those words inspired countless souls. Yet few know that there is a second half to the saying: But that one percent of inspiration is the most crucial, more vital even than the ninety-nine percent of toil.
In his previous life, Sean had been no ordinary man. At only twenty-three years of age, he had already claimed the Nobel Prize in Chemistry—the highest honor in the world.
Indeed, he was one of the rare humans born with a peculiar ability. Unlike the flamboyant superpowers in comic books—manipulating lightning, warping space, and so on—his gift was different. He called it the Talent Web: the power to replicate the gifts of others and weave them into his own.
In simplest terms: through physical contact, he could copy another's talent, transmuting it into his own.
And this "talent" was not restricted to fanciful powers like lightning or teleportation—though he could not say for certain whether such gifts even existed. What he encountered most were far more practical endowments: mathematical genius, an instinct for physics, a natural grasp of chemistry.
In his former life, he had amassed too many such treasures—an entire constellation of top-tier talents. His list of gifts stretched into the dozens. With that arsenal, his meteoric rise had carried him to the Nobel stage before the age of twenty-four.
But fate was cruel. With his rebirth, all of those painstakingly collected talents had vanished, wiped clean like a deleted game save.
The gifts, it seemed, had been imprinted on his original body. And when that body perished, they perished with it. Only the Talent Web itself—rooted in the soul—remained intact. By fortune alone, it had not been erased.
"Enough," he muttered.
Shaking his head, he banished regret. Though losing those talents was grievous, as long as the Talent Web endured, he possessed the means to rise anew. His gaze shifted to the two innate gifts of this new body.
The Swordsmanship Gift—rare, yes, though not unknown to him. He had once encountered it in a reclusive Taoist priest of Wudang, whose swordsmanship gift was at the intermediate level, a full rank higher than Sean Campbell's novice.
Do not underestimate a single rank. Between mediocrity and mastery lies just such a gulf. To put it plainly: with novice talent one could perhaps scrape into the realm of a third-rate fighter; but with intermediate talent, one might ascend to the tier of true elites.
And then there was the Knightly Gift.
This, Sean had never seen before. Judging by its bizarre method of testing, it was clearly unique to this world.
But the word that followed it gave him pause: Lesser.
"So that's it…" He arched a brow. At last he understood why the original Sean Campbell had been on the brink of expulsion.
Lesser—to put it bluntly, defective. With such a gift, any ambition of excelling in the knightly path was a fool's dream. At best, one could linger forever at the threshold, never to step further.
Thus the tragedy of Sean Campbell: though he had strained every sinew, though he had trained with mad devotion, he had failed two assessments in a row, and now stood before the abyss.
"This is troublesome."
His brow furrowed again.
He now found himself enrolled in Neo Knight Academy, the most prestigious knightly academy in the kingdom of Carlo, hailed as the "cradle of knights." All who graduated went on to promising futures—provided they could endure to graduation.
The standards were merciless. Each year, there were two examinations—midyear and year's end. Fail three times consecutively, and you were expelled without appeal.
And misfortune loomed. The next examination was but half a month away. The original Sean had already failed twice. A third failure would mean exile.
"I must remain in this academy…"
Whether to better understand this world, or to prepare for the long road ahead, staying here was the wisest path. Yet an obstacle rose like a wall before him: how to pass the looming trial?
Throwing himself blindly into training was no answer. The original Sean had already lived like an ascetic, devoting every waking hour to practice. His memories showed it: relentless toil, a fanatic's obsession with improvement. Yet all that effort had only seen him fall further behind.
No—the only hope lay elsewhere.
"I must copy a higher-level Knightly Gift. Without that, expulsion is inevitable."
One name surfaced unbidden in his thoughts.
Titus Kirk.
Sean Campbell's contemporary, yet his polar opposite. Where Sean was scorned as talentless, Titus was the brightest star of their year.
Born of a count's house, gifted beyond compare, he had held the top rank unchallenged since the beginning. Even upperclassmen fell before him. It was said he had already stepped into the realm of the Apprentice Knight.
That title, though but the first rung of the ladder, commanded awe. To reach it meant security for life. Though for a count's son like Titus, such rewards were trifles.
"But how to seize his gift…?"
Sean's brow knotted tighter.
Titus Kirk's nature was as proud as his talent. Approaching him would be no easy feat. The method Sean had relied on in his former world—the simple handshake—was useless here. Handshakes were not common custom.
And even if they were, Titus would never deign to clasp hands with a failed, lesser-gifted peer.
Knock, knock, knock!
The rapping at his door jolted him from thought.
"Who…?"
His voice was wary, speaking in the language that felt both strange and familiar, drawn from the inherited memories. He had just awoken in another's body; nothing felt secure.
"Sean? Are you awake? It's me, Mor."
At the sound, recognition flashed.
Mor Leonard—a classmate, assigned to the same group, one of the rare few who had ever shown kindness to the original Sean.
"Come in."
Quickly reviewing every memory of Mor Leonard, Sean forced himself to adopt the other boy's mannerisms, striving to speak as the old Sean would have.
Creak.
The door opened, and a youth with curly flaxen hair stepped in.
He wore the black-and-white patterned training armor of the academy, a knight's sword at his hip. His eyes went straight to Sean, sitting upright on the bed, and filled with concern.
"How are you? Any better?"
"Much better," Sean nodded, mimicking his predecessor's style of speech.
"Ah, I told you—Benson was only provoking you. You shouldn't have accepted his challenge."
"I couldn't help it," Sean replied lightly. "You were the one who carried me back, weren't you? My thanks."
"No need. As long as you're all right. But don't be so reckless again."
Mor sighed.
"And don't weigh yourself down. Tomorrow morning, a guest will be attending class—you mustn't miss it. Rest well."
With that, he turned to go. Yet inwardly, disappointment stirred.
For Mor Leonard was the son of a merchant. He liked "investments," always wagering small costs for the chance at great returns. His friendship with Sean had been such an investment.
In the beginning, Sean's diligence had seemed a sure bet—promising to yield unforeseen rewards. But now?
"Was I wrong about him?" Mor wondered. "So be it. Every investment bears risk. This one, it seems, has failed."