He stood there for a long time.
The two suns didn't move the way Earth's sun did. Their light felt softer, almost filtered through something unseen. The sky carried a faint violet hue that made everything below it look slightly unreal — as if he were staring at a painting that refused to admit it was alive.
Baek Do-Yun — or whatever his name was now — pressed his trembling hand against the glass.
It was cold.
Solid.
Real.
This wasn't a hallucination.
This wasn't a dream created by a dying brain.
His reflection faintly overlapped the city outside. Pale skin. Long dark hair brushing against narrow shoulders. A face too refined for the life he had lived.
And a body too weak.
He flexed his fingers.
Mana.
He could feel it.
Not clearly. Not strongly. But something flowed faintly through his veins like thin threads of warmth. It moved differently than blood. It responded when he focused.
Then pain flared behind his ribs.
His breathing hitched.
Damaged pathways.[1]
The System hadn't lied.
This body had been deteriorating even before he arrived.
He leaned his forehead gently against the glass.
Somewhere, on another world, his mother would have been calling his phone.
Maybe she already had.
Maybe she was staring at an empty chair at the dinner table.
The thought felt heavier than the sky above him.
He swallowed.
He had never been ambitious. Never extraordinary. He never wanted glory.
He just wanted to live quietly.
That wish felt laughable now.
The door behind him clicked open softly.
He didn't move at first.
Footsteps.
Light. Careful.
"…Brother?"
The voice wasn't sharp or commanding.
It was fragile.
He turned slowly.
She stood near the doorway as if unsure whether she was allowed to step further inside.
Blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Her eyes were clear blue — not cold like noble arrogance, not calculating like someone trained for court politics.
Just clear.
And trembling.
She looked at him as though he might dissolve if she blinked.
"You're… awake."
Her voice cracked slightly at the end.
He didn't recognize her face.
But something in this body did.
Something deep and instinctive stirred faintly in his chest.
His lips parted.
Words gathered.
Nothing came out.
He had always been bad at this.
Even on Earth.
Even with his own mother.
He felt things deeply — painfully deeply — but when it came time to speak, everything shrank.
"I…" His voice sounded thinner than he expected. "I think so."
Think so.
Idiot.
She took a hesitant step forward.
"You collapsed four years ago," she said softly.
"Your mana core ruptured during the hunt. The physicians said you might never wake up."
Four years.
Again.
The number felt like a curse following him.
She came closer now, stopping only an arm's length away.
Her eyes searched his face carefully.
"You look different," she whispered.
Not suspicious.
Not afraid.
Just confused.
He probably did.
Because the person inside this body wasn't the one she had grown up with.
He didn't know what expression to wear. Didn't know what tone this body used before.
So he defaulted to silence.
She smiled faintly — a smile held together by exhaustion.
"You were always quiet," she said. "But not like this."
He swallowed.
"What's… your name?" he almost asked.
But he stopped himself.
The System had mentioned Identity Update Pending.
That meant this body had a life.
A family.
A position.
He couldn't afford to reveal ignorance.
She hesitated for a moment, then reached forward and gently touched his sleeve.
The contact was warm.
Real.
"I'm Elira," she said quietly. "Your sister."
Sister.
The word echoed strangely inside him.
He had lost his father once.
He had almost lost his mother.
Now he stood inside a stranger's body with a stranger calling him brother.
And somehow—
The fragility in her eyes felt painfully familiar.
She had been crying.
Not today.
But recently.
"You… visited?" he asked, unsure why he chose those words.
"Every day," she replied without hesitation.
That answer landed harder than anything else.
Every day.
Four years.
Waiting beside a bed that never responded.
Something tightened painfully in his chest.
He wanted to apologize.
Wanted to tell her he hadn't meant to abandon this life.
But he didn't know how.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed.
The words were soft.
Small.
But honest.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"You never apologize," she murmured.
He didn't know what that meant.
Before he could respond, she suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
His body stiffened instinctively.
Not rejection.
Uncertainty.
He didn't know how tightly to hold her. Didn't know what the original brother would have done.
Slowly, awkwardly, he lifted his arms and placed them around her back.
He could feel how lightly she was holding him.
As if afraid he would break.
Or disappear again.
"You don't have to try so hard," she whispered against his shoulder. "You always struggle to say what you feel."
That hit too accurately.
Even in another world.
Even in another body.
He had always struggled.
On Earth, he had loved his mother fiercely — but he rarely said it out loud.
Here, he felt something similar forming.
Protective.
Instinctive.
And yet his mouth refused to shape it properly.
After a moment, she pulled back.
"Father will want to see you," she said quietly. "The elders too."
Elders.
Politics.
Responsibility.
The peaceful illusion of the window shattered slightly.
He turned back toward the city.
From this height, he could see beyond the Academy's inner district.
Far in the western sky, something shimmered faintly.
Not cloud.
Not light.
A distortion.
Like a crack stretching across reality itself.
"What is that?" he asked softly.
Elira followed his gaze.
"The Western Gate," she replied. "It's been unstable."
Gate.
His pulse quickened faintly.
"Other worlds connect through them," she continued. "If a world invades another and conquers it, the victor gains control. Land. Resources. Even the defeated world's mana."
Her voice lowered slightly.
"Some worlds are erased completely."
A chill ran down his spine.
Earth.
Seven percent survival probability.
His jaw tightened.
"This world is protected," she added. "By ancient contracts… and something older than the gods who sent you here."
Sent you here.
The phrasing felt deliberate.
He glanced at her.
She didn't seem surprised that he wasn't reacting normally.
Almost as if she expected him to be different.
"The Academy exists to prepare us," she said. "Because protection doesn't last forever."
Silence stretched.
Then—
Footsteps echoed outside the room.
Heavy.
Measured.
Authority carried in every step.
Elira straightened instinctively.
Her expression shifted — not fear, but restraint.
"Father," she said quietly.
He felt something in this body react instantly.
Respect.
Pressure.
Expectation.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
A pause.
Then a firm knock.
Not loud.
But commanding.
Elira gave him one last look.
"Whatever changed inside you," she said softly, "you're still my brother."
She moved toward the door.
He remained by the window.
The two suns cast long shadows across the city.
The Western Gate flickered faintly in the distance.
And for the first time since arriving—
He felt something beyond fear.
Not ambition.
Not excitement.
Something heavier.
Like standing at the edge of a story far larger than himself.
The door handle began to turn.
And somewhere beyond the fractured sky—
Something was watching.
Not the gods who sent him.
Something else.
Something patient.
The Flame Emperor entered.
And the quiet of his borrowed life began to crack.
[1] Basically the paths in the body through which mana flows and user can use it to cast magic