Ruli—or rather, Daves Frojas, as his memories insisted—was lost.
Not in the dramatic, sprawling-epic sort of way. No, this was a quiet, personal disorientation. The kind that sets in when reality no longer behaves as expected, when the floor beneath one's feet shifts without warning.
He didn't understand a thing. Not the world, not his own existence, and certainly not the strange cascade of information that had just flooded his mind.
Reincarnation… no, transportation. I'm not dead after all.
How was that possible?
He tried to find logic in it, reason, a thread he could follow back to something familiar. But there was none. Appearing in another world? That belonged in fantasy novels and silly forums. Yet here he stood—no, existed—in a place that defied every rule he knew.
This isn't just impossible. It's fictional nonsense. And I'm the punchline to someone's twisted joke.
At first, he thought it must be a dream. But the vividness, the clarity of thought—it was all far too sharp, far too real. His senses worked with precision. He could feel the texture of the air, the warmth in his lungs, the weight of his limbs. Dreams didn't do that. Not like this.
So this is real… My God. Why me?
He had no answer. Only a slow, creeping dread that began to settle in his bones. He wallowed, quietly, numbly, disconnected from the strangeness around him.
Then came the voice.
It wasn't loud. It didn't echo or boom like in stories. It was calm, digital, and crystal-clear. Like something programmed to be heard just once, and only by him.
[Ultimate Skills: Genius's Reflection, Author's Memory, Fourth Wall]
He flinched. Hard.
For a moment, panic clenched his chest, and his heart lurched as if ready to rebel from this surrealism. He almost screamed—he really did. A loud, wild, terrified scream. But he didn't. Oddly enough… he felt calm. Almost unnaturally so.
It was like someone had quietly pulled away his panic, brushed aside his fear, and handed him a pair of pristine lenses through which to see the world.
His mind? Clear.
His thoughts? Unshaken.
His emotions? Steady.
Strange. I suddenly feel composed. Too composed.
He wasn't even surprised anymore. No, the shock had settled somewhere far behind his thoughts, like an echo from another life.
That's when he began to think—really think.
Not just about the bizarre system screen or his new name, but about everything. The world. The story. The truth.
I know this.
Yes. That was the thread. That was the anchor.
I know this story. I know how it ends. I know what's coming beyond the plot.
Before, back in the world that no longer felt like his own, he had only known pieces of it—snippets from the novel his mother once wrote. A concept, a title: The Savior of the Insaveable World. But now… now he knew more. Much more.
The structure of the world. The power system. The characters. Their motivations. The rules—both spoken and hidden. The truths of the world itself.
It was as if someone had opened his mind and poured every last detail inside.
Not everything, no. He wasn't omniscient. But it was enough to be dangerous. Enough to make him wonder why—why him, and why now?
I remember more than I should. More than before. And more than anyone else.
A slow breath left his chest. He looked down at the glowing blue screen hovering silently before him, its presence no longer surprising. This was his system. His interface. His guide—just like in games, only far more profound.
It still displayed those same three strange words:
[Ultimate Skills: Genius's Reflection, Author's Memory, Fourth Wall]
Ultimate skills… Seriously?
In the world of The Savior of the Insaveable World, ultimate skills weren't necessarily strong. In fact, they were often niche, even borderline useless. But they came with something far more valuable: potential. A wider scope of ability. A door left slightly ajar for the user to decide what came next.
He began with the one that intrigued him most.
[Author's Memory]
The word "Author" had caught his attention. It was jarring—too meta, too strange for a world like this.
And yet, there it was.
[Name: Author's Memory
Class: Ultimate
Type: Seraphim
Description: Knowledge beyond this world, beyond its gods. Memories not meant for mortals. A vision of a reality untold, capable of shaking this realm to its core.]
Simple enough.
Frankly, he had expected more. A hierarchy, perhaps. A way to categorize skills by strength, rarity, usefulness. But the system offered none of that—just raw information. No glitz, no fanfare. Just words.
Disappointing. Or maybe… not?
He sighed, just slightly. Then moved on.
[Genius's Reflection]
He hoped this one would explain his current clarity. And indeed, it did.
[Name: Genius's Reflection
Class: Ultimate
Type: Basic
Description: You think with precision. Your memories remain intact. Your logic is crystalline. Emotions remain composed under all circumstances.]
So that's why I'm not panicking.
It made sense. He was inside a different world, far from home, surrounded by the impossible—and yet he was calm. Not because he was brave, but because something had changed inside him. The skill had changed the very way he processed fear.
That, in itself, was terrifying.
But Daves—no, Ruli—no, both—didn't dwell on it long. He knew time wouldn't wait.
There was one last skill left.
The strangest. The vaguest.
[Fourth Wall]
He had theories, of course. The "fourth wall" was the imaginary barrier separating fiction from reality. The line between reader and character. It was a concept, not a power. A clever turn of phrase used in plays and books and films.
But here? It was real.
[Name: Fourth Wall
Class: Ultimate
Type: Seraphim
Description: Your soul and mind cannot be read, controlled, or corrupted. Your will is your fortress. None shall enter.]
He blinked slowly.
So that was it…
One of the unwritten rules in this world—one never explicitly stated in the novel—was that forbidden knowledge had consequences. Those who learned too much too quickly were consumed. Not by fire or blades, but by madness. By corruption.
They died, or worse—became husks. Mindless, soulless, twisted things stripped of self.
And yet here he stood. Whole. Aware. Sane.
He had assumed, perhaps, that being a reincarnated soul granted him immunity. That the story resembled his mother's creation, but differed in its details.
But no.
I was just lucky.
He had drawn the right skill. At the right time. At the very beginning. That was all.
No divine intervention. No destiny. Just dumb, cosmic, arbitrary luck.
In the end, the universe hadn't changed. Even here, in this bizarre new realm, he was still just a favored child of chance.
He chuckled. A quiet, almost bitter sound.
So even here… I'm the spoiled one, huh?
A smile tugged at his lips, faint and dry. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
And then…
Then came the voice.
"Umh? My dear husband, Daves?"
He froze.
What.
The.
Hell.