Chapter 1 : A Hero’s fall

Nicholas adjusted the collar of his new jacket as he stepped out into the crisp evening air. The promotion had finally come through, months of late nights at the office, endless spreadsheets, and kissing up to the right people had paid off.

A senior analyst position, a fat raise, and a move to Elmwood Heights, the safest neighborhood in the city. He'd spent his childhood dreaming of this: stability, a nice house, a life where he wasn't scrambling to pay rent. At thirty-two, it was finally happening. He grinned to himself, tugging his scarf tighter against the autumn chill. Time to stock the fridge, nothing fancy, just some groceries to celebrate his first night in the new place.

The streets of Elmwood Heights were quiet, lined with tidy brownstones and glowing streetlights. A few dog-walkers nodded as he passed, their pets sniffing at the fallen leaves. It felt surreal, like he'd stepped into a postcard. He was halfway to the corner store when a sharp cry shattered the peace.

"Stop him! Somebody, please—he stole my bag!"

Nicholas froze, turning toward the sound. A woman in a red coat stumbled out of an alley, her face flushed with panic. A figure bolted past her—a skinny guy in a hoodie, clutching a leather purse under his arm. The thief's sneakers slapped the pavement as he sprinted straight toward Nicholas.

Instinct kicked in before reason could catch up. Nicholas wasn't a fighter—never had been. He'd dodged gym class like the plague in school and hadn't thrown a punch since that one scuffle in fifth grade. But something about the woman's voice, the desperation in it, yanked him forward. He stepped into the thief's path, arms spread wide like some half-baked superhero. "Hey, stop—"

The thief didn't slow. His eyes glinted under the hood, wild and unhinged, and Nicholas saw the flash of metal too late. A knife, gripped tight in the guy's fist, aimed right at his chest. Time seemed to stretch Nicholas's brain screamed at him to move, but his legs wouldn't listen. The blade plunged deep, a cold shock that turned hot as blood soaked his shirt. He gasped, stumbling back, hands clawing at the wound. The thief yanked the knife free and kept running, disappearing around a corner with the bag.

Nicholas hit the ground, knees first, then his side. The pavement was cold against his cheek. Voices buzzed around him distant, muffled, like he was underwater. The woman in the red coat knelt beside him, her hands hovering uselessly. "Oh my God, someone call an ambulance! He—he tried to help me…"

A man's voice cut through, low and mocking. "Some people can't just help but play the hero. Poor kid." Nicholas's fading vision caught a glimpse of the crowd, a familiar grin, eerie and out of place. The thief, standing there, watching. But that couldn't be right. He'd run off. Hadn't he?

Darkness swallowed him.

---

He didn't expect to wake up. Not after that. But awareness crept back, slow and strange. No pain, no blood just an endless void. Nicholas floated in it, weightless, the only thing in a sea of nothing. No sky, no ground, no sound but the faint hum in his ears. Was this death? He flexed his fingers, surprised they still worked, and squinted into the blackness.

Something shimmered ahead—a massive tome, hovering silently. It was bigger than him, bound in leather that looked older than time, its cover etched with symbols he couldn't read. Gold light pulsed from its edges, faint but insistent. Nicholas drifted closer, drawn by a pull he couldn't explain. His hand reached out, trembling, and brushed the cover.

The world exploded.

A force slammed into him, hurling him back through the void. His mind buckled as images and sounds flooded in, too much, too fast. Cities of glass and steel crumbling to dust. Armies clashing under alien skies. A voice, deep and resonant, chanting words in a language he didn't know. Face 

 hundreds, thousands flashed past, their eyes glowing with the same gold light as the tome. Pain seared through his skull, like his brain was being rewritten. He screamed, or tried to, but the sound drowned in the chaos. Information poured into him—formless, overwhelming, a tidal wave he couldn't grasp. His consciousness frayed, and the void took him again.

---

Hay scratched at his face. Nicholas jolted awake, coughing as the dry stalks poked his nose. He was sprawled in a pile of it, the smell of straw and faint manure filling his lungs. His hands shot to his chest—no blood, no wound, just a plain linen shirt. He sat up, blinking in the dim light of a wooden barn. Beams creaked overhead, and a cow mooed lazily in a stall nearby. He felt… different. Lighter, somehow. Shorter, too his legs dangled off the haystack, not quite reaching the floor like they should.

"What the hell…" His voice came out higher, younger. He clapped a hand over his mouth, then stared at it. Smaller, smoother, no calluses from years of typing. Panic bubbled up. He scrambled to his feet, brushing hay off what looked like medieval trousers—brown, coarse, tied with a cord. A mirror. He needed a mirror.

The barn door creaked open before he could move. A woman stepped in, dressed in a black-and-white maid uniform straight out of a historical drama. Her dark hair was pinned up, and she carried a wooden tray with a pitcher and a cloth. She stopped short, eyeing him with a mix of surprise and relief.

"Young Lord Nicholai! You're awake. Good—I was beginning to worry." Her voice was brisk but warm, like she'd done this routine a hundred times. "You've been out since yesterday. Time to get moving, the carriage is ready. The mana evaluation in the capital won't wait."

Nicholas blinked at her. "Wait—what? My name's Nicholas, not Nicholai. And where am I? What's a mana evaluation?"

The maid frowned, setting the tray on a barrel. "Nicholas? Are you feeling alright, my lord? You must've hit your head harder than we thought. You're Nicholai Verenth, third son of House Verenth. The evaluation's today—every noble child gets tested at sixteen. Don't tell me you've forgotten that too."

Sixteen? Nicholas opened his mouth to argue, but a sharp pain lanced through his head. Images flashed not his, but someone else's. A boy with his face, younger, sharper training with a wooden sword in a courtyard. A stern man in a velvet cloak lecturing him about duty. A sprawling manor with stone walls and stained glass. Memories, vivid and alien, crashed into him like a second wave from that tome. Nicholai Verenth. This body's owner. Dead? No—gone, somehow, and Nicholas was here instead.

He gripped his temples, staggering back into the hay. The maid rushed forward, steadying him. "My lord! Should I fetch the healer?"

"No—no, I'm fine," he muttered, waving her off. The flood slowed, leaving him with scraps: Nicholai's life, his family, a world of magic and nobles. And then, unbidden, blue text flickered into his vision, crisp and glowing:

```

[Stats]

Name: Nicholas

Level: 1/100 (System upgrade will commence automatically when the host reaches level 100)

EXP: 0/1000

Stats Point: Nil

Race: Human

Mental Energy: 500/500

Skill (Main): Akashic Sync (Incomplete): ?????

————————————

Sub-Skills:

- Codex Ex Nihilo (Lv 1): This skill allows the user to create something from nothing as far as the host can visualize what he's creating and has the mental energy to fuel it. At the moment this skill is limited to non-living creations.

- Eidetic Renewal (Lv 1): This automatically activates when the host has sustained an injury, it returns the injured part to a state before the injury occurred.

- Information Analysis: This allows the host to gather information on the surface level with just a glance. The more mental energy is focused, the more information is gathered.

- Cognisphere: This is a mental dimension that allows the host to store information and objects. Size of the space can be increased with mental energy.

[———]

```

Nicholas stared at it, heart pounding. The tome. The void. This system—it had followed him here. Or brought him here. He wasn't dead—not entirely. But he wasn't in Elmwood Heights anymore, either. He was Nicholai now, in a body not his own, in a world he didn't understand. And that eerie grin from the thief lingered in his mind, a thread he couldn't yet pull.

The maid cleared her throat. "My lord? The carriage?"

"Right," he said, forcing a nod. "Let's go."