The first thought that shot through my head when I opened my eyes wasn't panic.
It was relief.
No pounding headache anymore. No stabbing pain in my chest. No buzzing neon lights, no distant car horns. Just silence and the strange certainty that my body felt lighter.
Younger.
I was lying on a narrow bed made of coarse linen. The ceiling above me was old, creaking wood, crisscrossed with fine cracks through which faint bluish light seeped, like shimmering mana dust.
Mana?
Where did I even know that word from?
I pushed myself upright. My back cracked softly, but there was no pain. My muscles felt taut and healthy, not worn down by eighteen-hour days hunched over a screen.
I looked down at my hands. Slender fingers, pale skin, a few thin white lines crossing my knuckles. Old scars, from tools or hot metal.
No keyboard calluses.
The room was small. Stone walls. A tiny window with grimy glass that looked out onto cobblestone streets and iron lanterns.
The air smelled of damp stone, smoke, and something faintly metallic.
Magic?
There it was again.
A quiet, dry laugh slipped from my lips. The sound felt unfamiliar in my ears.
Younger.
"Okay," I muttered. "Either I'm dead and this is some kind of dream, or I actually hit the jackpot."
I stood, bare feet touching cold stone. My body was taller than I remembered, nearly six feet tall. Lean and wiry, but not weak.
I crossed the room and stopped in front of a small mirror mounted on the wall, a dull piece of polished metal.
And froze. My hands trembled slightly as I looked at myself in the mirror.
Lilac-violet hair, short on the sides and slightly longer on top, tousled and uneven. Intense green eyes stared back at me, sharp and alert, as if they knew more than I did.
Black piercings adorned both ears: a small stud in the lobe and two thin hoops higher up.
The face was narrow and pale, with sharp features.
Too old for nineteen.
Too tired for someone who had just woken up.
"Eryndor," I said quietly to my reflection.
The name felt right.
Too right.
The memory of my death surfaced unbidden. Twenty-three years old, collapsing in front of a monitor. Coffee instead of sleep. Overtime without end.
Projects that never stopped demanding more.
Just one more deadline.
And now?
Now I was Eryndor again. Younger. Healthier. Standing in a world that looked like it had been pulled straight from the pages of a fantasy novel.
A sharp knock on the door made me flinch.
"Eryndor Vale!" a rough voice called from outside. "Your enrollment papers. Hurry up. The carriage won't wait forever."
I opened the door.
A bored-looking messenger in a gray-blue uniform thrust a sealed parchment into my hands. His eyes flicked over me, lingering briefly on my hair and piercings, before he snorted.
"Commoner on scholarship, huh? Good luck in F-Class. Most don't last a week."
He turned away and disappeared into the misty alleys.
I broke the seal.
Eryndor Vale
Commoner Origin – Valenridge Lower District
Admitted for Entrance Examination – F-Class (provisional)
Sternenkrone Academy
Celestine Empire
In the Name of the Imperial Arcanum
Celestine Empire
The name hit me like a half-remembered echo.
I had heard it before. Not in conversation, not in passing, but somewhere deeper.
Like a word from a story I'd read years ago, buried under layers of forgotten nights and unfinished chapters.
It felt familiar. Too familiar.
I stared at the parchment a second longer.
Celestine Empire. Sternenkrone Academy.
A faint prickle ran down my spine.
Coincidence, I told myself. Just a damn coincidence.
Worlds have empires. Academies have fancy names. Nothing special.
But the feeling lingered, like a puzzle piece that almost fit but not quite.
I folded the parchment and slipped it into my pocket.
"Stop overthinking it, Eryndor," I muttered under my breath. "You died from burnout. Now you're here. Take it and be grateful."
I turned back into the room—then hesitated.
For the first time since waking up, I really looked around.
The place felt… empty. Not just quiet—empty.
A small wooden table. One chair. A single narrow bed. A worn chest in the corner.
No pictures on the walls. No personal trinkets. No second pair of shoes by the door.
No signs that anyone else had ever lived here.
On the floor beside the bed stood a simple travel pack—already prepared.
A black canvas backpack. Three small burlap sacks tied neatly beside it. And one larger leather travel bag mainly with a few sets of clothes.
I knelt and opened the large bag first.
Copper coins—hundreds of them—dull, worn, clinked softly against each other. I had no idea what they were called, but they looked like everyday currency.
Small change.
Then the smaller sacks.
I untied one.
Silver coins glinted inside, heavier, cleaner, each stamped with a crown-and-star emblem. I checked the second sack—about the same amount.
Roughly three hundred i would say in total.
Enough to survive for a while.
If I was careful.
The backpack itself was light but full. A worn cloak. Dried food wrapped in cloth. A small notebook. And a plain dagger in a sheath—utilitarian, unadorned.
Should Probably find a better dagger.. huh?
That thing looks like it could fall apart any moment..
I grabbed one of the smaller sacks of silver coins and slipped it into my backpack. The other—along with the large pouch of copper coins—went into the travel bag.
Everything looked ready for a long journey.
As if someone had packed it days ago… and then never come back for it.
I straightened slowly, a strange tightness forming in my throat.
The room offered no answers. Just silence. The faint scent of old wood and dust.
I was alone here.
Completely.
I slung the backpack over my shoulder, grabbed the travel bag, and stepped outside—closing the door behind me without looking back.
But I paused at the threshold.
I looked one last time back into the empty room.
For a second, something tightened in my chest—a sharp, quiet pain that came and went like a half-forgotten memory.
I shook it off.
Outside, the rattle of carriage wheels echoed over cobblestones. The city of Valenridge lay beneath a gray sky, thin strands of mana drifting through the air like fireflies.
The streets were narrow, lined with tall half-timbered houses. Lanterns burned with blue flames.
People in cloaks and robes passed by, some chatting, others hurrying along.
A group of children ran past, laughing, tiny sparks dancing across one boy's fingertips.
Magic.
Obvious. Casual. Everyday.
And yet something felt wrong.
I felt it deep in my bones.
This world was too familiar.
Too close to something I had known before.
Not from a dream.
But from words.
From chapters.?
But when?
And where?
I reached the carriage waiting at the end of the alley. Old and rickety, its side marked with the academy's crest, a stylized crown of stars.
The coachman glanced at me. "You're the last one. Get in."
I climbed inside.
Three others were already seated. Two boys and one girl, all younger than me. Sixteen or seventeen at most.
Nobles, judging by their clothes.
They spared me only a brief glance before looking away.
I took the corner seat, leaned my head against the wooden wall, and closed my eyes.
The carriage lurched forward.
As the city slowly faded behind us, a quiet voice whispered from somewhere deep within my mind.
You already know all of this.
You just don't remember where from.