Sunlight streamed across the ceiling, warm and unfamiliar.
My eyes snapped open, chest tightening—my alarm should've gone off at dawn.
Panicked, I groped for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers brushed something smooth, lighter than I remembered. When I lifted it, the device gleamed, slim and glossy white. Sleeker. Sharper. Different, yet oddly familiar. I must still be dreaming.
The screen read: 9:30 AM.
Groaning, I tumbled out of bed and turned right, even though my bathroom door had always been to the left. Somehow, I still found it.
I splashed cold water over my face, chasing the pressure clamped against my temples. Droplets slid down trembling fingers, gathering in the porcelain sink.
When I lifted my head, the mirror nearly made me stagger.
The reflection staring back wasn't mine.
The eyes were still blue, but brighter—like sunlight catching a lake. My hair spilled longer, messy strands of golden blond shimmering unnaturally. My jaw was sharper, my frame leaner, taller, as though someone had carved me into a prettier stranger.
I froze, knuckles whitening against the sink.
That wasn't me. That couldn't be me.
And then it hit—like a dam bursting. Memories that weren't mine flooded through, searing into place. Names. Voices. Images of a vast world I knew but shouldn't.
My chest heaved. No… no, this doesn't make sense.
I recognized this world. But was it from the book I once read… or was it the game I played last night?
The question gnawed at me as each memory sharpened: the White Gates, the Awakener academies, the endless fight against corrupted monsters and void-borns. Pieces snapped into place, but the edges refused to fit.
And then I found it.
Daelan Wardell.
The Visionary of the Isles—an NPC from the game. Never mentioned in the novel.
My blood ran cold. The truth settled in my stomach like stone.
I had to be sure. Almost without thinking, driven by equal parts dread and curiosity, I whispered the word:
"Status."
A translucent screen blinked into existence before my eyes, faintly glowing, letters sharp and sterile.
Status Window
Rank: Alpha Lv. 1
Name: William Laurel
Age: 16
Titles: [???]
Unique Skill: Perception
Affinity: Light
MP: 190 / 190
Stats
Strength: 6
Agility: 5
Stamina: 5
Constitution: 5
Mana: 19
My breath caught.
These stats were pathetic. Barely above an unawakened civilian. Heroes in the game had started leagues beyond this. Even the weakest prodigies at the academies could crush me without trying.
Every stat I had was pitiful—except one. Mana. My only saving grace, and the only reason the Academy hadn't shut its gates in my face. According to William Laurel's memories, the instructors believed I could still fix my physical shortcomings through training. Mana was the spark, but discipline was supposed to fan it into something more.
Despair twisted in my gut at the thought of training. Every muscle in this body felt weak, fragile, untested. But stats weren't the only thing that mattered—I needed to check the rest. Skills. Affinities. Anything that might give me an edge.
Hope flickered as the Status Window shifted.
Affinity: Light.
It was Versatile. Both offensive and healing potential—rare, powerful, and above all, useful.
Unique Skill: Perception.
Grants a third-person view of a 3-meter radius. Cost: 50 MP/min.
I exhaled. Relief. This wasn't useless—it was massive. Perception meant awareness, battlefield clarity. The kind of advantage people died for. And according to the memories I had, unique skills with mana costs didn't just stay the same—they evolved. Costs dwindled. Capabilities expanded. If I could survive long enough, this would become more than just a tool. It would become a weapon.
But my gaze froze on the Titles line.
[???]
I stared until my eyes burned. I didn't need anyone to tell me what it meant. Deep down, I already knew.
It wasn't a placeholder.
It was Terra's Champion.
Or at least, that's what it had been in the novel. It always appeared on Rowen's status window.
My pulse quickened, fear and awe tangling in my veins.
But Rowen was the Champion. Rowen had always been the Champion.
No—this had to be something else. Some hidden perk, a transmigrator's title. Maybe "Wanderer," or "Fallen," or "Exile." Something powerful, sure, but not the Champion.
"It's… something else," I muttered to the empty room, to the stranger's face in the mirror. "Some hidden title. Something cool."
Whatever [???] meant, it would reveal itself eventually. But for now, I had bigger problems.
The flood of memories still burned behind my eyes, clashing and unraveling with every breath.
If Wardell existed, then this wasn't just the novel I remembered. It was the game, Legacy of Scindari.
But I had to be sure. I needed proof. I needed more than fragments and guesses.
The answer had to be in Arcadia's library.
And while I was there, I'd get what I needed most: a skill. Something to help me sort through this chaos, to process and adapt before it tore me apart.