Ryle's mornings always began the same way.
He lay on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above him while the electric fan rattled endlessly at his side. The air was warm, stale—unchanging.
"Twenty-three years old… and still unemployed," he muttered, rubbing his face as his hand reached for his phone.
The screen lit up.
Unread job applications.Polite rejection emails.Messages he didn't have the energy to reply to.
He let out a quiet sigh and tossed the phone aside before sitting up. "Just one more day," he told himself.
He had said the same thing yesterday.And the day before that.
Instant noodles became breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He ate them while rereading The Sovereign of Spell and Steel—a world where power had meaning, where effort was rewarded with strength, not silence.
Hours passed.
Late into the night, the glow of his phone strained his eyes as he reached a familiar chapter. He scoffed quietly.
"I really don't get what the author was thinking," he muttered. "Killing characters for no reason… what a waste."
He shook his head, irritation bubbling up.
"I could probably write a better story than this shit."
With a flick of his thumb, he locked the screen and leaned back. Exhaustion washed over him like a heavy tide.
Then—
Pain exploded in his chest.
"—What…?"
His breath hitched. His fingers clawed at his shirt as the room spun violently.
"No— not like this—!"
The world blurred. Sound faded. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Darkness swallowed everything.
There was no light.No voice.No second chance.
Only endless void—
Until a distant knock echoed through it.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Ryle woke up.
Silk sheets pressed against his skin. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something unfamiliar—clean, refined.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him wasn't cracked plaster. It was carved with elegant runes, faintly glowing in the dim light.
"…What?"
Before he could process anything, a gentle knock sounded from somewhere nearby.
"Sir Lucien, dinner is ready."
The voice was female—respectful, practiced, and utterly certain.
Sir Lucien?
His brows furrowed as he pushed himself upright. Who the hell was Lucien?
His gaze swept across the room, unease creeping in with every detail.
Heavy curtains embroidered with a noble crest framed tall windows. Shelves lined with leather-bound spell tomes filled one wall. A polished sword rested neatly against another.
This wasn't a dream.
Dreams didn't feel this solid.
The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped inside. She wore a modest uniform, posture straight, eyes lowered in deference. She didn't look surprised to see him awake.
She looked… expectant.
As if this body had always been the one lying there.
His heart began to pound.
He staggered toward the mirror mounted beside the wardrobe.
A stranger stared back at him.
Silver-gray hair.Sharp, unfamiliar eyes.A noble face that did not belong to him.
With trembling fingers, he raised a hand.
The reflection mirrored him perfectly.
"Who…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Who is Lucien…?"
Understanding struck like a blade.
He recognized those features.
Tharvayne.
A fallen aristocratic mage family from The Sovereign of Spell and Steel.
But the man in the mirror—
He had never read about him.
Lucien Tharvayne did not exist in the story.
And yet—
Here he was...
The maid noticed his silence and hesitated.
"Sir Lucien…?" she asked softly.
Ryle's throat tightened. His mind raced, scrambling for something—anything—that would keep suspicion from forming.
"I—" His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and forced himself to breathe. "You may go first. I'll… follow in a moment."
The words felt strange in his mouth, but they worked.
The maid bowed immediately. "As you wish, my lord." She retreated without question, closing the door quietly behind her.
The lock clicked.
Ryle exhaled.
Then his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
"…This isn't real," he muttered.
He pressed his fingers against the mattress. The fabric was smooth, cool. Too detailed. Too solid. He dug his nails into his palm until pain flared sharply.
He sighed.
Still here.
His gaze drifted around the room again, slower this time. Every object felt deliberate—placed with care, maintained regularly. This wasn't the room of a dying noble house. It was lived in.
"Lucien Tharvayne…" he whispered.
The name echoed in his head.
Tharvayne was a familiar name—infamous, even. Once a powerful mage aristocrat family, now a shadow of its former glory. Their decline was mentioned middle story in The Sovereign of Spell and Steel. By the time the war began, they were already irrelevant.
But Lucien—
He searched his memory desperately.
There was no Lucien.
No side character.No footnote.No tragic mention.
Which meant one thing.
"I shouldn't exist," Ryle said quietly.
A sudden pressure bloomed behind his eyes.
Memories—foreign, fragmented—pushed forward like shards of glass.
He gasped and clutched his head.
Images flickered.
A grand hall filled with cold stares.A stern man's voice reciting expectations he could never meet.A woman's distant gaze—neither cruel nor kind.Long nights spent studying spell theory that never responded to him.
They weren't his memories.
But they were Lucien's.
Ryle staggered to his feet, breathing hard. "So this body… had a life."
And it hadn't been a good one.
He swallowed and straightened, forcing his breathing to calm. Panic wouldn't help him. If anything, it would get him killed faster.
Slowly, he approached the shelf of books and pulled one free at random.
Spell Theory: Elementary Conduits.
The title alone made his heart sink.
Magic was real here.
And if this truly was the world of The Sovereign of Spell and Steel, then power wasn't optional—it was survival.
Ryle closed the book and clenched his fist.
"Alright," he muttered. "One step at a time."
First: survive dinner.Second: figure out Lucien's position in this household.Third: confirm exactly when in the story he was.
Only then could he think about changing anything.
He glanced once more at the mirror.
Lucien Tharvayne stared back at him.
"…Looks like we're stuck together," Ryle said.
Straightening his posture, he turned toward the door.
Whatever waited outside—
He would face it.
Ryle paused in front of the door.
"…Dinner first," he muttered to himself.
He straightened his clothes as best as he could and opened it.
The hallway outside was wide and clean, lined with old portraits. Every face looked proud. Important. He followed the maid's footsteps down the corridor, his heart beating faster with every step.
Soon, warm light spilled from an open doorway.
Voices.
He stepped inside.
A long dining table filled the room. Candles burned softly above it, casting shadows across polished wood and silver plates. Several people were already seated, eating in silence—or close to it.
Ryle froze for half a second.
This is the Tharvayne family.
At the head of the table sat a middle-aged man with sharp features and graying hair pulled neatly back. His posture was straight, his expression firm and unreadable.
That had to be Lord Severin Tharvayne.
Beside him sat a woman with calm eyes and elegant movements. She didn't speak, but her presence was strong in a quiet way.
Lady Maerith Tharvayne.
On Severin's right sat a young man with dark hair and a confident look. He ate calmly, like this table belonged to him.
Eldest son, Ryle guessed.
Across from him sat a young woman with long hair and cold eyes. She glanced up briefly, then looked away, clearly uninterested.
Eldest daughter.
Another boy sat nearby, younger than the first son but older than Ryle's body. He looked bored, tapping his fingers lightly against the table.
That left only one empty chair.
At the far end.
Lucien's seat.
"Lucien," Lord Severin said, not raising his voice. "You're late."
Ryle swallowed.
"I apologize," he said quickly, giving a small bow without thinking. "I wasn't feeling well."
The words came out easily—too easily.
Lord Severin studied him for a moment. His eyes were sharp, like they could see straight through him.
"Hm," was all he said. "Sit."
Ryle moved to the empty chair and sat down.
No one welcomed him.
No one asked if he was alright.
That told him more than words ever could.
As servants quietly placed food in front of him, Ryle listened.
"Valen," Lord Severin said, "your training with the spell knights begins next month."
"Yes, Father," the eldest son replied smoothly. "I won't disappoint."
"Elyndra," Lady Maerith added, "the academy has replied. They've accepted your request."
Elyndra nodded. "As expected."
Kael let out a quiet scoff. "Must be nice."
"Watch your tone," Severin said calmly.
Kael clicked his tongue but said nothing more.
No one spoke to Lucien.
No one even looked at him.
Ryle kept his head down, pretending to eat while his mind raced.
Valen. Elyndra. Kael.
Three siblings.
And him.
Youngest.
That much was clear now.
Lucien Tharvayne wasn't just a nobody—
He was the youngest son of a declining noble family.
The one with no expectations.
Or worse.
The one already written off.
Ryle tightened his grip on the fork.
So this is my place.
At the very bottom of the table.
Ryle chewed slowly, barely tasting the food.
No one spoke to him.
Not once.
Valen talked about training. Elyndra spoke when needed. Kael complained under his breath. Lord Severin listened. Lady Maerith nodded when it mattered.
Lucien might as well not exist.
Ryle lowered his eyes, a strange feeling settling in his chest.
…This kid.
No—this body.
Lucien Tharvayne had been living like this long before Ryle ever arrived. Sitting at the same table. Eating the same meals. Being ignored every single time.
Ryle felt something twist inside him.
That's rough.
He didn't know Lucien's full past yet, but he could already tell. This wasn't a family that hated him openly.
They had simply decided he wasn't worth caring about.
As dinner went on, Ryle's thoughts drifted.
The Tharvayne family…
Once, that name carried weight.
Fear.
Respect.
The Tharvaynes were known for destructive magic—spells meant to erase, not control. Their magic didn't bend elements gently. It tore through them. When Tharvayne mages fought, battlefields turned into ruins.
They were cold. Calculating. Ruthless when needed.
That was how the novel described them.
At the center of it all stood one man.
Vaelor Tharvayne.
The previous head of the family.
A Grandmaster Mage.
Ryle remembered those chapters clearly. Vaelor had fought in the Great War that shaped the world of The Sovereign of Spell and Steel. His magic had wiped out armies. His name alone made kingdoms hesitate.
And that was exactly why he was betrayed.
People feared him.
Feared that if Vaelor ever turned against them—if he ever rebelled—countless lives would be lost. So they struck first. Allies turned their backs. Promises were broken. Vaelor was condemned before he ever raised his staff.
The war ended.
Vaelor didn't survive it.
And the Tharvayne family fell with him.
From feared to tolerated.From powerful to watched.From leaders to leftovers.
Ryle glanced up briefly.
Lord Severin's expression was calm, but tired. Lady Maerith looked distant, like she had learned long ago not to hope. Valen carried pride. Elyndra carried ambition. Kael carried frustration.
And Lucien?
Lucien carried nothing.
No expectations.No role.No future.
Ryle swallowed.
So this is what you inherited.
A broken name.A fearful legacy.And a place no one bothered to protect.
His grip tightened around his fork.
"…That's unfair," he thought quietly.
The dinner continued in silence.
But inside, Ryle made a quiet promise.
Whether Lucien Tharvayne had been weak or forgotten didn't matter anymore.
Because now—
Someone else was sitting in his seat.
Ryle set his fork down.
What now?
Sitting quietly wouldn't change anything. Blending in wouldn't either. If Lucien stayed invisible, nothing would move forward.
I need information.
And in this world, that meant magic.
He took a slow breath and raised his head.
"Father."
The single word cut through the low noise of eating.
Every movement at the table stopped.
Valen froze.Elyndra looked up.Kael stared.
Even the servants paused.
Ryle felt every pair of eyes turn toward him.
So this really is the first time, he realized.
Lord Severin looked at him.
No surprise.No anger.Just the same cold, steady gaze.
"What is it?" Severin asked.
Ryle swallowed, but forced himself to speak clearly.
"I want to learn magic," he said. "Properly."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Elyndra's brows lifted slightly. Valen narrowed his eyes. Kael looked almost amused.
Ryle kept his back straight.
He wasn't asking for permission.
He was stating intent.
Lord Severin watched him for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"Go to the library," he said evenly. "Read everything related to magic."
That was it.
No advice.No encouragement.No warning.
Just an order.
Ryle blinked once, then nodded.
"Yes, Father."
He stood and gave a small bow, the way he had seen the others do.
"Thank you for the meal."
No one replied.
He turned and left the dining room without looking back.
The hallway felt colder than before.
As he walked, his thoughts raced.
The library.
Books meant knowledge. Knowledge meant survival. If Lucien had failed before, then Ryle would start where he was strongest—understanding the system of this world.
Magic. History. Rules.
"I'll figure it out," he muttered under his breath.
Whatever was wrong with Lucien's body…Whatever made him an outcast…
He would learn it.
One page at a time.
Ryle walked down the hallway alone.
The quiet felt awkward.
"…Damn," he muttered, scratching his cheek. "Which way is the library?"
The Tharvayne estate was bigger than it looked from the outside. Long corridors branched in different directions, all of them looking equally important.
He stopped when he spotted a maid passing by.
"Um—excuse me," he said.
The maid froze for a second when she saw him, then quickly bowed. "Y-Yes, Young Master?"
"Where's the library?"
She pointed down the hallway to the left. "At the far end, my lord. Past the eastern wing."
"Got it. Thanks."
He continued walking, passing a pair of guards standing watch.
This place really is a noble house, he thought.
As he walked, his mind shifted back to what mattered most.
Magic.
Magic in The Sovereign of Spell and Steel followed strict rules. That was something Ryle always liked about the story. Power wasn't random.
First came Mana.
Every living being had it, but the amount and quality differed. Mana flowed through the body using something like internal paths—called mana circuits. If those circuits were weak or blocked, spellcasting became difficult or outright impossible.
Then came Affinity.
Each mage was born with natural leanings—fire, water, wind, earth, light, darkness, or more rare branches. Trying to force magic outside one's affinity wasted mana and damaged the body.
Third was Control.
Knowing a spell wasn't enough. Mana had to be shaped, compressed, and released properly. Poor control meant backlash. Good control meant efficiency.
Finally—Rank.
Mages were measured by rank, from low-tier initiates to Grandmasters. Rank wasn't just power. It reflected understanding, control, and experience.
Simple rules, Ryle thought. But cruel ones.
Talent mattered. Birth mattered. And effort alone didn't always close the gap.
He slowed his steps as a large door came into view.
Tall. Dark wood. Carved with old symbols that pulsed faintly.
This must be it.
The Tharvayne library.
Ryle stopped in front of the door and reached for the handle.
Then—
Something appeared.
Right in front of his eyes.
A black panel floated in the air, unreal and sharp. A thin golden border surrounded it, etched with strange designs. Letters formed slowly, glowing in bright gold.
Ryle's heart started to race.
This isn't right.
The Sovereign of Spell and Steel was never a system story. No quests. No screens. No game-like nonsense.
"Since when did this world do things like this?" he muttered.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
The words settled into place.
"First Quest: Learn Magic"