I died on a Wednesday.
There was no thunderstorm. No tearful farewell. Just a gray sky, a chipped coffee mug, and a taxi that ran a red light.
In the grand scheme of things, it was an unremarkable way to die. One second I was on the sidewalk, grumbling about my rejected manuscript, and the next… nothing. No pain. No tunnel of light. Just emptiness.
And then—light.
I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Carved black stone formed a dome above me, etched with glowing lines that pulsed like veins. The patterns were symmetrical, beautiful, and undeniably arcane. My back ached against the cold marble floor as I sat up, confused, dizzy, and horribly aware that something was very, very wrong.
The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and lavender oil—faint, but nostalgic. I'd never smelled it before… yet I knew it.
I turned my head slowly.
Rows of floating bookshelves hovered above the ground, shifting with silent elegance. Enchanted lanterns glowed softly in the corners, illuminating murals on the walls—scenes of great battles, wise mages, and crumbling worlds. A place of quiet power.
I knew where I was.
Because I made it.
Astralis Institute: The Grand Archive, Sublevel 3.Private study chamber of the Fifth Circle.Restricted access to registered Truthweavers only.
That description… word-for-word… was from a chapter I wrote three years ago.
I tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse and broken. This had to be a dream, a hallucination brought on by blunt trauma. Maybe I was in a coma and my subconscious was replaying my unpublished manuscript.
But then I looked at my hands.
Slim fingers. Smooth skin. No ink stains, no calluses. Younger than they should have been. My limbs were smaller. Lighter.
With a pit forming in my stomach, I stood on shaky legs and rushed toward the mirrored panel on the far wall.
What stared back at me was a stranger.
A teenage boy with messy black hair and sharp, narrow eyes. His face was forgettable—pale, a little gaunt, with a quiet kind of presence. The kind of person who disappears in a crowd. No remarkable scars. No heroic glow.
But I recognized him.
Because I named him.
Caelum Veritas.
A background character in Fall of the Truthbearers, the fantasy novel I poured two years of my life into. He was a library assistant. A Third-Level student. He appeared in three scenes and died in chapter twelve—caught in the backlash of a forbidden spell. No one mourned him. No one remembered his name.
He was disposable.
A plot device.
And now… I was him.
A soft ping echoed through the room, and a translucent blue screen blinked to life before my eyes. Like a HUD from a video game.
[Observer Initialization Complete]Welcome, Kieran Vale.Current Host: Caelum VeritasNarrative Entropy: 12.5%Deviation Detected. Character should be deceased.Next Plot Event: In 8 DaysSystem Alignment: INCOMPLETEWARNING: Unscheduled existence may destabilize storyline.
I stared at the screen.
Observer? Deviation? Entropy?
Was this a system I had written? No—I never created anything like this. My story didn't have a "game mechanic." It was a structured high fantasy with light magical theory, but no systems. No levels. No stats.
This wasn't my plot.
Or rather… it wasn't only mine anymore.
Something—or someone—had taken my manuscript and twisted it into a new form.
A system layered on top of a story I abandoned.
I stumbled away from the mirror, my thoughts racing. This couldn't be real. I was a failed author—Kieran Vale. Thirty-four. Single. Living in a moldy apartment. I hadn't even finished the final arc of the manuscript before shelving it.
But this… this world was too vivid.
Too coherent.
And if the system was right… I wasn't supposed to be here. Caelum Veritas should already be dead.
Which meant I was the first domino to fall. The first deviation. And according to that screen, I had eight days before the next event in the story triggered.
I remembered what it was.
Chapter 3: Initiation Duel.Main protagonist duels the heir of House Iscariot.A riot breaks out. Five students die.Caelum is caught in the chaos and is mistakenly branded a traitor. Executed off-screen.
Executed. Off-screen.
I felt cold all over again.
That was my future. The original script.
But I had knowledge. I knew the arcs. The villains. The twists. Even the subplots I never officially finished. If I could just stay alive past chapter twelve, everything would change.
The question was: Should it?
I'd written this world to be cruel. A place where power ruled and knowledge came at a price. If I tampered too much with the events to come, would I save lives—or destroy the fragile balance holding the story together?
More importantly—was I even allowed to change anything?
I glanced back at the system screen, which had dimmed but remained hovering in the corner of my vision like a silent observer.
System Notice: Plot Integrity DecreasingEntropy Progression: 0.5% per daySuggestion: Minimize exposure. Avoid main characters. Restore original flow.
Too late.
I had already changed everything.
And I wasn't about to play dead just to keep someone else's narrative intact. Even if that someone… was me.
I clenched my fist.
Let the plot twist.