The morning light seeped through the blinds in uneven stripes, casting pale shadows across the small apartment. Damian sat at the chipped wooden table, staring at a sandwich he had found in the freezer. He chewed mechanically, the taste bland and dry, his mind elsewhere. The city outside was already alive—a distant hum of hovercars, people moving like ants, the constant pulse of Aurelia's veins spreading into every corner of the continent's capital. Even from here, Damian could feel the scale of it. This city was bigger than anything he'd imagined from his previous life, sprawling far beyond the books he'd studied, far beyond the streets he had wandered as Ethan Vale.
He swallowed, trying to decide where to begin. Two years. Two long years until he could even step foot in Arcon Academy, the pinnacle of human cultivation in Europe. The thought should have excited him, but it didn't. The former Damian Lockley had been incapable of progress—his left arm corrupted, his mana core shattered in the rift break that had destroyed his life and family. Suicide had seemed the only way out, and now Damian sat in the ruins of that body, carrying all the memories of someone who had already given up.
He exhaled, letting the weight of the knowledge settle. "I can't mess this up," he muttered to himself. "I have to live differently. I have to survive."
He stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs. Every muscle and tendon felt unfamiliar. The void residue in his body still throbbed faintly, an echo of the corruption that had taken his left arm. Medical help could do nothing for this. Only understanding, only careful training, could purify what remained and prevent the soul from being poisoned further.
Glancing around, he noticed his possessions: a modest desk cluttered with books on mana theory, historical accounts of rift disasters, and scattered sketches of combat formations. On a low shelf, a stack of notebooks beckoned—a place he could record his progress, his plans, his observations.
And then there was the sword.
It was a simple blade, nothing ornate. Damian counted the zeni he had left from the former owner's savings. Just enough to buy the sword at a pawn shop, maybe one that had survived the last economic collapse of this world. It wasn't much, but it would serve. He had to be practical—his life depended on it.
As he left the apartment, the city sprawled before him. Hover trains zipped through the air, skyscrapers gleamed in the early sunlight, and citizens moved with purpose, unaware of the tiny, desperate thread of life weaving through them. Damian made his way to the outskirts, mentally preparing himself. He had a path to follow, one he already knew existed—a boon left for the real protagonist of this story, a reward meant to empower someone who would shape the world.
His mind flicked to it, and for a moment, doubt clawed at him. If I take it… will I become like the Damian from the book? Will I be unworthy of what it's meant to do?
He shook his head. No. The original Damian had died. That path was closed. He wasn't here to destroy—he was here to survive and, if possible, to carve a better path than the one written in the pages of that novel. The boon was dangerous, yes, and painful. But he had foreknowledge now. He had memory. He had reason.
As he walked through the streets toward the forest where the boon was said to reside, he let his thoughts wander. I only know half the story. I have to tread carefully. I can't rush this. Everything depends on knowing more… understanding what the consequences will be.
The outskirts were quiet, a stark contrast to Aurelia's heartbeat of industry. Trees swayed gently in the wind, and the faint scent of damp earth filled the air. Here, the world felt older, almost primal, and it reminded Damian that power was not given—it was taken, earned, or suffered for.
He paused for a moment, imagining the power of the boon. The legends spoke of dragons—beings now extinct, consumed by the abyss. But even in death, their remnants held weight. Null, the ability to erase any conceptual energy it touched, had once belonged to such creatures. Damian could not yet comprehend the full scale, but he knew that the boon would elevate him. It was not just strength—it was understanding, potential, a bridge to mastery.
And yet, he felt the echo of responsibility. I can't become a monster. I can't take what isn't mine without reason. But… if this boon is meant to exist, if it's here for the protagonist, then maybe it exists for me, too.
By the time Damian reached the forest edge, the city behind him seemed like a memory, distant and irrelevant. Ahead lay the unknown—the first step toward survival, toward growth, toward becoming someone capable of facing the abyss itself. He adjusted the grip on his sword, feeling the weight, the cold steel against his palm, and made his decision.
I will record everything. Every plan, every observation, every danger. This journal will be my guide, my anchor, my testament.
And with that, Damian stepped into the forest, the soft rustle of leaves beneath his boots the only sound, carrying him toward a path that could either save him or break him entirely.