I looked at it.
Not a skill window.
Not a status screen.
A book.
No—
my book.
The thing I had constructed, designed, and written.
A record that existed because I did.
Codex of Self.
It unfolded in front of me without pages turning. The words were already there, as if they had always existed and I was simply late to reading them.
It didn't greet me.
It didn't explain itself.
It didn't need to.
It already knew who I was.
This wasn't for me.
This was so the people watching had something to follow.
And, admittedly… it was excellent for self-building.
Designation:The Inkbound Variable
Existence:Dual-Existence Anomaly
Fate Thread:None
That made me pause.
Not cut.
Not severed.
Just… none.
The Codex didn't assign me a rank either. There was a space where one should have been, but the word Unwritten hung there like a quiet refusal.
I skimmed faster than I probably should have and immediately understood why.
The Codex wasn't interested in levels.
I could've given myself one.
But I hadn't.
Because I didn't care about progression.
I cared about importance.
Power didn't rise because I trained.
It rose because the moment demanded it.
I found my "class"—or rather, the absence of one.
Narrative Anomaly.
Role: Undefined.
Affinity: All / None.
Threat scaling was described as non-linear, which felt like the Codex politely saying:
We're not pretending anymore.
Then I found the real limiter.
Not strength.
Not control.
Emotion.
Something I struggled with—both here and in the real world.
Only I would ever know how deeply.
Everything I could do—everything I could become—was paid for with how much of myself I was willing to feel.
And when that ran out…
There was a name for it.
Ink Collapse.
No dramatic warning.
No alarms.
Just a note.
If I emptied myself completely, I wouldn't die.
I would shut down.
I would become something else.
I stopped reading there.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I already knew there were things I shouldn't look at yet.
Some sections I sealed outright.
Others felt… patient.
As if they would still be there when I was ready to end something instead of letting it continue.
So I did what made sense.
I closed the Codex.
Time resumed as if nothing had happened.
Then—
I opened it again.
Time stopped instantly.
The pages shifted.
This time, not the part meant for me.
I pulled up the version everyone else would see.
The world.
The readers.
According to them, I was simple.
Name: Kaeru
Class: Combat Scholar
Rank: Provisional
No gods.
No anomalies.
No contradictions.
Just a student on an academic track, with decent instincts and a habit of thinking too much before moving.
My stats were… comforting.
Average.
Clean.
Uncapped but finite.
My skills were reasonable—analysis, imitation, post-battle review. Even my elemental access was restricted to two channels, complete with warnings about mana backlash if I overreached.
Lightning and Wind.
Lightning primary.
Wind secondary.
The backlash wouldn't hurt me.
But it looked believable.
Clean.
Efficient.
Forgettable.
Exactly what I wanted.
I stared at the public appraisal for a long moment, comparing it to the Codex I had just closed, and felt something close to amusement.
This wasn't a lie.
It was a version.
One the world could understand.
I dismissed the window and leaned back, staring at nothing in particular.
The Law of Aion was watching.
Not as pressure.
As attention.
Like a reader hovering over a page, curious to see what happened next.
I smiled faintly.
You'll get the safe version, I thought.
For now.
Before I closed the Codex completely, I opened the skills page.
Not the dangerous parts.
Not the pages that felt like they could rewrite a couple of universes if I lingered too long.
Just enough to confirm something important.
I opened a single page—movement and positioning.
Time bent slightly.
Not enough to stop.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just a correction.
A step taken at the exact right moment.
Distance folded the way it should have if the world were being polite.
Then I brushed another page—elements.
No storm.
No symbols.
Energy obeyed quietly, like it had been waiting for instructions it already understood.
That was all I needed.
The Codex responded instantly.
Effortlessly.
And most importantly—
Quietly.
I could use it without leaving fingerprints.
That decided everything.
I wasn't letting anyone see this.
I scrolled past sections meant for gods, anomalies, and things that didn't belong anywhere near classrooms, and stopped on the only part that mattered right now.
The version of me the world was allowed to know.
I read it once.
Then again.
Not because I needed to understand it—
But because I needed to be sure the ones listening understood me.
The public skill set was neat. Restrained. Almost boring.
And interestingly—
These were skills I had designed myself.
Situational awareness.
Energy harmonization.
Breathing techniques.
Efficient movement.
Minor reinforcement.
Things a disciplined student should have.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing absolute.
Then the combat section.
Analysis.
Imitation.
Footwork.
Aura-enhanced strikes.
A thin mana edge along a blade.
Mana and Aura.
Rare enough together to be noteworthy—but believable, especially since I used only minimal aura. Just enough to justify techniques like aura coating without raising suspicion, even though that normally required a Tier 2 Knight.
Defensive reactions that could fail.
Logs that only activated after combat ended.
A toolkit that explained competence without implying dominance.
Even the elements were locked down.
Two channels.
Wind and Lightning.
Enough to look skilled.
Not enough to look dangerous.
At the bottom—
A single ultimate.
A calculated counter.
High risk.
High payoff.
Easy to disrupt.
A ceiling.
I lingered there longer than I expected.
Because that was the most important part.
Everyone needs a limit they can point to.
Something they can measure you against.
Something that lets them believe they understand you.
This was perfect.
If I won, it would look earned.
If I lost, it would look reasonable.
If I survived something I shouldn't have—
They'd call it luck.
Preparation.
Good instincts.
No panic.
No prophecy.
No divine flags raised.
I closed the public window.
Then—only after everything else was safely in place—I dismissed the Codex entirely.
The book vanished.
The silence returned.
I exhaled slowly, posture relaxing, presence softening.
To the world, I was a Combat Scholar with good fundamentals and a cautious style.
To myself—
I was holding a story sharp enough to cut gods.
And for now…
I would keep it sheathed.
As time resumed, I left the clearing.
Because I knew what came next.
A tower.
One that offered gear, potions, money—rewards meant to shape growth.
But the items I was after were specific.
A pair of bracelets.
And earrings.
Cursed.
Not deadly.
Not world-ending.
The kind of debuffs only towers could produce.
Limits.
Restraints.
Anchors.
Things that would let me use my abilities without tearing reality apart.
And that—
That was exactly what I needed.
✦ The Weight of a Tower
I headed toward the tower I already knew was there.
Not because I could see it yet.
Because the world leaned in that direction.
The road was dirt-packed and quiet, worn smooth by footsteps that didn't belong to me. The kind of road people used when they believed the destination was worth the risk.
As I walked, Kaediel spoke.
"Do you really need an item like that?"
I didn't slow down.
"You mean the restraints?" I asked. "Yes."
"I could just nerf you," Kaediel said casually. "Lower your output. Add internal limits."
I stopped walking.
Then looked ahead again.
"Do you really think you'd do that?"
There was a pause.
I smiled faintly.
"Because we both know you wouldn't."
Kaediel laughed.
"You know me too well."
"You have a soft spot," I continued. "For characters that can't be defined. The ones that break frameworks just by existing."
"That's true," Kaediel admitted, amused.
"I'd rather use an item," I said. "Something I specifically designed. Something that lets me choose how much I'm allowed to be."
"You're being overly cautious," Kaediel replied.
"You're not going to tear a hole in reality just by walking around."
I said nothing.
Because it knew that was a lie.
The silence stretched.
Then—
"…Alright," Kaediel said eventually.
It didn't say what it was admitting to.
And then it was gone.
The world went quiet.
Only for a moment.
Then I felt it.
The tower.
Not visually.
Not yet.
But its weight pressed against the world like a held breath.
I rounded the last bend in the road—and finally saw it.
It was massive.
Far larger than anything the terrain should have supported.
A fusion of styles: Greek stonework layered with Japanese vertical elegance. Pillars etched with symbols that weren't decorative, rising into a structure that felt less built and more placed.
Tall.
Beautiful.
Divine.
At its base—
Movement.
A group of knights stood near the entrance, cloaked in shadow-black armor that drank in light instead of reflecting it.
Drakenshade.
I didn't need a banner to know.
Which meant—
"…Nightveil is nearby," I muttered.
The hidden capital. The city swallowed by black mist.
That explained the humans by the river.
Nightveil was infamous for slavery.
For trafficking.
For things people pretended didn't exist as long as the caravans kept moving.
I didn't dwell on it.
What mattered more was this—
The knights were still alive.
They should've entered the tower already.
Then it clicked.
I facepalmed.
"…Right."
Those humans I killed by accident.
They were important.
Not heroes.
Not protagonists.
But triggers.
If they had lived, they would've alerted these knights. The tower would've activated. The party would've gone in.
They would've died by now.
The tower would be empty.
I could've entered alone.
No competition.
No shared loot.
"…That's inconvenient," I sighed.
For half a second, I considered fixing that.
The air thickened.
The red glow in my pupils cooled into something sharper.
Mana condensed into the palm of my hand, forming a thin, precise blade—
Mana Edge.
Then I stopped.
Because the knights were still alive.
Which meant—
They hadn't failed.
They hadn't been delayed.
They were meant to be here.
For now.
So I watched.
At least, I intended to.
A faint rustle betrayed me.
Leaves shifted.
A branch snapped softly beneath my foot.
I had already been noticed.
I could've hidden again.
Could've erased myself from their perception.
But instead—
An idea formed.
A good one.
To execute it, I had to be seen.
So I stepped out of the shadows.
✦ Names You Shouldn't Know
As I stepped out from the trees, Kaediel spoke.
"You're really going to do this?"
I didn't look back.
"I don't need to answer that," I said quietly. "You already know."
Before Kaediel could reply, a voice cut in.
Sharp. Commanding.
"And what exactly are you doing this far from the capital?"
I froze.
Not because of the question.
Because of who was standing in front of me.
A female knight.
Shadow-cloaked like the rest—but different. Her presence was centered. Grounded. The kind of person whose authority didn't need to be announced.
No…
I knew her.
I knew every character I had written.
And her being here—
Out here—
Meant I couldn't follow through with my original plan.
Because she mattered.
"Captain asked you a question!" another knight barked.
I shifted my gaze to him.
Nothing aggressive.
Nothing threatening.
Just a calm, unreadable look.
It was enough.
The knight stiffened, shaken by something he couldn't explain. Embarrassed, he doubled down instead.
"This man was spying on us," he snapped. "By authority of the Drakenshade Knighthood, I place you under—"
"Enough."
Her voice cut through the air like a drawn blade.
Every knight went silent.
She didn't even look at them.
Her eyes were on me.
She repeated the question, calmer this time.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was passing through," I said evenly. "Saw armed figures near the road and assumed you were bandits."
I paused—just long enough.
"And I didn't feel like being sold as a slave."
I said it on purpose.
I knew exactly what this group did.
They weren't the worst in Drakenshade—but they were dirty enough. Bribes. Escorts. Turning a blind eye while bandits captured women, men, children.
Sometimes even infants.
They allowed them passage through the gates without inspection.
And when the Commonwealth started asking questions?
Knights were sent to make the questions stop.
She didn't know any of this.
And that bothered me.
"Then you don't need to worry," she said firmly.
"We are knights of Drakenshade. We protect our people—even passersby."
Behind her—
I felt it.
Disgust.
Rage.
Hatred.
All of it aimed at her back.
I understood why.
Before she became captain, these men served under Zeljrok.
A knight who let them do whatever they wanted.
Slavery. Corruption. Blood money.
When Zeljrok was arrested, charged with disloyalty and abuse of authority, the Council made a mistake.
They stripped him of his title.
But they let him live.
Now he was a bandit.
A powerful one.
Still running the same operations.
Only now—
With help from inside the knighthood.
These men feared him.
And they hated her.
Because she represented the thing that ruined everything.
Honor.
"I'll have two knights escort you to the nearest village," she said.
I bowed my head slightly.
"I'll have to decline."
Kaediel cut in immediately.
"You're acting like a victim," it said.
"You're the most powerful thing in this world."
"That would be too easy," I replied internally.
"And it wouldn't help your building."
Kaediel laughed.
"Fair. Worldbuilding is fun."
"I know."
"You should write a story."
"I am."
It laughed again, because it knew exactly what it was doing.
I ignored it and focused back on her.
"Why would you decline?" she asked.
"He's a spy!" one knight shouted.
"That's why! Arrest him immediately!"
She shot him a look.
Not angry.
Disappointed.
It silenced him—and everyone else instantly.
She turned back to me.
This time her voice softened.
"Please," she said. "Why?"
As I spoke, I noticed movement.
Hands drifting toward weapons.
Slow.
Careful.
Ready.
I didn't need to protect myself.
What I was about to say would do that for me.
"I'm a student."
The effect was immediate.
Interest drained from their eyes.
Some still looked calculating—but cautious now.
Selling a student wasn't worth it.
Even with the five-fold payout bandits offered.
Too much attention.
Too many consequences.
And more importantly—
Students of Radiant Dawn Academy were protected by inter-kingdom mandate.
Every kingdom.
Every knighthood.
Protect them.
Or answer for it.
They could still kill me.
They were corrupt.
But they wouldn't.
Not here.
Not with her watching.
And even if they tried—
Her Ultimate Skill would turn the fight against them instantly.
I was safe.
For now.
All that was left was the tower.
So I did the simplest thing.
I asked.
"Hey, Star—"
The moment the name left my mouth—
I knew.
I had just made a mistake.
She had never told me her name.
Neither had any of the knights said it.