The letter rested on Damian's chest, folded neatly despite the way his fingers had trembled when he finished reading it.
He lay on the narrow bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, staring at the cracked ceiling of the apartment. A faint hum came from the wall—old wiring struggling to keep up with the city's demand. Somewhere outside, voices rose and fell in sharp bursts, laughter edged with aggression, the sound of glass clinking, something metallic hitting the pavement and skittering away.
Aurelia never slept.
Not really.
But this part of it only pretended to.
Damian exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
The emotions didn't feel borrowed anymore.
That was the strange part.
At first, everything he'd felt since waking up in this body had come with a layer of distance—like he was observing Damian Lockley's life through frosted glass. The grief. The anger. The hollow resentment that clung to every memory of this place. They had been there, but not fully his.
Now?
They settled into his chest naturally, heavy and familiar.
Whatever separation had once existed between Ethan Vale and Damian Lockley was gone. The thoughts were still his—but the weight behind them belonged to this body, this life, this city.
This was his bitterness now.
He opened his eyes again.
The apartment was small enough that he could see most of it without moving his head. The desk sat against the far wall, scarred with old burn marks and shallow cuts. A cheap chair leaned against it at a slight angle, one leg shorter than the others. A narrow bookshelf stood beside it, half-filled with worn volumes on mana theory, rift ecology, and basic combat principles—most of them outdated, some of them incomplete.
Books Damian had bought with money he couldn't afford to spend.
The kitchenette to his left smelled faintly of oil and stale bread. The fridge hummed louder than it should have, packed mostly with cheap preservatives and ration packs. No fresh food. No luxury. No room for waste.
This wasn't a place people grew strong.
It was a place they endured.
Damian shifted, the mattress creaking beneath him. He stared at the letter again.
Inheritance available upon legal adulthood. Age fifteen.
Two years.
Two years until he could claim what little his parents had managed to scrape together before they died. No estates. No properties. Just savings—hard-earned, carefully hidden, untouched since the day they were gone.
Enough to change things.
Not enough to save him if he stayed the same.
He folded the letter once more and slid it beneath the thin pillow. Plans came later. For now, it was enough to know it existed—another thread he could pull when the time came.
Damian let his gaze drift.
The neighborhood outside the narrow window was a patchwork of concrete and rust. Buildings leaned toward each other like conspirators, their lower floors stained with grime and neglect. Neon signs flickered unevenly, advertising pawnshops, repair dens, and temporary shelters for rift survivors who couldn't afford treatment.
This wasn't the Aurelia shown on broadcasts.
This was the part the Hero Academy didn't acknowledge.
A place where talent died quietly.
He closed his eyes again.
Too fast, he thought. Everything's moving too fast.
He had climbed a mountain, eaten something that had nearly torn him apart from the inside, lost consciousness for hours, and woken up fundamentally changed. Stronger. Sharper. More present in his own body than he'd ever been—either as Ethan or Damian.
And yet…
He was still thirteen.
Still broke.
Still alone.
Damian sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the cold floor, grounding him. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the subtle difference in how his body responded—how tension flowed instead of clumping, how balance came instinctively instead of being corrected after the fact.
The ambrosia had done its job.
He just didn't know the full cost yet.
Damian inhaled and focused inward.
"Status."
The word wasn't spoken aloud. It didn't need to be.
Information unfolded in his mind, clean and precise, like a ledger written directly into his awareness.
Name: Damian Lockley
Age: 13
Rank: Awakened
Grade: Grade Ⅰ
Health: Stable
Contracts: None
Soul-Bound Relics: Gravity blade
External relics: None
Innate Ability:Electrokinesis
External Abilities (Learned Skills): Mind's eye
Damian stared at the invisible display longer than necessary.
Awakened.
That alone placed him ahead of most people his age. It should have been reassuring. It should have felt like security.
It didn't.
Because he knew how the academy actually worked.
Rank opened doors—but only if you had the means to walk through them.
Talent mattered—but only when refined.
And power?
Power without structure just painted a larger target on your back.
He let the status fade.
The room felt quieter without it.
Damian stood and walked to the window, resting his forehead lightly against the glass. The city lights reflected faintly in his eyes, blurring into streaks of color. Somewhere far away, the upper districts gleamed—clean, orderly, protected. That was where Arcon Academy stood. That was where the future was decided.
Two years.
Two years until the entrance exam.
Two years to bridge a gap that had killed people far more gifted than him.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the main characters of the novel—the ones who were supposed to shine. The prodigies. The heirs. The ones whose growth arcs had been paved with resources and mentors.
They died anyway, he remembered.
One by one, the story had narrowed until only the main character remained. Strong. Isolated. Standing on a mountain of corpses the world pretended was necessary.
Damian's jaw tightened.
If the world was heading toward collapse, then strength couldn't be centralized. It had to spread. Be cultivated. Sharpened across multiple pillars instead of resting on one
He wasn't meant to be the protagonist.
Fine.
Then he'd be the pressure that forced everyone else to grow.
Damian stepped back from the window and glanced around the apartment one more time. The poverty. The silence. The weight of a life that had ended here once before.
This place wasn't home.
It was a starting line.
He lay back down on the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling again. Outside, the noise of the neighborhood continued—messy, alive, indifferent.
Tomorrow, he'd start moving.
Looking for instruction. For techniques. For something—anything—that could turn raw improvement into real strength.
For now, though…
Damian closed his eyes.
And let the stillness settle.