I used to read The Sovereign of Spell and Steel to escape reality. A world of arrogant nobles, blood-soaked battlefields, mages who burned their lives away for power, and swords that decided who deserved to live. It was a cruel story—but it was never mine.
Now it is.
I don't know how it happened. One moment I was a 23-year-old college graduate, lying on my bed, flipping through chapters I already knew by heart. The next, I woke up in a body that wasn't mine—Lucien Tharvayne, a name I didn't even knew existed, an unknown character from the original story.
I know this world. I know how it ends. I know which kingdoms fall, which heroes die, and which monsters wear human faces. I was never meant to be part of the story—yet here I am, bleeding, tired, and surviving through pages that were once just words on a screen.
The original plot is already breaking. Events are changing. People who should be dead are breathing, and those destined for glory are staring at me with hatred in their eyes.
I'm exhausted.
And I refuse to die according to someone else's ending.
If this world insists on following The Sovereign of Spell and Steel, then fine. I'll continue the story myself.
And this time—I'll be the one holding the pen.