Volume 1: The Poor Charming's Tower Gamble
Prologue Arc: Poor Charming's Last Shot
Chapter 2: Seventeen Years of Zero Cheats – Am I Doomed to Kneel Forever?
Elodas Charming lay on his thin straw mat, staring at the cracked ceiling where water stains formed shapes that looked suspiciously like mocking faces. The ribbon Mira had tied around his wrist yesterday still felt warm against his skin, a tiny pink reminder that someone in this world believed in him. Two days left. Forty-eight hours until the Tower gates swung open and decided whether he would spend the rest of his life standing tall or kneeling in the dirt like the broken ones he saw every market day.
He rolled over, the familiar ache in his back from yesterday's laundry hauls greeting him like an old enemy. Seventeen years, he thought, the words echoing in his head with the dry sarcasm he'd carried over from Earth. Seventeen damn years of waiting for the big cheat reveal. Heaven-Defying Comprehension? Instant Full Mastery? Sounds like the plot armor from those web novels I used to read during lunch breaks back when I had a cubicle and coffee that didn't taste like boiled regret. Reborn into a magic tower world, given a prince-worthy name, and what do I get? Zero. Zilch. The only thing I've mastered is how to dodge punches and pretend the constant bullying doesn't sting.
A soft knock on the thin wooden wall separating his corner from the main room pulled him back. "Elodas? Breakfast is ready, dear. Thin today, but I added the last of the honey Widow Mara gifted us." His mother's voice was gentle, the way it always was when she tried to hide how worried she was.
He sat up, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect golden hair. It never tangled, never got greasy no matter how much sweat and mud he accumulated. Another cruel joke from whatever god had reincarnated him. "Coming, Ma."
The main room smelled of weak porridge and woodsmoke. Mira was already at the low table, legs swinging as she stirred her bowl with a chipped wooden spoon. Tomas sat hunched over a small pile of scrap metal, sorting nails by size with callused fingers. The man looked older than his forty years—lines etched deep from years of hoping his son would be the one to break the cycle of poverty.
"Morning, hero," Tomas said without looking up, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a tired smile. "Sleep well?"
"Like a rock that got stepped on," Elodas replied, sliding onto the bench. He accepted the bowl his mother handed him, the steam carrying the faint sweetness of that precious honey. It was the closest thing to luxury they had. He took a slow spoonful, letting the warmth spread through his chest while his mind wandered back through the years.
Flashback hit him hard, unbidden. Age five. He'd snuck to the outer training yard where a minor Extraordinary Reincarnator was demonstrating a basic fire spell for the local guild recruiters. The man flicked his wrist and a small flame danced between his fingers. Elodas had stared, heart pounding, waiting for the rush—the Heaven-Defying Comprehension to flood his brain with perfect understanding of fire magic. Nothing. Just a warm face from standing too close and the recruiter laughing when the kid with the "Charming" name asked if he could try.
Age eight. Street brawl between two older boys. One pulled a rusty knife, the other swung a stick like a sword. Elodas watched from the alley shadows, eyes wide, internally chanting come on, Royal Charming Swordsmanship, awaken already. He got a black eye for his trouble when the fight spilled his way. No instant mastery. Just a week of hiding the bruise from his parents so they wouldn't worry.
Age twelve. A traveling mage had passed through Lowspire, casting simple illusion spells to entertain the crowd for coppers. Elodas had pushed to the front row, memorizing every gesture. Instant Full Mastery. Please. The only thing that happened was the mage ruffling his golden hair and calling him "a charming little assistant" before the crowd laughed and tossed more coins at the performer, not the kid.
Seventeen years of almosts. Seventeen years of watching others awaken small talents while he remained stubbornly, painfully ordinary.
Mira's voice broke the silence. "Brother, are you scared about the Tower?"
Elodas blinked, forcing a grin. "Scared? Nah. Excited. Think of it—me, stepping through a portal into some unknown world, coming back with powers that make the Mud Rats wet themselves."
She giggled, but her eyes stayed serious. "Garrick said yesterday that boys with fancy names always fail the hardest. He said they get too proud and the Tower punishes them."
Tomas set down a nail with a sharp clack. "Garrick's a fool who'll probably kneel himself one day. Don't listen to gutter talk, Mira. Your brother has heart. That's worth more than any early cheat."
Elodas nodded, but inside the monologue continued. Heart? I've got memories of a whole other world where princes named Charming actually won. Cinderella, Aladdin, all those stories I watched as a kid on rainy Sundays. But here? No pop culture bleed. No one even knows what a Disney movie is. The Tower keeps its trial worlds secret until you're inside. If they turn out to be anything like those fairy tales… maybe that's when the cheats finally wake up. But what if they don't? What if I step through and come back the same useless Charming kid, only now I have to kneel in front of Garrick and every bully who ever laughed?
He finished his porridge faster than usual, the sweetness turning bitter on his tongue. The morning chores waited—hauling water again, mending fences for the butcher who paid in scraps, maybe another laundry run if his mother's back was acting up. Same routine. Same city that smelled of coal and crushed dreams.
Outside, the alley was already alive with noise. Children chased a stray dog. Vendors shouted prices for day-old bread. And of course, the Mud Rats were lounging against the opposite wall like they owned the mud.
Garrick spotted him immediately. "Well, if it isn't Prince Charming himself. Two more days till your big debut. Nervous? Or you still pretending those pretty eyes give you magic?"
The twins snickered. One mimed kneeling dramatically. "Oh great Extraordinary, please protect my worthless life!"
Elodas kept walking, bucket in hand, expression calm as still water. "Morning, Garrick. Scar's healing nice. Almost covers the stupidity."
Garrick shoved off the wall, fists clenched. "Keep talking, pretty boy. When you crawl out of that Tower begging for scraps, I'll be the one deciding if you eat or starve. My uncle cleared his trial last year. Got a minor wind talent. He says failures like you end up as servants to the real ones."
Elodas sidestepped the predictable swing, years of practice making it effortless. "Congrats to your uncle. Tell him I said thanks for the breeze next time it's hot." He kept moving, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a real fight. No point wasting energy. If the cheats are real, I'll handle them later. Secretly. No one needs to know I'm carrying two ultimate talents that haven't bothered to show up yet.
The well line was longer today. Whispers followed him again.
"Poor Charming boy. Such a waste of a name."
"Bet his parents regret it now. Eighteen and still nothing special."
He filled the bucket in silence, muscles burning under the weight as he trudged back. The Tower loomed larger than ever, its runes pulsing like a countdown clock. Every step felt heavier.
Back home, his father was already out scavenging. Lira was pinning laundry to the line strung across the alley. "Elodas, the butcher needs his fence mended by noon. He promised two chickens if you finish early."
"On it," he said, setting the water down. The work was back-breaking—hammering rusty nails into splintered posts under the midday sun. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the dust. He worked methodically, mind drifting again.
What if the cheats never activate? What if this is it—seventeen years of buildup for nothing? I remember Earth's stories. Reborn protagonists always get OP abilities right away. Me? I got the tutorial that never ends. No status screen. No system voice. Just me, a ridiculous surname, and the constant fear that I'll disappoint the only people who matter.
By noon the fence was done. The butcher, a burly man with a grease-stained apron, handed over the two scrawny chickens with a grunt. "Good work, lad. Heard your birthday's soon. Tower's a cruel mistress. My cousin failed his trial. Spends his days polishing boots for the guild now. Kneels when they tell him to. Don't be like him."
Elodas accepted the birds, tying their legs with twine. "I won't."
The afternoon blurred into more errands. He delivered the chickens, helped Widow Mara carry firewood, dodged another round of taunts from a different group of kids who thought "Charming" was the funniest word in the slums. Each laugh chipped away at the hope he'd felt last night, but he kept the mask on—calm smile, lazy wave, internal deadpan commentary running like a protective shield.
Doomed to kneel forever? Not if I have anything to say about it. But seventeen years of zero proof… it wears on a guy.
Evening brought the family together again. The two chickens were stretched into a thin stew with root vegetables and the last of the herbs. Mira chattered about a story she'd heard from the neighbor girl—something about a Reincarnator who returned with ice powers and saved a whole village. Tomas listened quietly, pride and worry battling in his eyes. Lira kept stealing glances at Elodas, as if memorizing his face before the Tower changed everything.
After dinner, when the fire burned low and Mira was asleep, Elodas stepped outside alone once more. The stars were clearer tonight, the smog thinner. He stared at the Tower, fists loose at his sides.
"Seventeen years," he whispered. "No sword mastery from watching duels. No magic from seeing spells. No comprehension, no instant anything. Just me, Elodas Charming, the poor kid who was supposed to be special because of a name. If those talents are real, Tower… wake them inside whatever world you send me to. Because I'm not kneeling. Not for Garrick. Not for anyone."
The wind carried his words away. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, marking another hour closer to his birthday.
He turned back toward the shack, the pink ribbon catching the faint moonlight. Tomorrow would be more of the same—chores, bullies, quiet hope. But the day after… the day after was the portal.
And for the first time in those long seventeen years, Elodas allowed the smallest flicker of defiance to burn brighter than the fear.
He was still ordinary on the outside. Still the boy with the mocking name.
But inside, something ancient and powerful felt like it was finally listening.