Pain.
It came slow. There were too many sounds ringing in his head, they were way too heavy, but it sounded kind of hollow. Ethan groaned. His limbs weren't right. They were too heavy, too slow. His body refused to listen to him. It didn't feel like it was his at all.
He blinked, not sure if his eyes were even open. He thought, "Is this real? Or some crazy half-dream?"
The air struck him first. It was chilly and clean, too clean. It smelled of woodsmoke, fresh bread, and damp stone. There were no fumes from cars, no humming lights or machinery. Just plain, sharp air with no pollution at all.
His fingers touched the ground. It was bumpy and irregular. Cobblestone, perhaps. He knew this wasn't his room. It wasn't even his world.
A shiver ran through his lungs. He started to overthink too much.
He knew something was wrong. Something was not right at all.
And when he finally managed to open his eyes, sunlight slapped him in the face. It was too bright. Blinding. He winced and slowly turned his head.
Then he saw it and couldn't believe what he just saw. So he rubbed his eyes once, but it was still the same. Then he did it twice, but the scenery didn't change.
Gigantic stone structures loomed on either side of a broad avenue. The sharp rooftops scraped at the sky, sending long shadows over the cobblestones. Individuals flowed by, all clad in cloaks and tunics, armor glinting in the light. Their voices resonated, half-remembered, muffled by laughter, haggling, and the clank of metal in the distance.
A carriage passed by him. The wheels clattered against stone. Horses snorted, their breath dissipating into the mist.
Knights stood at every corner. They were tall and armored, eyes sharp, hands on their hilts. They were not the type who asked questions, the type who killed first and called it justice later.
A blacksmith paced behind them, hammering a blade on glowing steel. Sparks illuminated the air like fireflies.
Ethan didn't stir. He just couldn't.
He knew he wasn't meant to be here. He knew this was not his world, yet it was so familiar to him.
This wasn't Earth.
But something about it, it wasn't a dream.
It felt familiar and way too real.
Way too familiar.
Then it struck him.
A name, a memory, a tale.
His throat closed.
"No," he breathed. "No, no. It can't be true."
But the thought was still in the back of his head, then it made its way out of the back of his mind, rising like acid in his stomach.
Gods' Final Requiem.
He'd read it the previous night.
A world drenched in blood, tainted by power. There were no fairy tales, only suffering and war and destruction. The sort of tale where everyone loses.
And now he was standing there, in the world of Gods' Final Requiem, a world destined to get destroyed later on in the story.
"This isn't real. I won't believe it. I can't be in this world. This shit will end in a few years," he grumbled. His mind was fucked up with the thought that he had been transmigrated here.
But the chill beneath his palms said otherwise. The wind brushing against his skin said otherwise. The acrid scent of fire and bread in the air said otherwise.
All around him felt way too real.
His heart was pounding furiously now. Fear started crawling up his throat. He had to know, he had to.
He lurched toward the puddle beside the road and fell to his knees. The water shook with a gentle trembling in the breeze.
And the face looking back at him wasn't his.
Black hair, disheveled and too long. Gray eyes, dull and distant. A hard jaw. Thin lips. Sickly pale. Far too young, perhaps thirteen, perhaps fourteen. Starved-looking. Good-looking, but in a breakable, almost fragile manner.
It was not Ethan.
His gut revolted. He was too confused, wondering who this guy was. And where was the real Ethan? He was afraid and didn't want to believe this was happening to him.
Then it hit like a dam gate breaking open. A wave of memories, which weren't his own, surged into his life. Moments. Feelings. They all belonged to this stranger.
No, now it wasn't a stranger.
A name emerged.
"Emi," he breathed. "Emil Valcrest?"
It tasted wrong on his lips, but within his chest, it crashed like a stone dropped into deep water.
That was him now.
Ethan was gone. Ethan was no more.
He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. It didn't work.
He recognized that name.
Emil Valcrest. Just a discarded character. Some miserable kid who got one scene in the book. No aura. No magic. No power. A sick mother and a dead father. No skills. No prospects. The type of person you forget halfway through the chapter.
And now, Ethan was him.
He was that Emil Valcrest.
Or should we say, he was just a nobody?
He scoured the memories again, hoping for something, anything, that could aid him even a bit in his journey.
There was nothing.
No training. No secrets. No hidden powers waiting to be triggered. Only weakness. Poverty. Obscurity.
He gazed at his shaking hands.
"This is bad. I can't live in this body. I'm doomed."
Outside him, the world couldn't care less.
This place, the cursed, broken world of Gods' Final Requiem, wasn't kind to the weak. He knew what was coming in the near future. The Outer Gods would rise. The Demi-Gods would awaken. War would burn everything down. Heroes would fight, fall, and die.
And Emil?
He wouldn't even make it to chapter three of the goddamn novel he'd read.
Ethan, Emil, stared blankly at the street, his breath shallow.
"I'm dead. Well, yes, it's true," he whispered again. "I'm already dead."
Then something fluttered down beside him, light as air.
A sheet of paper.
No, it was a letter.
It must've fallen out of someone's pocket. The paper was thick and costly. A golden seal glinted on the reverse.
He picked it up with trembling fingers.
The crest meant nothing to him, but the words below it were unmistakable:
Empire Academy Admission Letter
His heart halted. His breath stopped for a moment.
His name was typed below in perfect ink.
Recipient: Emil Valcrest
He blinked.
He read it again. And again. But the name didn't change.
"How?" he breathed. "Why me?"
He hadn't tried. He shouldn't be allowed within a hundred feet of the place. He whispered in disbelief:
"This is fucking ridiculous."
The Empire Academy was where monsters trained. Geniuses. Nobles. Warriors whose blood ran thick with power. People who altered the destiny of nations.
Not a guy like Emil.
Not a guy like him.
He whispered, "So who sent this letter? And what the fuck do they want from a dead kid?"
He picked up the letter. It was made of black and gold parchment, tailored with golden embroidery and sealed with a golden emblem.
The moment he opened it, he couldn't believe what he saw.
Then—