The boy stood on the terrace, the morning breeze ruffling his silver-white hair, his new body strong and unfamiliar beneath the fine clothes he'd pulled from the wardrobe.
The castle sprawled below, its towers piercing the mist, and for a moment, he'd been lost in the beauty of it, the dreamlike wonder of a world that felt like it belonged to him.
But then he paused, his hand tightening on the balustrade, a cold thread of fear winding through his chest.
If this was a dream, what had happened to him in the real world? Was he still in the shop, slumped over the controller, lost in some vivid hallucination? Or was it something worse—had something happened to him, something final?
The thought hit him like a punch, stealing his breath. He stepped back from the terrace's edge, his heart pounding as he tried to remember the moments before the screen had flashed.
He'd been in Sam's shop, the disc of Ancient Bane spinning in the console, the strange words glowing on the screen. He'd pressed "Yes," agreeing to be part of this world, and then—darkness.
Had he fainted? Had the console short-circuited, shocked him somehow? The idea of dying, of his frail body giving out in that dim back room, made his stomach lurch. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of this new heart, so different from the weak flutter he was used to.
Anxiety clawed at him, unraveling the joy he'd felt moments ago. He turned back to the chamber, his eyes darting over the tapestries, the polished furniture, as if they might hold answers.
If he was dreaming, he should wake up eventually, right? But what if he wasn't? What if he'd been pulled into this world, his real body left behind, abandoned in the shop or worse?
He thought of his mother, her tired face, the way she'd worry if he didn't come home. The real world, with its hunger and bruises, was a nightmare, but it was his, and the thought of being cut off from it forever filled him with a strange, aching panic.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands trembling as he ran them through his silver hair. The room was too quiet, the silence amplifying his thoughts. He tried to recall the exact moment he'd entered this place, but his memory was fuzzy, like trying to grasp smoke.
The shop, the game, the flash of light—it was all there, but the edges were blurred, incomplete. He wondered if Sam knew something, if the strange blood payment had been more than a quirk.
The idea felt absurd, but so did standing in a castle, in a body that wasn't his. He hugged his arms to his chest, the fine fabric of his shirt a stark contrast to the threadbare jacket he'd worn yesterday.
What if he was trapped here? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. In games, heroes went on quests, fought monsters, saved worlds—but they always had a way back, didn't they? He thought of the RPGs he'd played, the hours spent grinding levels, the clear paths to victory.
But Ancient Bane hadn't given him a menu, a character selection, or even a tutorial. It had just asked him to join, and now he was here, with no guide, no rules.
His breath came faster, the fear growing, threatening to swallow the wonder he'd felt. He needed to understand, to find out what this place was, what he was supposed to do.
He stood again, pacing the chamber, his new body moving with a grace he wasn't used to. He wanted to believe this was a dream, that he'd wake up in the shop, sore but alive, the game disc still spinning.
But the stone beneath his feet, the weight of the air, the vividness of the world—it felt too real, too solid. He stopped by the mirror, staring at the stranger with red eyes and silver hair, and whispered,
"What's happening to me?"
The reflection didn't answer, but the question lingered, heavy and unanswered, as he tried to push the fear away and hold onto the fragile hope that this was still his story to control.
Just then, a rush of memories hit him, sharp and sudden, like a gust of wind tearing through a quiet room. They weren't his memories—not the ones of his real life, with its cracked walls and empty fridge—but they flooded his mind all the same, vivid and painful, yet incomplete.
He staggered, gripping the bedpost for balance, his head throbbing as images and emotions surged through him. It was like piecing together a shattered mirror, each fragment showing a glimpse of someone else's life, someone who belonged to this body, this world.
He saw himself—or this other self—moving through grand halls, surrounded by warmth and love, but always quiet, always watching.
This body, this person, was shy, timid, just like he'd been in the real world, but for different reasons. The memories showed a boy sheltered by a family that adored him, their affection a blanket he hid beneath.
He saw faces—parents with kind eyes, brothers who teased but protected fiercely. They called him by a name he couldn't quite grasp, their voices soft, encouraging, but he rarely spoke back, his words locked away by a nature that shunned attention.
The boy in the memories was loved, spoiled even, but his timidity kept him on the edges, observing rather than acting, safe but silent.
The pain of the memories wasn't physical—it was the ache of knowing this life, this warmth, and feeling it slip through his fingers. The fragments were incomplete, leaving gaps he couldn't fill.
He saw a grand dining hall, laughter echoing, but couldn't recall what was said. He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, a brother's maybe, but the face was blurred.
The personality of this body was clear, though—reserved, gentle, content to fade into the background. It was so close to his own, yet wrapped in a life of privilege he'd never known. He wondered if this was why he'd been chosen, why Ancient Bane had pulled him into this body.
He sat back on the bed, his head still pounding, trying to sort through the flood. The memories gave him a sense of this boy's heart—kind, loyal, but fragile, easily overwhelmed.
He'd been overprotected, shielded from the world's harshness, unlike the real-world boy who'd known nothing but hardship. Yet the similarity in their quietness, their fear of standing out, felt like a bridge between them.
He closed his eyes, letting the memories settle, and felt a strange kinship with this other self, as if they were two sides of the same coin, both hiding from a world that demanded more than they could give.
The incompleteness of the memories frustrated him. He wanted to know more—needed to know more if he was going to navigate this place. But the fragments were all he had, glimpses of a life that wasn't his but now belonged to him.
He opened his eyes, staring at the ornate ceiling, and tried to anchor himself in the present. Whoever this boy was, he'd been loved, cherished, and that love lingered in the memories, a warmth that soothed the fear still gnawing at him. He held onto it, letting it steady his racing heart.
The name came to him then, clear and sharp, like a bell ringing in the quiet. Lumian von Ignysar. He whispered it, testing the sound, and it felt right, like a key turning in a lock. He was Lumian, the youngest son of the Ignysar Archduchy, a noble family in a world he didn't yet understand.
The memories showed him two older brothers, their faces half-formed but their presence strong—tall, confident, everything he'd always wanted to be. They'd teased him, ruffled his hair, but their love was fierce, unwavering.
He saw flashes of them sparring in a courtyard, their swords clashing, while he watched from the sidelines, quiet and awed.
Lumian was the spoiled one, the baby of the family, doted on by parents and siblings alike. The memories showed a mother brushing his silver hair, a father teaching him to hold a quill, brothers sneaking him sweets when he was supposed to be studying.
He'd been obedient, almost silent, his voice rarely heard in the grand halls of the castle. The family didn't mind—they loved him for it, their gentle, quiet Lumian, always watching, always listening. He felt their affection in the memories, a warmth that made his chest ache with longing for something he'd never had in his real life.
The Archduchy was vast, its power evident in the glimpses of wealth and influence—banquets, advisors, guards in gleaming armor. Lumian had grown up in this castle, its walls his home, its people his protectors.
But his timidity had kept him apart, a shadow even among those who loved him. He saw himself hiding behind his brothers during formal events, his red eyes downcast, his voice a whisper when forced to speak.
The memories were incomplete, but they painted a picture of a boy cherished but fragile, a boy who'd never had to fight, never had to survive the way the real-world boy had.
He stood again, moving to the mirror, and stared at Lumian's face—his face now. The flaming red eyes, the silver-white hair, the features too perfect to be real.
He was Lumian von Ignysar, but he was also himself, the boy from the shop, the boy who'd said yes to a game and woken up here.
The memories gave him a foundation, a sense of who Lumian was, but they didn't tell him why he was here, what he was supposed to do. He touched the mirror, his reflection steady, and felt a spark of determination.
Dream or not, he was Lumian now, and he'd find out what this world wanted from him.
The castle was quiet, the morning light still soft through the terrace archway. He thought of his brothers, their strength, their laughter, and wondered where they were now.
The memories didn't tell him, but they left a sense of safety, of belonging, that he clung to. He wasn't the scrawny kid anymore, wasn't the ghost dodging bullies in a crumbling school.
He was Lumian, loved, protected, part of something bigger. He stepped away from the mirror, his new body moving with a confidence he didn't fully feel, and decided to explore, to see what this world held for him, dream or not.
The fear from earlier lingered, but it was tempered now by the memories, by the name that felt like his own. He moved to the wardrobe again, pulling on a pair of boots that fit perfectly, their leather soft and sturdy.
The clothes, the room, the castle—it was all too much, too grand, but it was his for now, and he'd make the most of it. He thought of Ancient Bane, of the words on the screen, and wondered if this was the world he was meant to save.
The idea was daunting, but it stirred something in him, a spark of the hero he'd always wanted to be in his games.
He crossed to the terrace again, looking out at the castle, its towers gleaming in the rising sun. The city beyond was waking, voices drifting up from the streets, the clatter of carts and the clink of armor.
He felt a pull, a need to step out, to see it all. If this was a dream, it was the best he'd ever had, and he wouldn't waste it. If it was real—well, he'd figure that out later. For now, he was Lumian von Ignysar, and this world was his to explore.
He turned back to the chamber, his eyes catching on a small table by the bed. A dagger lay there, its hilt carved with the same runes as the fireplace. He picked it up, testing its weight, and felt a thrill at its balance, its edge.
It wasn't a toy, wasn't a prop—it was real, and it fit his hand like it had been made for him. He tucked it into his belt, a small act of claiming this new role, and moved toward the door. The castle waited, and with it, answers to the questions burning in his mind.
The door was heavy, its wood polished to a shine, and he hesitated before opening it, his hand resting on the ornate handle. Beyond it was a hallway, long and lined with portraits, their eyes seeming to watch him.
He thought of his brothers, his parents, the life Lumian had lived, and felt a pang of guilt for taking it over, even if it was just a dream.
But he'd said yes to the game, and now he was here, with a name, a body, a world that felt like it needed him. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped into the unknown, ready to find out what it meant to be Lumian von Ignysar.