The world shattered in a flash of light. Luke's head throbbed as the library shelves collapsed around him, books tumbling like bricks in the earthquake's roar. A heavy tome, its cover pulsing with an eerie golden glow, struck his skull. Darkness swallowed him. When his eyes fluttered open, he wasn't in the library anymore. He lay on a creaky wooden bed, the air thick with the scent of dust and old straw, in a stone-walled room lit by a single flickering torch.
His mind buzzed. Memories flooded in—not his own, but those of another life, another body. He was Luke, yes, but also a noble of a human town in a place called the Endless Isles. His father, the town's only mid-level knight, and his siblings had died a month ago in a brutal clash with orcs. The weight of their absence pressed on him, not as grief but as a cold fact, like a ledger entry. The glowing book, now a presence in his mind, wasn't alive but a tool, feeding him knowledge: languages, creatures, secrets of this world. It granted powers—light shields, fire sparks, the ability to shift his spirit between Earth and this alien realm, controlling two bodies. Overuse, it warned, could unravel his sanity.
Luke sat up, his new body lean but strong, clad in a simple tunic. The memories of this body told him he was a low-level knight, one of five in a town of 3,000 souls, scraping by in a barren land where crops barely grew. The book's voice—more a pulse than a voice—whispered of the Towers' World, a realm of three races—humans, orcs, elves—locked in equal strength, vying for dominance in the Endless Isles, a vast island sealed by an invisible energy shield. The common folk, unaware of the world beyond, believed this island was all there was. Nobles like Luke knew fragments of truth from ancient texts: the Level 5 Tower, a sacred spire in the central continent, governed this world's trials. It granted Level 1 tower projections to those who reached its lowest rank, pitting races against each other in a 200-year test of conquest or servitude.
He swung his legs off the bed, boots hitting the cold stone floor. The room was sparse: a wooden table, a chipped clay pitcher, a rusted sword leaning against the wall. His town, one of 950 human settlements in this island's kingdom, faced a rival orc town of similar size, separated by Doomwood, a forest crawling with low- and mid-level beasts—giant wolves, venomous spiders, small dragons. The orcs, led by a mid-level warrior and bolstered by another who recently ascended, had crushed Luke's father. The forest's dangers kept the orcs from sending more than 1,000 warriors, sparing Luke's town from annihilation. For now.
Luke's mind churned. He wasn't sentimental. The book's memories made him pragmatic, focused on survival, power, and victory. His town's 25 knights—20 novices, 5 low-level like himself—were too few, weakened by the land's infertility. Food was scarce, the soil cracked and dry. The commoners toiled in vain, their faces gaunt, their faith tied to rituals honoring the Level 5 Tower. Luke, though, saw opportunity. The book's powers were his edge. He'd use them, no matter the cost, to climb from low-level to high-level knight in a decade, to win this trial and secure his town's tower.
He stepped outside, the morning sun harsh on his eyes. The town sprawled before him, a cluster of stone and wood huts ringed by a low wall of jagged rocks. Beyond it, the cracked plains stretched toward Doomwood's dark treeline, where shadows moved—beasts or orcs, he couldn't tell. The air carried a faint stench of decay, a reminder of the forest's threat. Townsfolk shuffled through dusty streets, their clothes patched, their eyes downcast. A few glanced at Luke, their noble, with a mix of hope and doubt. His father's death had shaken them. They needed a leader, and Luke, barely accustomed to this body, had to play the part.
A woman approached, her armor scuffed but polished, a sword at her hip. Eilin, the book's memories told him, a low-level knight and leader of the town's militia. Her dark hair was tied back, her eyes sharp but burning with a reckless edge. "Lord Luke," she said, voice clipped, "the council awaits. They want your plans. The orcs hit a patrol last night. We lost a novice." Her tone held no warmth, only duty. Eilin's flaw was her thirst for vengeance—her family, too, had fallen to orcs. She'd charge into Doomwood alone if Luke didn't rein her in.
He nodded, masking his unease. The book fed him details: Eilin was loyal but rash, her impulsiveness a liability in battle. "Lead on," he said, following her to the council hall, a squat stone building at the town's center. Inside, three figures waited. Lara, a noble woman in her thirties, managed the town's meager trade. Her sharp features and calculating eyes hid her greed—she skimmed profits from every deal, a fact Luke's new memories confirmed. Thomas, a gaunt commoner representing the townsfolk, stood nervously, his cowardice evident in his trembling hands. He'd rather hide than fight, a voice for the fearful masses. The third was Zorthak, an orc prisoner, a novice sorcerer with a sly grin. His knowledge of the orc town was valuable, but his treacherous nature made Luke wary. Zorthak's eyes gleamed with plans of escape.
"We can't hold much longer," Lara began, her voice smooth but edged with impatience. "The granaries are near empty. The people are restless. Your father's death left us vulnerable, Luke." She leaned forward, her fingers tapping a gold ring—a luxury in this barren place. "What's your plan?"
Thomas shifted, avoiding Luke's gaze. "The folk want food, not more battles. The orcs are too strong. We should negotiate." His voice wavered, fear betraying his words. Luke's memories marked Thomas as a man who'd flee at the first sign of danger, useless in a crisis.
Zorthak chuckled, chains clinking around his wrists. "Negotiate? My kin will gut you before you speak. Their new mid-level warrior, Krag, is hungry for blood. He rose before your father fell." His tone was mocking, but the book confirmed his words. Krag's ascension had tipped the scales, leaving the orcs with two mid-level warriors to Luke's none.
Luke's mind raced. The book pulsed, offering fragments of strategy. He couldn't reveal its powers—not yet. "We fortify," he said, voice steady. "Reinforce the walls, ration food, and train the knights. The orcs can't send a full force through Doomwood. We use that." Eilin nodded, but her eyes burned for action, not defense. Lara frowned, likely calculating lost trade profits. Thomas paled, muttering about starvation. Zorthak smirked, as if testing Luke's resolve.
The council meeting dragged on, voices clashing over resources and defenses. Luke listened, the book feeding him insights into the town's customs: weekly prayers to the Level 5 Tower, where elders burned herbs to honor its unseen spirit; marriages arranged to unite families for survival; funerals marked by pyres, ashes scattered to ward off Doomwood's beasts. The commoners clung to these rituals, believing they ensured the tower's protection. Luke saw them as tools to maintain order, nothing more.
He left the hall, Eilin at his side. The streets buzzed with activity: smiths hammering crude blades, women weaving nets to trap small game, children hauling water from a dwindling well. The town's survival hinged on Luke's choices. He felt no attachment, only a cold drive to win. The book whispered of the trial's stakes: 100 years to build, 50 for skirmishes, 50 for all-out war. Victory meant keeping the tower; defeat meant slavery to the Level 5 Tower. Luke wouldn't lose.
He inspected the knights' training ground, a dusty patch near the wall. The 20 novice knights, young and untested, swung wooden swords under Eilin's sharp commands. The four other low-level knights—veterans of past skirmishes—watched with grim focus. Luke joined them, his body moving with unfamiliar grace, guided by the book's memories. His sword felt heavy, but the book sharpened his reflexes, letting him parry a novice's clumsy strike. Eilin raised an eyebrow, impressed but suspicious. "You've improved," she said, her tone probing. Luke shrugged, hiding the book's role. He couldn't trust her recklessness, not yet.
The day waned, and Luke climbed the town's watchtower, a crumbling spire overlooking Doomwood. The forest loomed, its gnarled trees hiding unseen threats. Somewhere beyond, the orc town thrived, its two mid-level warriors a constant danger. Luke's father had killed one orc of that rank, but the new one, Krag, had turned the tide. Luke's 25 knights couldn't match them. Not yet.
He closed his eyes, letting the book guide him. It showed him flashes of the world beyond: the central continent's towering spire, the Level 5 Tower, its stone alive with ancient magic; the eastern human lands, the southern orc strongholds, the northern elven forests. The book urged him to act, to grow stronger, to use its gifts. Luke's lips curled. He'd climb the ranks—novice to low, low to mid, mid to high—whatever it took. The orcs would fall. The trial would be his.
As night fell, the town lit torches, their flames dancing against the darkness. Luke returned to his room, the book's presence a steady hum in his mind. He lay on the bed, his Earth body asleep in a distant world, his spirit anchored here. Tomorrow, he'd begin shaping this town, this life, into a weapon. The orcs, the forest, the trial—none would stop him. He'd make sure of it.