I woke up to the same room. That was the first thing I noticed.
The ceiling fan, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the light creeping in from the side of the curtains.
My head still hurt, but the pain had dulled overnight into something manageable.
I lay there for a while, staring up.
Nothing changed.
I wasn't dreaming. I hadn't imagined any of it.
Yesterday had happened. The rift, the creatures, the summoning. Even now, the memory of the pressure behind inside my head felt too specific to be fake.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cool under my feet. My balance was fine. My body felt the same as it always had, aside from the lingering fatigue.
That, too, bothered me more than it should have. I wasn't reacting the way I thought I would.
Some part of me was still calm in a way that didn't quite fit. Like my mind had accepted the situation before my emotions had caught up.
I tried to imagine how I'd explain it to myself if this had happened to someone else.
'You're in another world,' I thought. 'Sort of.'
Not exactly. This was still Earth. Same continents, cities, house. But layered over it all was an entirely different structure. One that had always existed here, apparently, even if it hadn't existed where I came from.
I stood and walked over to my desk, resting my hands against the edge as I leaned forward.
The differences came to mind easily now that I wasn't under pressure.
Money, for one.
This world didn't use currencies the way mine had. No dollars, euros, or any exchange rates fluctuating between countries.
Everything ran on credits—global credits—standardized and enforced by the empire. Earned through registered work, merit-based contributions, or official contracts.
One credit was likely roughly equivalent to one dollar, if my memory and intuitive reasoning served me well.
Then there was the Archiver Agency.
Scripts weren't something you just used freely once you had them. Registration, licenses, and more mattered.
The agency oversaw it all, from training to deployment to containment. Being part of it wasn't mandatory for my goals, but operating outside its structure would surely come with heavy limits
And I couldn't officially join yet. At least not until I passed their test.
That was possible after high school, unless you qualified for an exception. That was rare, but not unheard of.
I exhaled and leaned back in my chair.
At the very least, I hadn't crossed any lines I couldn't walk back from.
I focused inward and opened my Archive.
<> — — — <> — — — <>
——Elias' Archive——
Archive Rank: Unranked
Scripts: (F | Gray) [Baki Hanma]
Scriptmaking Material: (F) (Creature – Ghoul) x2
<>———<>———<>
The two new entries sat there, unchanged.
I stared at them, then shifted my focus outward and opened the marketplace interface tied to the agency network.
Even unlicensed users could browse prices. Selling was allowed too, within limits.
The listing loaded after a short delay.
(F) Creature – Ghoul
Average Market Price: 9,799 Credits
I frowned.
I refreshed it once. The number didn't change.
Wow. Now that's a lot of money.
Not objectively, or really on a global scale, but for someone like me—someone from a normal household—it was more money than I'd ever had access to at once.
I did the math automatically.
Delivery fees took five percent. Government tax took another five. Roughly eighteen thousand credits total after deductions if I sold both.
I closed the interface and leaned back again, staring at the ceiling.
I wasn't permitted to create another script yet. Not officially at least. Even if I could, rushing into it now would be reckless. Yesterday had already proven that.
Holding onto the materials wouldn't do anything for me in the short term.
It seemed like selling was the best option.
I opened the interface again and listed both items.
The confirmation window blinked once, then disappeared.
[Transaction pending…]
The decision felt oddly anticlimactic.
Downstairs, I heard movement in the kitchen. Some cabinets opened, and a kettle was set down.
I went down a few minutes later.
My mother was standing by the counter, her back to me. She turned when she heard my footsteps and smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You look better," she said. "Still hurting?"
"A bit," I replied. I sat down at the table. "But it's manageable."
She poured me a cup of water and slid it across. I took a sip, then hesitated.
There wasn't really a good way to start.
"I need to tell you something," I said.
She stiffened slightly, then pulled out the chair across from me and sat. "Okay."
I took a breath.
And then I told her everything. About as cleanly as I could.
I explained waking up with memories that weren't supposed to be there. About another version of this world. Another life that felt distant but real. About what happened yesterday.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she didn't speak right away. She stared down at her hands for a long moment, then looked back up at me.
"That's…" She stopped. Tried again. "... a lot."
"I know," I said.
Her eyes searched my face, looking for something I wasn't giving her. Maybe this was a joke. An admission. Anything that would make things easier.
Finally, she sighed.
"I don't understand it," she said quietly. "I don't know how I could."
Then she reached across the table and placed her hand over mine.
"But you're my son," she continued. "And you've never lied to me like this before."
Her grip tightened slightly.
"So if you say this is real, then… I'll believe you."
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
She'd raised me alone. Always had. There'd never been anyone else. No one to share the burden, no one to pass it to. Everything she'd done, she'd done herself.
She was my entire family.
I understood, then, why I'd stepped out yesterday without thinking it through.
I squeezed her hand back and nodded.
"I'll be careful," I said.
She gave a small, tired smile. "You'd better."
A knock sounded at the front door.
My mother looked toward the door first. Then back at me.
"Stay here," she said, already standing.
I nodded and remained seated while she crossed the living room and opened the door.
A man stood outside. Mid-thirties, maybe older. He wore a plain jacket with a small emblem stitched near the collar.
"Good morning," he said. "Archivist Agency. May I come in?"
My mother hesitated for only a second, then stepped aside.
He entered calmly, closing the door behind him. His eyes flicked over the room once, quick and professional, before stopping on me.
"Elias Johnson?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, standing up.
He raised a hand slightly. "You can sit. This won't take long."
He took out a small device, glanced at it, then looked back up. "I'm Agent Morrell. I'm here regarding yesterday's F-grade rift incident."
My mother stiffened beside the counter.
"I'll be brief," he continued. "Your involvement has been reviewed. Given the circumstances—emergency conditions, proximity to civilians, and your status as a minor—there will be no penalties."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"There will also be no rewards," he added evenly. "Agency policy."
That, I had expected.
"You acted without a license," he went on. "Which is normally a violation. In this case, it's been classified as emergency use. You did not escalate the situation, and you disengaged appropriately."
His eyes met mine. "You did well. Don't do it again."
"I understand," I said.
He nodded once.
"You retain ownership of any materials obtained during the incident," he continued. "Those have already been registered under your name."
A small flicker of relief passed through me.
I thought about the marketplace listing. About how I'd rushed through the sale without confirming whether I was even allowed to keep them.
'That could've gone badly,' I thought.
Agent Morrell glanced at his device again. "Your script quality was logged as Gray. That's above average for a first draft."
His face indicated praise, yet his tone was mechanical. I didn't know what exactly he meant by it.
"If you apply to the Agency in the future," he added, "this record will remain attached to your file. It won't guarantee anything. But it won't be ignored either."
"I see," I said.
He slipped the device back into his pocket. "That's all."
He turned to my mother. "Thank you for your time. If you have any concerns, the contact information is included in the follow-up notice."
She nodded, still quiet.
And so he left.
The door closed behind him, and the house fell silent again.
My mother exhaled slowly and leaned back against the counter. "Well," she said after a moment. "That's that."
I smiled, a little nervously. "Yeah."
She looked at me for a long second, then shook her head. "Next time, you wait for help."
"I will," I said.
She studied my face, then nodded, apparently satisfied enough.
Later, back in my room, I opened my Archive once more.
The entries were unchanged.
The transaction status blinked once, then updated.
[Transaction Complete]
The credits were transferred.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
The academy deadline was still approaching. My name was on record now. Somewhere, someone could pull it up and see what I'd done.
I let out a slow breath.
I opened my laptop again. Taking my time, I went over my applications. One by one, I added my script to the list of information.
'This should boost my odds by quite a bit. Gray grade on a first draft, plus combat experience.'
My normal applications were sure to be accepted. As for the elite academies…
Where once there was no hope, now there was a degree of possibility.
Either way, I couldn't help but imagine great change in the coming times. Whether I started as an elite or not.