The quite grand room quivered with a subtle tremor, a distortion in the very air that made the stone beneath the bodyguards' feet hum with unease. The Reverse Creation surged like a tide of impossibility, brushing against reality itself and threatening to unravel the palace as if it were no more than a stage set. Draven's arms burned as he clutched the gauntlet etched with the Nullification Field, feeling the raw mana of his fellow guards poured into him like molten rivers of energy. Each pulse was violent, testing the limits of his body and mind, yet he forced himself to stand upright. Failure was not an option. Not here. Not now.
"This… this cannot be stopped by one alone," Draven muttered, teeth clenched, his voice barely audible above the quiet hum of suppressed power. He glanced at the others. Each face was pale, eyes wide with the strain of giving life-force to strengthen his field. Muscles trembled; sweat gleamed across foreheads. Valric, one of the senior bodyguards, was already on the edge of collapse. "I… I can't hold it much longer," he rasped. His mana shimmered, cascading into Draven's gauntlets, arcs of energy licking the air like restless serpents.
The surge of Reverse Creation hit first as a subtle distortion—an imperceptible bending of matter—but it quickly escalated into something far more dangerous. Floor tiles cracked, wood warped unnaturally, and the air itself hissed as though the universe were testing its limits. Draven staggered under the pressure, muscles screaming, yet he did not falter. Every bodyguard pooled their strength into him, every ounce of life-force contributing to the fragile cage attempting to contain the power that should never have existed.
And there, in the eye of this storm, Chandram lay still. Or so it appeared.
Saphira Dravielle, princess of Sintria, observed from the edge of the hall. She did not panic, did not collapse in melodrama or fear. Her posture was measured, her expression composed, with a hint of fascination. Chandram's power—Reverse Creation—was unlike anything she had encountered, yet she approached it with curiosity rather than sorrow.
"He's… unusual," she murmured softly, not to anyone, not even herself. Her gaze swept the hall, noting the shimmer of the Nullification Field, the mana flows, the subtle warping of space. Candles flickered as if reversed by some unseen current, banners twisted midair, and the chandeliers above refracted light in impossible angles. "Interesting," she whispered again, a note of amusement coloring her words. "So this is what they call Reverse Creation." Her eyes flicked to Chandram. "And yet, he hasn't moved. Curious."
From the viewpoint of the younger guards, panic threaded their movements, though none dared voice it loudly. "He's… gone?" one whispered, voice trembling, the syllables heavy with fear. Others shook their heads, unsure whether to hope or accept the worst. The aura surrounding Chandram was so overwhelming, so unnatural, that even the bravest among them felt a shiver of helplessness.
Draven's focus never wavered. Each pulse of energy brought the surge closer to breaking him, yet the combined force of the other guards kept it restrained. His jaw was tight; every muscle strained as if he were the fulcrum holding the world together. The Nullification Field glowed like frozen lightning, arcs of power lashing outward, barely containing the raw, unyielding force emanating from Chandram.
The world around them bent in subtle, terrifying ways. Stones shifted as if liquid, tiles reassembled in impossible configurations, and the chandelier refracted the light into fractal patterns that made the walls appear endless. Time itself seemed to ripple, flowing against itself in moments that could not exist. Draven felt the weight of impossibility pressing down on him, yet he remained steadfast.
Even as he fought, Chandram's body remained motionless, his chest rising and falling faintly but otherwise giving no sign of consciousness. The other guards transferred mana continuously, sweat pouring down their faces, muscles screaming. Each felt the strain of existence itself, each heartbeat a drum of desperation.
Saphira, meanwhile, analyzed every movement with quiet intensity. She did not cry; she did not panic. She only observed. Her thoughts raced as she considered the implications of Reverse Creation, the immense and dangerous force that Chandram wielded, and the audacity of the boy himself. "This… will be complicated," she said under her breath, tilting her head slightly. Even in this chaos, she remained composed, her poise unshaken.
A faint sound, like glass cracking far away, drew Draven's attention. His eyes narrowed, but he did not falter. He could feel the Reverse Creation straining against the Nullification Field, feel it brushing at the edges of existence itself. "Hold… just a little longer," he muttered to himself, though whether it was reassurance or prayer, he did not know.
The hall remained silent in some ways, though the subtle distortions and warping of reality screamed louder than words ever could. Chandram's body lay at the center, an enigma, a myth made flesh. His power had brushed against them all, and the aftershock lingered in every corner, every tile, every whisper of the air.
No one dared declare victory, for none could be sure. Chandram's form seemed still, yet the world itself betrayed his presence. Draven's arms burned; his body quaked under the stress of holding the Nullification Field, yet he did not collapse. Each guard, each transferred pulse of mana, was a thread in a fragile tapestry keeping the impossible contained.
Saphira's gaze returned to Chandram, her thoughts calm but sharp. He was a boy who should not exist in this world, yet he had not only survived but exerted a power beyond comprehension. She did not panic, did not cry, did not dramatize. Instead, she observed, taking in every detail with quiet intensity, the faintest trace of awe in her voice.
And then, slowly, the hall fell into an uneasy silence. Chandram remained motionless, the Reverse Creation contained, the Nullification Field shimmering faintly before fading into a gentle, residual glow. The other guards leaned on each other, drained but alive. Their combined effort had halted the surge, but the cost was clear: uncertainty.
The boy's status remained unknown. He could be unconscious, dead, or merely resting beneath the impossible power he had unleashed. No one dared approach him, not even Saphira, for to touch him might be to ignite the force again. And so the hall remained frozen in a moment of suspense, mythical and tragic, the silence heavy with questions unanswered.
Every guard, every noble, every witness felt the brush of something infinite, a power that should not exist, and yet had. Chandram had reached beyond the realm of ordinary existence, and though they had survived, none could shake the weight of what they had witnessed.
In that silence, one thought lingered among them all: the boy who should not exist had touched the fabric of everything, and for now, they could only wait to see if he would awaken—or if the world had seen him for the last time.
Chandram opened his eyes and found himself alone in a realm that seemed to reject light and warmth alike. The air was heavy, viscous, as if he were moving through some semi-solid shadow. Shapes shifted at the edges of his vision, whispering fragments of impossible geometry, yet his gaze immediately locked onto the throne before him.
It was inverted. Dark as obsidian, yet alive, veins of faint silver crawling along its surface like a heartbeat. The moment he laid eyes on it, an instinctual terror surged through him. His mind screamed: one touch, and not even an atom of him would remain. His body trembled under a force he could neither measure nor resist. Every instinct shouted retreat—but curiosity, reckless and stubborn, rooted him to the ground.
A voice cut through the oppressive silence, smooth, mocking, and impossibly calm.
"You came back so soon," it said lazily, as if reclining in some unseen chair. "I didn't even finish setting up my bed for a sleep. Only a few hours since you transmigrated, and here you are. Either you are very weak… or very stupid."
Chandram felt a shiver crawl down his spine. Weak? Impossible. And yet… the oppressive presence of this being made him feel every molecule in his body half-erased, his existence fragile.
"But you couldn't possibly be weak," the voice continued, amusement threading its tone. "You have that power with you. No… it must be the other option. You lack brain." It sighed, an almost audible exhalation that rattled the edges of the shadowed realm.
Chandram's throat tightened. He dared not move, dared not breathe too loudly. The air around him hissed with the force of something ancient, eternal, and overwhelmingly intelligent. Finally, gathering what courage he could muster, Chandram whispered, his voice raw but deliberate:
"Who… are you?"
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, before the voice returned softer this time, yet no less terrifying:
"You will know soon enough. But first… you must understand why you are here. It is too early for you to be here. Go back to life already."
And as if obeying the command, the oppressive realm dissolved, replaced by sensation—air, gravity, and warmth rushing back into him all at once. Chandram blinked and realized he was lying in a coffin. Wood pressed against his back; the smell of earth and resin filled his nose.
"What the hell is even going on?" he muttered under his breath, careful not to raise his voice. First, he had been late for work in the modern world. Then he had woken in a mysterious place. Then… a group of enigmatic people, the princess of Sintria, Reverse Creation, Nullification Fields—the flood of information threatened to overwhelm him, yet he forced calm.
Screaming would alert the princess aboveground, and she would immediately take him for questioning about his powers. That would slow everything, perhaps endanger his growth. Patience, calculation, and discretion were far more valuable.
As the workers and guards began to bury the coffin, Chandram's mind raced. He remembered Unchanged Destiny, its quirks, and particularly that one eccentric character with a fetish for inverted thrones. The memory now seemed terrifyingly relevant. With the throne, the voice, and the reversed flow of events, the pieces clicked: he was indeed in the world of the novel.
Saphira Dravielle, the princess, could be a pivotal ally—or a dangerous obstacle. Handled wisely, she would provide access, protection, and leverage; handled poorly, she could alert the imperial court, filled with masters whose eyes were sharper than any blade. Every move required precision.
His thoughts turned to the power system—the hierarchy of masters, levels of mana, techniques, and rules governing abilities. If he could map his current knowledge of Reverse Creation onto this system, he could not only survive but expand beyond limits previously unimaginable. The first step was patience. The second was calculation. His body lay buried, but his mind was free, noting every sound aboveground, every shift in the soil, every potential weakness.
A dry smirk touched his lips. He had survived worse. He had faced impossible powers, walked on the edge of death, and now, even buried beneath the earth, he had a path. This was not the end—it was opportunity. And deep inside, a spark of defiance flared: he would not only survive this world—he would master it.