Create a bill that punishes corrupt officials with death!"

But then they say: "Killing is against the law. They're human too, and have a right to live!"

Damn those so-called Human Rights activists.

Anyone running for office should serve the people, not exploit them.

And yet, time and again—
They hunger for power.
They bend the laws.
They steal the people’s taxes.

I was nothing but a small internet café owner, struggling to pay bills. But my life changed when I stumbled upon someone in a dark web forum. A shadow with a code name, who taught me everything—from basic programming to breaching secure national servers.

I became an anonymous whistleblower.
Exposed corrupt politicians.
Flooded social media with undeniable proof.

But one night, I made a mistake.
I forgot to activate my VPN. Forgot to scramble my signal.

And they came.
Secret agents. Black ops.

They didn’t arrest me.
They executed me.

I thought that was the end.

But fate had other plans.

I woke up… not on Earth…

…in a world ruled by mana and aura.

A world where kingdoms rise and fall by the strength of their swordsmen and mages…
…where corruption bleeds through nobility like poison in wine.

And this time, I won’t make the same mistake.

This time, I’ll burn their world from the inside out.

In a quiet, sunlit room filled with storybooks and wooden animals, young Achilles sat alone at a desk far too large for him.


He wasn't playing with the other noble children.


He was reading a basic chant scroll—a beginner's incantation for "Sparklight," a harmless flicker used to light torches.


A few words, shaped by intent and mana.


> "This doesn't explain how it ignites," he whispered.


That night, he copied the words into his own notebook—then broke it apart.


He cross-referenced it with several other beginner spells: Warmth, Gust, Cleanse.


They all followed the same pattern—but in different orders.


He saw variables. Parameters. Conditions.


It ran it—like an old command-line system.


Just a blinking cursor in the void of his subconscious:


The air around him hummed softly—no louder than a breath.


The next morning, he blinked at the candle near his bedside and tapped the side of it.


A small, silent flicker of light appeared—just above the wick.


Just intent rendered through structure.


Later that day, while tutors praised other children for remembering their rhymes, Achilles wrote a single line in his private journal:


I don't need their language. I'll write my own.


He closed the book and tucked it under his pillow.


But that was the moment—the true beginning.


Where Achilles stopped learning magic…


Chapter 8 - The First Recompile