That morning, Brasswell looked like a painting that refused to stay quiet.
Market shouts spilled through the window; merchants haggled at full volume, wooden cart wheels scraped against cobblestone, and the scent of fresh vegetables mixed with the faint glow of mana crystals drifting in the air.
A world too alive for someone who just woke up.
In a room he had never seen before, a young man opened his eyes.
At first, he only blinked slowly like someone waking up late for school.
But a second later, his brows pulled together so sharply it almost hurt.
"Why is it so damn loud…" he muttered, voice heavy with sleep.
He pushed himself up, still groggy. His eyes scanned the room, and gradually, confusion sharpened into shock.
"…Whose room is this?"
The walls weren't painted cement they were wooden planks carved neatly.
The floor was polished stone.
A large window, its curtain messy, swayed softly with the breeze.
Nothing… absolutely nothing matched his room on Earth.
He stood, slightly staggering, then quickly stepped back, breath caught in his throat.
"What—?! This isn't my house."
A cold shiver crawled slowly up his neck.
His instincts screamed for a mirror, and he spotted one in the corner as if it had been waiting for this moment.
He approached.
The reflection staring back almost made him lose balance.
"Oi… stop messing with me."
His hair was slicked back—neat but wild, like a fantasy protagonist.
His height… much taller, around 185 cm.
His build was firm, toned, athletic.
And his eyes—sharp, cold grey like storm clouds.
"…This is not my body."
He slapped his cheek.
SLAP.
"Ow!"
Too real.
Too vivid.
"So this isn't a dream…"
A headache throbbed through his skull. His heartbeat stumbled in confusion, trying to make sense of a reality that shouldn't exist.
He walked out of the room.
The house was big, clean, and completely silent. No family. No footsteps. No voice.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
No answer.
He opened the front door.
The marketplace's noise hit him instantly.
He stepped outside
BUMP!
"Watch where you're going," a cold voice said.
He looked up.
A man in silver armor stood before him, gold patterns shining under the sun. A massive sword rested on his back. Brown hair, dark eyes, strong posture
and far, far too familiar.
"S-Sorry…" He replied instinctively.
The man walked away without glancing back.
But he froze.
His memory clicked like gears snapping into place.
"Silver armor… gold engravings… greatblade… brown hair… height exactly 178…"
No way.
This wasn't random.
"…He looks exactly like the MC from my novel?"
He swallowed hard.
His legs moved on their own as he walked to the market, mind racing faster than his heartbeat.
The noise was real.
The smell, the warmth of sunlight everything felt too physical to be fantasy.
He approached a vegetable vendor wearing a brown apron.
"Excuse me… what city is this? I'm a traveler."
The man smiled. "This is Brasswell, lad."
Brasswell.
The name slammed into him like a punch.
This was the world he wrote.
He returned to the house, fingers pressed against his temple.
His mind was brilliant, sharp but even genius had limits.
Fear tangled with confusion, and behind both emotions… a spark of wild curiosity flickered.
"I'm inside my own novel?"
"My soul… ended up in the body of some NPC I didn't even name?"
"This is insane."
He stood before the mirror again.
The stranger's reflection stared back calm, cold, and strangely fitting.
After a long breath, he whispered:
"…Alright. If this guy doesn't have a name, I'll use the one I know."
His lips curled into a faint smirk.
"From now on, I'm Zekki.Zekki Arvandel"
Not a hero.
Not a villain.
Not even a character that mattered.
Just an NPC who suddenly got a second chance.
Zekki looked out the window, toward the bustling Brasswell streets.
"I'm the writer. This is my world… my story."
"If I'm trapped here… then fine."
A soft, cunning smile slid across his face half amusement, half ambition.
"Let's rewrite everything."
With steady steps and a fire stirring in his chest, Zekki's new life began
unaware that dark shadows already stirred behind the pages.