"I'll need to be more careful next time a new incarnation forms."
Now that Rowan understood how creators operated, a real strategy began to take shape.
Before, ignorance had provided a kind of accidental protection.
Some of his incarnations might exist in worlds whose creators were long dead.
Others might live in worlds where the creator had noticed him but chose not to act.
Some might simply never have been detected.
But moving forward, recklessness was no longer acceptable.
If a new incarnation dropped into a reality governed by an overwhelmingly powerful creator who reacted first and asked questions never, that version of Rowan would be erased instantly.
Worse still, he might encounter a paranoid creator who attacked anything unfamiliar on principle.
Either way, it meant losing an incarnation for nothing.
Rowan had always exercised caution.
In unfamiliar worlds, he gathered intelligence first, avoided drawing attention, and only displayed real strength after confirming there was nothing capable of threatening him.
But now the stakes were higher.
He was no longer worried about the strongest native beings.
He was worried about the one who owned the world.
Ilúvatar's advice echoed in his mind.
Until a creator's existence, temperament, and awareness level were confirmed…
Avoid using any power system that didn't belong to that world.
Even relying purely on physical strength, Rowan was already terrifying by most standards.
And once his inner universe finished evolving, his physical existence would undergo another fundamental leap.
If brute force still wasn't enough, he could always drag the threat into his own universe and deal with it there.
Exposure was dangerous.
Death was worse.
If discovery became unavoidable, survival took priority.
Not every creator responded like Ilúvatar.
But discovery did not automatically mean execution either.
Worst case, a fight broke out.
Rowan didn't believe himself helpless.
A being with a universe behind him wasn't fragile prey.
If he truly couldn't win, he could retreat.
Losing an incarnation was painful.
Losing everything was unacceptable.
Another thought followed.
Once he completed his breakthrough, he could start testing the waters.
The Marvel prime reality was off-limits.
But his other incarnation worlds?
Those he could probe.
If their creators were alive, Rowan had already revealed his abnormality there.
Since none had acted yet, it suggested negotiation was possible.
Better to approach openly than pretend ignorance.
If the creator was dead, even better.
He could eventually absorb the world itself.
But only after his own universe stabilized.
While Rowan and Ilúvatar continued exchanging insights, Rowan suddenly felt a familiar tug.
A new connection.
"Already?"
His attention split.
A fresh incarnation had formed.
Rowan shifted his primary awareness.
Cold wind.
Wooden wheels creaking.
Rough hands bound.
He opened his eyes.
A wagon.
Prisoners.
Snow-dusted mountains.
"This is… the Elder Scrolls universe."
The body's memories flooded in.
His name here was Lokir.
A Breton living near Whiterun, buried in gambling debt.
He had tried to steal a horse to flee toward Hammerfell.
Imperial soldiers caught him and assumed he was a Stormcloak spy.
Now he was being transported for execution.
The original Lokir had died from sheer terror on the wagon.
Rowan arrived in his place.
"Hey. You're finally awake."
The voice wasn't meant for Rowan.
It was directed at the blond Nord man sitting across from him.
The speaker was a broad-shouldered Stormcloak soldier beside Rowan.
Rowan's gaze flicked across the other prisoners.
The bound Nord.
The Stormcloak soldier.
The man further ahead with a gag and regal bearing.
"The Dragonborn."
"Ralof."
"Ulfric Stormcloak."
Rowan kept his expression neutral.
He had played Skyrim before.
Not obsessively.
But enough to recognize the opening scene instantly.
Which also meant one critical thing.
This world was dangerous.
Absurdly dangerous.
Daedric Princes ruled pocket dimensions.
Divine beings interfered with mortal history.
And the Time Dragon, Akatosh, observed the Dragonborn directly.
If those Daedric Princes each possessed realms of their own, then many of them were likely operating on the same scale as a single-universe creator.
Which meant the being who authored this reality was almost certainly far beyond that.
Rowan was not even close to ready.
For now, secrecy was mandatory.
No foreign magic.
No abnormal abilities.
Learn the local systems.
Survive.
Only then, slowly, carve out a foothold.
Rowan lowered his gaze.
In this world, he would walk carefully.
Very carefully.