Bang.
The moment I pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot echoed through the room—loud, final. A jarring punctuation mark in the silent narrative of my life.
But my head… was still intact.
No pain. No blood. No sign of impact.
And yet, the bullet had clearly left the revolver.
It was right there—suspended mid-air, just inches from my temple. Crawling forward at a pace so slow it might as well have stopped completely. Not a millimeter of movement. As if time itself had given up.
It didn't take me long to realize the issue wasn't with the bullet… or the gun. No misfire. No malfunction.
The problem was me. Or maybe this place.
Time—once again—had stopped.
But this time, it was different. I wasn't paralyzed. I could move. The world around me hadn't frozen completely—just slowed down, infinitely so. Every passing fraction of a second stretched out like a lifetime.
And I could see it. Every moment, every breath, unraveling in slow motion before my eyes.
I always had this hunch.
Or maybe… I should call it something else.
A pattern.
The first time I had that vision—the mirror. The version of me staring back. He gave me a new trait. A skill. Something changed that day. Something woke up.
Since then, I kept waiting. Watching. Hoping for a pattern to repeat. But after the second vision—back in Sanctumhaven—nothing followed. No new power. No cryptic figure. No voice in the mirror.
Just… silence.
So, I took an indirect approach. I tried things in secret. Spent time in front of the mirror, for hours sometimes—staring. Waiting. Whispering. But the reflection never spoke back. Not this time.
Eventually, I stopped waiting for answers to come. And instead, I forced the question.
Call it a gamble.
Call it stupidity.
But I put myself at risk—by my own hands. Made sure no one else could interfere. No outside triggers. No convenient coincidences.
If nothing happened, it meant there was no story left. No role for me to play.
But if there was still something unresolved—if I still had a part in all this…
Then maybe, just maybe—
Someone would show up.
Here. Now.
And it seems my gamble paid off—because the result is simple.
I'm still alive.
Though the bullet should have ended it all, time itself had slowed to a crawl. And now… I can hear something strange. A faint static. The unmistakable buzz of a television with no signal.
It feels out of place. Like something left on in a dream that was never supposed to start.
Drawn by the noise, I move. Frozen time bends around me as I walk through it, following the static until I reach the hall.
That's when I see him.
A figure, seated on the sofa.
Back turned. Still. Watching the screen.
The TV flickers in dull black and white, displaying nothing but interference.
There's no tension in his posture. No interest in what he's watching. Just… a presence. Someone doing a job so boring it barely registers.
I take a step forward.
"…Who might you be?" I ask quietly.
No reply.
Just silence.
Then he lifts the remote—slowly—and changes the channel.
The static fades. The screen flickers again, and this time… something plays.
A forest.
Not just any forest. A deep one. The city of Sylvanfall rests nearby.
The camera glides past trees, through beast trails, over thickets—
Until it finds it.
A cave.
But not an ordinary one.
Its entrance shimmers—like color being sifted through a slow-moving waterfall.
Not a cave, then.
A dungeon.
Before I can react, the channel shifts again.
Now it's Thronebrook City.
A quiet restaurant.
Ordinary. Normal.
But I catch something.
A man, speaking to the owner. Casual, unremarkable conversation.
Then, in one smooth motion—
A black card slides across the table.
My breath catches.
But before I can process anything more—
"I think you've seen enough."
A tired voice drifts toward me. Calm. Detached.
It's the man on the sofa.
Still not turning to face me.
"That's as much help as you'll get. Don't expect a next time."
He leans back.
"From here on, you're on your own."
After he said that—in a tone that made it clear, final, like a door closing shut—
everything shifted.
A sudden force surged through the frozen moment, snapping time back into motion. It wasn't gentle. It was like reality had been pushed back into place, shoving every detail to where it was meant to be.
And just like that…
I was back in my seat.
CRACK!
The bullet tore through the air—
Slicing past my cheek with a sharp hiss,
embedding itself into the wall behind me.
Close.
Too close.
It hadn't missed by skill or mercy. Just enough to remind me it could've killed me.
My ears rang slightly from the sudden burst, and the warm breeze of displaced air brushed against my face.
I exhaled slowly.
Still here.
Still breathing.
The smoke from the gun hung in the air like a curtain between two worlds. One I'd just visited… and the one that welcomed me back.
I've always wanted to know—
Who was that figure in the mirror? The one who looked like me. Who gave me a trait, a skill… and walked away like it meant nothing.
And now, the same presence again, just seated with his back turned, flipping through the channels of fate like they were some late-night TV rerun.
But you know what's strange?
Every time I try to think deeper about it—to ask why he looks like me, what he is, how he's tied to my transmigration…
…it's like my brain hits a wall.
Like a program that suddenly freezes mid-code, all the questions just blank out. Gone.
As if something inside me whispers—
"Not yet."
"You're not capable of understanding it right now."
But that only raises more questions.
If he really has nothing to do with me… why does his existence mess with my thoughts like this? Did he tamper with my mind when I arrived in this world? Did he—
no.
Again, the thoughts scatter. Shoved out of reach. Like they were never mine to begin with.
And a few seconds later, as if nothing happened, everything's back.
My thoughts realign.
My emotions settle.
And once more, I feel like none of it matters.
Like it was never my worry to begin with.
The sudden burst of information felt less like a gift and more like a curse. My mind, once a blank slate regarding these phenomena, was now filled with half-formed clues and a terrifying, unshakeable dread.
A dungeon near Sylvanfall.
A black card in Thronebrook City.
The black card. The same one I found in the middleman's wallet. So my hunch was correct. This wasn't some random membership card; it was a token, a key to a world far more dangerous than I could imagine. A world where deals were made in quiet rooms and power was exchanged with a subtle flick of the wrist.
And the dungeon… why did he show me a dungeon? What did it have to do with anything? Sylvanfall was a city known for its dense, ancient forests. It was also a hotbed for monster outbreaks and monster hunters. But a dungeon… I knew what a dungeon was. A place of unimaginable danger and unimaginable rewards. The first rule of this world was to stay away from dungeons if you weren't a high-ranked Awakened. They were traps, meat grinders for the unprepared. So why was I being shown this?
My mind scrambled to piece together the fragments, but the connections remained frustratingly out of reach. The more I tried to push, the more my thoughts splintered, leaving me with only the images—the shimmering entrance, the black card.
The tired voice returned to my memory.
"That's as much help as you'll get. Don't expect a next time."
"From here on, you're on your own."
It was a final message, a dismissive flick of the wrist. It was a new direction, a new path forward. It was my next move.
He wasn't going to give me the answers. He was only going to show me where to look. The rest was up to me. It was a challenge, a test. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this was my last chance. My last clue. My final gambit. I had to solve this, or I would forever be a passenger in my own life.
The dry, metallic taste of gunpowder lingered in the air, a reminder of the risk I'd taken. I ran a hand through my hair, a nervous tremor in my fingers. My easy-money plan was still a bust, but now... now I had something more. Something bigger. Something far more dangerous.
This was no longer about a quick buck. This was about a story. My story. And for the first time, it felt like I was holding the pen.
----
The Next Day
Inside the Classroom.
Crimson stood at the front of the class, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over the room filled with first-years. His voice, as always, cut through the noise with quiet authority.
"Mana."
He let the word settle in the room.
"It's everywhere—floating around us, woven into the fabric of the world like threads of invisible silk. You can't see it. You can't touch it. But it's there. Like the air you breathe. Like gravity holding you to the ground."
He paced slowly in front of the chalkboard, not even bothering to write anything.
"And yet—despite being surrounded by it every moment of your life—most people will never interact with it. Not once. Not directly."
A pause. He turned his gaze to a window, light filtering through the glass.
"Because the truth is simple: Only the Awakened can sense it. Only they can use it."
Crimson turned back toward the class, his eyes locking onto a few who dared look away.
"For everyone else... mana is a myth. A word in a textbook. Something you hear in stories but never feel."
He raised a hand, fingers slightly spread as faint wisps of blue light curled between them.
"To the unawakened, it's like trying to hear music through soundproof glass. You might see the dance. The rhythm. The aftereffects of a spell."
The mana around his hand shimmered, dispersing gently.
"But the melody? The sensation? The will to command it?"
His voice lowered slightly.
"That part remains forever out of reach."
He let silence settle again, heavy and unbroken. For a moment, the room was still.
Then Crimson continued, stepping forward once more.
"And you—each of you—are among the few who can touch it. Who can feel it. That alone sets you apart from the rest of the world."
His tone sharpened.
"And with that privilege comes responsibility. You must learn not only to sense mana—but to use it effectively."
He let that word hang: effectively.
"Some of you might think, 'But haven't I already used mana? When I train, when I fight, when my body moves faster or strikes harder?' And you're not entirely wrong."
He stopped, folding his arms again.
"Yes, you've used it. But barely. Clumsily. Without control. You've tapped into it like a leaking faucet—not like a blade."
Then, with calm finality, he said:
"Observe."
And then it happened.
A soft glow pulsed from beneath his skin—faint, yet unmistakable. Light threaded along the veins of his arms and neck in subtle lines, like glowing circuits beneath flesh. The mana flowed from his core outward, smooth and rhythmic, as if his body were an instrument and the energy played its perfect tune.
No wasted motion. No flaring aura. Just silent, effortless command.
His entire frame hummed with quiet power. Not raw. Not wild.
But refined. Controlled.
"This," Crimson said, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning,
"is control."
Crimson slowly lowered his glowing hand, letting the mana veins dim back into stillness beneath his skin. His gaze swept the room again—unblinking, unreadable.
"As you can see," he said, "I can guide mana from my core to every part of my body—"
He tapped his chest lightly, then gestured outward with his fingers.
"From the tips of my toes to the strand of a single hair."
He let that visual settle.
"This level of efficiency… this degree of precision… it doesn't come from being a higher rank than you. No."
His voice hardened, just slightly.
"It comes from understanding. Truly grasping what control means. Not just using mana—but mastering it. Feeling it move within you like a second bloodstream. Shaping it. Directing it. Commanding it without hesitation or waste."
He paused again. The room was silent, every student locked in place.
"That... is your goal."
He let the words fall like a stone.
"Not to throw fireballs. Not to enchant your weapons. Not to flail around calling it 'magic' because you lit your hands on fire. Control. That is the foundation. Without it—everything else is meaningless."