I expected the cold impact of asphalt. Or maybe the sterile silence of a hospital room.
Instead, I smelled grass.
It was a rich, earthy scent—the kind that doesn't exist in Seoul, buried under layers of exhaust and wet concrete. The air was warm, draped over me like a heavy blanket, carrying the lazy hum of insects.
I opened my eyes.
The sky was a painful, brilliant blue. Not a single cloud marred it. Above me, the gnarled branches of a massive oak tree stretched out, its leaves filtering the sunlight into dancing coins of gold on the ground.
"What..."
I sat up, my head swimming. My hands pressed into soft, verdant grass. I wasn't on the floor of my apartment. I wasn't on the ledge.
I stood up, my legs feeling strangely light, powerful.
As I turned, the horizon broke me.
In the distance, rising from a sea of emerald forestry, stood a castle of white stone and gold spires. It pierced the sky with an arrogance that felt terrifyingly familiar. The architecture, the geography, the way the sunlight hit the western keep...
I knew this place. I had read the description three hours ago in a text file that I'd called garbage.
The Verralt Estate. The training grounds described in Chapter 1.
"No way," I muttered, bringing a hand to my face. "This is too detailed for a hallucination."
My hand stopped.
The skin was too pale. The fingers were longer, calloused in places where mine were soft from years of holding a stylus.
I pulled a strand of hair in front of my eyes.
Blond.
Liquid gold, shining in the sun.
"A dream," I whispered, the panic rising in my throat before being tamped down by a strange, unnatural calm. "It has to be a dream. A lucid one. My brain is just processing the data from the book before I die."
I looked down. Lying in the grass at my feet was a sword.
It was a thin, elegant longsword, the steel rippled like water. It looked decorative, fragile even.
But the moment my fingers closed around the hilt, the world snapped into focus.
It didn't feel heavy. It felt... right.
It felt like an extension of an arm I didn't know I had. A shiver of refreshment washed over me, a clarity that chased away the fog of my depression.
Grrrrr...
The sound was low, vibrating through the soles of my boots.
I looked up.
Emerging from the shadow of the treeline was a nightmare.
It was a wolf, but it was wrong. It stood as tall as a pony, its muscle structure rippling with unnatural density. But it wasn't covered in fur.
Feathers.
Sleek, obsidian feathers covered its body, glistening with an oily sheen. Its eyes were burning coals, and its teeth were serrated daggers dripping with saliva.
A Feathered Gale Wolf. A low-level mob from the fantasy genre. Standard. Cliché.
But standing in front of it, smelling its musk, seeing the hunger in those eyes... it didn't feel cliché.
It felt like death.
The creature's killing intent washed over me—a cold, physical pressure.
It launched.
It was fast. In my old life, in my old body, I wouldn't have even seen it move. I would have been meat before I blinked.
But here? In this dream?
Too slow.
The thought wasn't mine, yet it was. I didn't panic. I didn't freeze.
I felt a strange, detached confidence. If this is a dream, I play by dream rules. I have to survive the narrative.
The wolf was a blur of feathers and teeth, aiming for my throat.
My body moved before my brain issued the command.
It was effortless. I simply stepped to the right. The wind of the beast's passage ruffled my blond hair.
I felt the weight of the sword in my hand. It was hungry.
I didn't need to think about the angle. I didn't need to calculate the velocity.
I pivoted, raising the blade high. The wolf skidded, turning to snap at my shoulder, its jaw unhinging to crush bone.
"Sit," I murmured.
I brought the sword down.
It was a single, clean vertical line.
There was no resistance. The blade passed through muscle, bone, and feather as if cutting through smoke.
Shhhk.
The wolf collapsed, its head split perfectly in two. Hot blood sprayed onto the grass, steaming in the cool air.
I stood there, chest heaving slightly, staring at the corpse. The reality of the violence made my stomach turn, but the adrenaline... it was intoxicating.
Ding!
A sharp, digital chime rang inside my skull.
Then, a semi-transparent blue window hovered in the air above the carcass.
[ Tutorial Completed. ]
[ Level Up! ]
I stared at the text. The font. The layout.
I let out a breathy, hysterical laugh. "Of course. I've read a shit ton of manhwas. I know exactly what this is."
I looked around to make sure no one was watching. The forest was empty.
Still, I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. This was humiliating. This was the cringiest thing a human being could do.
I cleared my throat, squeezed my eyes shut, and whispered:
"Status."
nothing happened.
I gritted my teeth. Right. Needs intent.
I opened my eyes and shouted, my face burning red.
"STATUS!"
[ STATUS WINDOW ]
Name: Naithan Verralt
Level: 1
Class: None
Titles: The Disgraced (Inactive), The Vessel (Active)
[ SKILLS ]
Verralt Swordsmanship (Lv. 1) - Passive
Dual Mind (Locked) - Unique Trait
Available Skill Points: 1
My eyes locked onto the name. Naithan Verralt.
So I was him. The protagonist. The puppet I had mocked.
But my gaze drifted lower.
Dual Mind?
That wasn't in the novel. Naithan's skills were "Holy Aura" and "Heavy Strike." This was new. This was a variable.
"Curiosity killed the cat," I muttered, my finger hovering over the interface. "But I'm not a cat. I'm a developer."
I pressed the plus sign next to Dual Mind.
I confirmed the point expenditure.
[ Unlocking 'Dual Mind'... ]
CRACK.
It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation.
Like a lightning bolt struck the center of my brain.
I dropped the sword. I fell to my knees, clutching my head, screaming as a white-hot agony tore through my synapses. It felt like my skull was being pried open from the inside.
And then, through the haze of pain, a voice spoke.
It didn't come from the air. It resonated from the deepest, darkest part of my own consciousness.
It was deep. Regal. Arrogant.
And it was furious.
"What are you doing with my body, peasant?"
The presence surged, overwhelming my senses.
"Give it back!"
The voice rang out again, vibrating against my skull. I froze. It wasn't my inner monologue. It wasn't the usual anxious chatter of my own mind. It was distinct. External, yet internal.
"Who are you..." I hesitated, staring at the dead wolf. "...kid?"
"Kid?!" The voice exploded with indignation. "You are using my body, wearing my skin, and you dare ask me who I am?"
I swallowed hard. "Naithan?"
"Yes, that is me!" the voice snapped. "Now explain yourself, spirit!"
"Sorry," I muttered, feeling incredibly awkward talking to thin air. "I didn't choose to take over your body. I don't know how I got here. It... it feels like a dream."
"A dream?" Naithan's voice dripped with confusion. "And why is your way of speaking so... weird? You sound uncultured."
I winced. "Obvious, isn't it? I'm from a modern society. A place where magic doesn't exist. I got pulled into this... book. Into your world."
I bit my tongue. I didn't tell him about his future. I didn't tell him about the betrayal or the slaughter. Not yet.
"I don't believe you," Naithan scoffed. "A modern world? A book? You lie. I was... I was finished. I had completed my great revenge. I stood on the edge of the Royal Cliffs, ready to end it all. To join my family."
"So you jumped?" I asked softly.
There was a long, humiliating silence in my head.
"I..." Naithan's voice grew small. "I slipped."
"You what?"
"I slipped!" he shouted defensively. "It was raining! The moss was treacherous! I was ready to jump with dignity, but my foot slid and I fell flailing! And then I woke up unable to speak, watching you control my body until you did that... 'Status' thing."
I covered my face with my hand. The embarrassment was physical. He had been watching me the whole time. He saw me pose with the sword. He heard me shout "Status."
"Let's just... move past that," I said quickly, trying to change the subject. "Naithan, wait. Look at us. What is your age right now?"
"I..." He paused, sensing the body. "I guess this is the exact body I had when I was eighteen years old."
Eighteen.
The number hit me like a truck.
My eyes widened. I grabbed the sword and the bag from the ground, panic surging through me.
"Eighteen," I whispered. Then I screamed. "EIGHTEEN!"
I started running. I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I had to move.
"Naithan!" I yelled, my breath catching in my throat. "Tell me the way to your house! We need to go quickly!"
"Why?" Naithan asked, suspicion creeping back into his voice. "Why the rush? Do you want to do something to my family?"
"NAITHAN!" I roared, my lungs burning. "IT'S YOUR EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY!"
There was a beat of silence. Then, pure horror.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't argue.
"Right!" he screamed. "Go right at the fork! Follow the stream! Faster! You're too slow!"
I pushed the body to its limit, tearing through the forest.
When we burst through the treeline and entered the estate grounds, my heart sank.
We were too late.
The courtyard was filled with white-and-gold armor. The Holy Order.
They were already there.
In my head, Naithan broke.
"No... no... the chains... the fire... blood on the floor... mom... dad..."
He started speaking gibberish, words tumbling over each other in a stream of pure, unfiltered trauma. He was seeing the past, the future, and the nightmare all at once. He was useless to me right now.
"Naithan, hold it," I hissed internally. "I need the ethics. How do I greet her? How do I make her stop without looking like a victim?"
The panic in my head quieted, replaced by a cold, vibrating tension. The trauma was there—a screaming void beneath the surface—but Naithan's voice became hollow, deadly calm.
"Do not offer the blade," he whispered, a ghost guiding my hand. "That is for surrender. We do not surrender today."
"Then what?"
"The Anchor," Naithan breathed, the memory of his training bleeding into my mind. "Drive the steel into the earth. Prove this land accepts your weight. Kneel only after the world shakes."
I walked into the center of the chaos. I didn't run. I didn't look at my father.
I stopped five paces from High Priestess Valerica.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
I raised the thin longsword high above my head. The sun caught the steel, turning it into a pillar of blinding light.
I didn't tremble.
CRACK.
With a single, thunderous motion, I drove the tip of the blade into the white cobblestone.
The stone groaned and splintered, the steel burying itself six inches deep. The sword stood perfectly upright, quivering with the sheer force of the impact.
Then, I knelt.
I went down on one knee behind the hilt, my head bowed for a fraction of a second before snapping it up.
I looked straight into Valerica's eyes.
The look wasn't a plea. It was a challenge. Epic. Unyielding.
"High Priestess," I said, my voice low but resonating with a majesty that silenced the wind itself. "I present myself."
Valerica's bored smile vanished. She stared at the sword embedded in the stone, then at me.
"The Verralt Anchor," she murmured, her eyes narrowing with interest. "A bold greeting for a boy who has just come of age."
"A necessary one," I replied, not breaking eye contact. "For you have come to uproot a pillar of this Empire."