Chapter 1: The Book That Betrayed Me.

Pain. That was the first thing Ethan felt. A deep, aching stiffness in his limbs, as if he had been running for days. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he shifted.

He opened his eyes to dark wooden beams above him. A ceiling. Old, rotting, and stained with damp patches. Not the familiar white ceiling of his apartment.

He inhaled sharply. The air smelled of sweat, rusted metal, and something sour. Straw poked against his back. Not a mattress. A cot.

Something was wrong.

He sat up too quickly, and the dizziness hit him like a hammer. His stomach lurched, and he gripped his head. The motion sent a heavy weight shifting against his chest. He looked down.

A dull iron breastplate rested against his torso, scuffed and poorly fitted. His arms were covered in rough woolen sleeves, with hardened leather gauntlets strapped over them. His legs were wrapped in itchy woolen trousers, tucked into a pair of stiff, worn-out boots.

And at his waist…

A short sword, its hilt wrapped in cheap leather. A soldier's weapon.

Ethan's breath quickened. His fingers trembled as he touched the sword, then the armor, then his own face. He still had his body—still had his hands, his skin. He wasn't… someone else.

But the room around him wasn't his own.

Men snored loudly in the surrounding bunks, packed into the cramped barracks like livestock. Some were older, with scarred faces and thick beards, their gear rusted and mismatched. Others were younger recruits, barely out of their teens.

He knew this place.

Not from life. Not from memory. But from a book.

No. No, no, no, this isn't real. This can't be real.

He lurched from the cot and stumbled toward the door, shoving past the rows of sleeping soldiers. He needed to see. He needed to confirm it.

The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open.

And outside, under the gray morning sky, he saw it—

A massive stone wall, topped with wooden battlements. The Imperial banners fluttering weakly in the cold wind. The rows of training dummies, the rusted weapons stacked haphazardly against a supply shed. And beyond the fort's walls, the dark outline of a forest stretching for miles.

Fort Ironwood.

A minor border outpost of the Verrentis Empire. A place he had read about countless times.

A place that was supposed to be destroyed in the opening chapter of Eclipse of the Eternal Empire.

His blood ran cold.

Because if he was here…

Then in three days, every man in this fort would be dead.

Ethan forced himself to breathe. Panic wouldn't help. He needed to think.

Three days.

That was all the time he had before Fort Ironwood was wiped out. In the novel, the fort's 200 men were slaughtered overnight by a surprise attack. None survived. Not the commander, not the seasoned veterans, not even the frightened recruits.

And now, he was one of them.

His stomach twisted. He scanned the courtyard, his mind racing through every detail he could remember. He had to get out of here.

But how?

The Verrentis Empire didn't tolerate deserters. If he tried to leave the fort, he'd be executed on the spot. Even if he somehow escaped, he had no money, no allies, and no idea where he was geographically. In the book, Fort Ironwood was only briefly described before its destruction—he never paid attention to its exact location.

Ethan clenched his fists.

He needed more information.

A loud clang snapped him out of his thoughts.

Across the courtyard, several soldiers were gathered in a dirt training pit, sparring with dull practice swords. The largest of them—a towering brute with a thick beard—knocked his opponent to the ground with a single blow. The other recruits laughed.

Ethan swallowed. He had never been in a real fight.

But if he was stuck here, he needed to understand his own strength. He had to know what his body could do.

Steeling himself, he approached the training pit.

A few soldiers noticed him, some with vague recognition, others with boredom.

The bearded brute turned, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, look who finally crawled out of bed," he said, his voice rough and amused. "Ethan Vale, the weakest soldier in Ironwood."

The weakest?

Ethan hesitated. So my name is still my own? That was something, at least.

"Come on, then," the brute continued, tossing a wooden sword at his feet. "Might as well put some bruises on you before the real battle does."

A few of the other soldiers chuckled.

Ethan exhaled slowly. He needed to see for himself.

He picked up the wooden sword and stepped forward.

---

Five Seconds Later

Ethan lay flat on his back, staring at the sky.

Pain radiated through his ribs, his arms, his everything.

The brute—Serge, one of the fort's senior soldiers—stood over him, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

Ethan wheezed. He barely even saw the strike coming. His body was slow, weak, completely untrained.

"Gods, you're useless," one of the recruits muttered. "No wonder it took you a whole damn year just to awaken your aura."

Ethan tensed.

A year?

That didn't make sense. Soldiers typically awakened their aura within weeks of training. But if it took him a year…

No.

No, no, no.

Ethan sat up, ignoring the burning pain in his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing inward. Aura was the foundation of all warriors in this world—if he had been training for a year, then he should at least have a first-tier aura, right?

He focused, willing his aura to emerge.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a faint wisp of colorless energy flickered around his hand, barely visible. Weak. Dull. Gray.

The lowest possible form of aura.

A complete failure.

Serge snorted. "Gods, it's even worse looking at it up close."

Ethan clenched his fists. He felt sick. He had assumed he was just a generic soldier, but this was worse.

He was the absolute weakest soldier in Fort Ironwood.

And in three days, he was going to die.

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