Chapter 1: A World of Monsters
POV: Adam
The ceiling wasn't right.
Adam's eyes snapped open to rough-hewn wooden beams where his apartment's water-stained drywall should have been. The air tasted wrong—thick with unfamiliar scents of wood smoke, animal musk, and something metallic that made his nostrils flare. His body felt... different. Lighter. Younger.
"What the hell—"
A translucent blue rectangle materialized in front of his face, its edges shimmering like heat waves off summer asphalt.
[AVATAR POWERS SYSTEM v1.0 INITIALIZING...]
[WELCOME, HOST]
Adam's breath caught in his throat. The screen hovered there, patient as death, its alien script burning itself into his retinas. He blinked hard. It didn't disappear.
[TRANSMIGRATION COMPLETE] [DIMENSIONAL ANCHOR: The Witcher Universe] [CURRENT LOCATION: Cintra, Temeria] [DAYS UNTIL NILFGAARDIAN INVASION: 32]
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." The words scraped out of his throat—higher than his voice should be, cracking like a thirteen-year-old's. "Truck-kun strikes again."
The bitter laugh that followed sounded foreign in this unfamiliar chest. He'd been walking home from his dead-end job, mind blank with exhaustion, when the world had gone white. Now he was... where? When?
The Witcher.
His stomach dropped through the floorboards. He'd binged the Netflix series during one of his many sleepless nights, watching Ciri's world burn while eating ramen that tasted like cardboard and regret. And now—
[DISPLAYING CURRENT STATISTICS]
STR: 10 | STA: 10 | AGI: 10 HP: 100/100 | MP: 100/100
[RACIAL ABILITY UNLOCKED: AIRBENDING - LEVEL 1] Available Techniques: • Air Gust (5 MP) - Basic pushing force • Air Jump (8 MP) - Enhanced leap • Breath Control (Passive) - Extended breath holding
Adam's hands trembled as he sat up on what felt like a straw mattress. The room around him came into focus—small, sparse, with a wooden table bearing a leather pouch that clinked softly when he touched it. Medieval. Completely, utterly medieval.
[COVER IDENTITY ESTABLISHED] Name: Adam Chen Background: Merchant's son Inheritance: 50 crowns Lodging: Room above Golden Sturgeon tavern
"Airbending." He whispered the word like a prayer or curse. "In the fucking Witcher universe."
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent years watching Avatar: The Last Airbender, dreaming of bending elements while his real life crumbled around him. Now he had the power—and he was trapped in a world where monsters were real and war was coming.
Thirty-two days.
Thirty-two days until Cintra fell. Until Ciri lost everything. Until the slaughter began.
He swung his legs over the bed's edge, bare feet hitting cold wooden floors. His body moved wrong—too small, too young, muscles carrying none of the tension from years hunched over a computer. This wasn't his body. This was a kid's body.
The leather pouch contained exactly fifty silver coins, each one bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms. Real money in a real world where real people were going to die.
Unless he stopped it.
The thought hit him like ice water. Could he stop it? Change things? The System—whatever alien intelligence had dumped him here—seemed to think he had some kind of purpose. But what could a thirteen-year-old with basic airbending do against the Nilfgaardian war machine?
Get stronger. Fast.
Adam pulled on the rough-spun clothes laid out on the table—brown trousers, linen shirt, wool cloak. They fit perfectly, as if tailored for this younger body. When he looked in the small mirror propped against the wall, a stranger looked back. Asian features on a European medieval backdrop, black hair that fell across eyes that had seen too much for thirteen years.
I need to see this world. Figure out where I am in the timeline.
The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended into the Golden Sturgeon's common room. The assault on his senses hit immediately—unwashed bodies, spilled ale, wood smoke, and something that might have been roasted meat or might have been something else entirely. His stomach churned.
Conversations buzzed around wooden tables, but the accent was wrong. Not quite English, not quite anything he recognized, but somehow his brain translated it perfectly. Magic or System fuckery—he didn't care which.
"Excuse me," Adam approached the bar where a heavy-set man wiped down mugs with a rag that had seen better decades. "Could I get some coffee?"
The barkeeper's face went blank. "Coffee? What's that then?"
Right. Medieval world. No coffee.
"Uh... ale?" Adam tried, feeling heat creep up his neck.
"Now you're talking sense, lad." The man poured something brown and foamy into a wooden mug. "Two coppers."
Adam fumbled with unfamiliar coins, overpaid by accident, and took a sip that made him immediately regret every life choice that had led to this moment. It tasted like bread water with a hint of sadness.
But it was real. The taste, the smell, the sound of medieval life happening around him—all real.
He pushed through the tavern's door into Cintra's streets, and the city hit him like a physical blow.
The smell came first—horse dung, unwashed humanity, smoke from countless fires, and underneath it all, the sweet-sick scent of decay. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between buildings that leaned toward each other like drunken friends. People moved with purpose he couldn't fathom, wearing clothes that spoke of hard lives and harder choices.
A cart rumbled past, wheels clacking over uneven stones, pulled by a horse that looked tired of existence. Children darted between legs and hooves with practiced ease, their faces already old with knowledge no child should carry.
This is real. These people are real. And in thirty-two days, they're all going to die.
Adam ducked into an alley between two buildings, hands shaking as the weight of it all crashed down. These weren't NPCs or background characters. They were people with lives and hopes and fears, and the Nilfgaardian army was coming to snuff them out like candles.
Focus. You have power now. Use it.
He raised his hand toward a pile of dust and debris at the alley's end. Air Gust. The technique's name filled his mind, along with an instinctive understanding of how to channel the energy building in his chest.
Power flowed through him—alien but somehow natural—and he pushed.
The air shimmered. Dust swirled. And then, with perfect comedic timing, the wind caught his own cloak and blew it directly into his face.
Adam stumbled backward, spitting fabric, as a rat scurried past his feet with what he could swear was a judgmental look.
"This is humiliating," he muttered, but underneath the embarrassment was something else. Something that made his heart race with possibility.
The power was real. Weak, maybe. Pathetic, certainly. But real.
A blue screen materialized again, making him jump.
[MISSION ALERT - Choose One:]
BLUE: "Pest Control" Kill 20 rats in castle storage Reward: 150 XP, 10 crowns, +5 Castle Staff Reputation
RED: "Street Brawler" Teach lesson to scam merchants Reward: 200 XP, 20 crowns, +1 STR, -5 Merchant Reputation
YELLOW: Decline both
Adam stared at the options, his mind racing. The blue mission seemed straightforward—honest work for honest pay. The red option offered more immediate power but at a cost to his reputation. In a world where reputation might mean the difference between life and death...
I need XP. I need to get stronger. And killing rats is better than starting fights with people who might have friends.
He selected the blue option, and the screen shifted.
[MISSION ACCEPTED: "Pest Control"] [Objective: Eliminate 20 rats in Cintra Castle storage] [Time Limit: None] [Warning: Failure may result in reputation loss]
The castle loomed before him as he left the alley, all gray stone and fluttering banners. Guards in mail and leather stood at the gates, their eyes tracking his approach with professional boredom.
Just a merchant's son looking for work. Nothing threatening about that.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking as he approached the guards. Somewhere in that castle, rats waited. And after rats... well, he'd seen the show. He knew what was coming.
The question was: would he be strong enough to change it?
The castle's shadow fell across him, cold and heavy as a grave shroud. Thirty-two days until the world burned.
Time to get strong enough to save it.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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