The first thing I felt wasn't awe or wonder. It was pain.
A dull ache throbbed across my ribs. My right arm was stiff, and my mouth tasted like dried blood. The smell of sweat and iron was thick in the air. I heard something groaning — only to realize it was me.
I opened my eyes.
Gray skies. Broken dirt. A battlefield?
What the hell…?
I sat up slowly. My body felt foreign — heavier, stronger. There were scratches all over my arms, deep bruises under half-torn leather armor. A sword lay near my hand, chipped and stained red.
And then I saw the corpses.
Soldiers in tattered uniforms. Bodies twisted on the blood-soaked field. I flinched and turned away.
My heartbeat spiked.
This couldn't be real.
"This is a dream," I muttered. "Just a messed-up dream."
But the wind felt too cold. The blood on my fingers too warm. And in the pit of my stomach, I knew…
This is real.
I crawled over to a shallow puddle and looked into it.
And what stared back wasn't me.
It was a boy — maybe fifteen, with silver hair matted in sweat and mud. His face was pale but sharp, almost aristocratic, with cold eyes that didn't suit someone his age. There was a scar on his jaw and a strange emptiness in his expression, like the soul had been wrung dry.
I knew that face.
I wrote that face.
"Mikhail…" I whispered.
The name left my mouth without thinking.
The bastard son of Viscount Durenhardt. The unwanted child. The sacrificial pawn. The character I had written to die in the early chapters — a nameless, loyal soldier used and discarded.
I had made him tragic because I needed a reason for the readers to hate the nobility early on. Mikhail was designed to suffer.
And now… I am him.
The panic didn't come all at once. It crawled in slowly, spreading from my chest to my hands.
I gripped the dirt and tried to breathe.
"Okay. Okay. Think, Carl. Think."
I was inside my novel.
I was inside Mikhail.
And that meant…
That meant I was dead? Or dreaming? Or…
No, no. None of this made sense. But I couldn't afford to fall apart. Not here.
Voices.
I heard horses approaching in the distance. Metal clanking. I stood up with effort and reached for the sword, just in case.
Three riders approached — all wearing silver armor with the crest of the royal army. One of them dismounted and ran toward me.
"Mikhail!" he shouted. "You're alive?!"
He grabbed me by the shoulders. "You idiot! You actually survived!"
I blinked. The boy looked about my age — maybe a bit younger, with wild black hair and a missing front tooth. He was smiling like I just came back from the dead.
…Which, technically, I did.
My mouth moved on its own. "Barely."
He laughed. "I told the captain you wouldn't die that easy!"
I searched my memory. This boy was… oh. Right. Tovan. A minor character. Mikhail's only "friend," if you could even call him that. More like someone who used him to survive longer in the frontlines.
But still — at least he wasn't an enemy.
Another soldier rode up. "Is that Mikhail? The bastard?"
The words stung. Not because of what they meant — but because I wrote them. That was Mikhail's life. Mocked. Expendable. A dog sent to war so the noble sons could stay home and study poetry.
If I remembered right… this was the last battle of the Eastern Campaign. Mikhail was supposed to die here, holding the line while the other units retreated.
But I had survived.
Because I didn't play by the script.
Later that day, we were brought back to the city on a wagon. I didn't speak much. Just nodded when people talked. Too many things were racing through my head.
I was Mikhail.
But inside, I was still Carl.
And somewhere out there, the plot of my story was unfolding — with or without me.
The capital was louder than I imagined it. Smelled worse, too.
As soon as we arrived, we were dismissed. I was told to wait for medical clearance — then someone would decide if I got payment or not.
I wandered into an alley behind the barracks. I needed a minute alone.
And that's when I saw it.
The system.
A thin line of blue light hovered in the air before me. Letters formed, glowing faintly.
[You have survived the Eastern Front.]
[Your actions have altered the story.]
["Mikhail Durenhardt" was fated to die here.]
[New path unlocked.]
[Your fate has shifted.]
[You are now being observed.]
"…What?"
I reached out to touch it, but it vanished like smoke.
Another message popped up immediately.
[Due to your valor and combat achievements, you have been nominated for the Royal Academy recruitment program.]
[An invitation will arrive soon.]
[Survive until then.]
I leaned against the wall, breath catching in my throat.
This was it.
This was the moment.
In the original novel, after this war, the kingdom — desperate from losing too many young nobles — opened the doors of its academy to anyone with potential.
It was how the real protagonists entered the stage.
And now, so would I.