Chapter 4 - Fire, Strength, Instinct, and the Academy
After regaining his composure, Christ remained still for a moment, calmly collecting his thoughts. The chaos of revelation had subsided, and now all that was left was the question of what to do next. There were no more whispers in his ears, no screaming memories haunting his vision—just a vast, heavy silence.
That silence was perfect for thinking.
Christ glanced around the dimly lit library, this sanctuary of twisted knowledge. He could still feel the thin tether connecting him to the place, like a string wrapped around his soul, but even that sensation was slowly beginning to fade.
"I'm running out of time here," he muttered to himself, standing up and dusting off his robes.
He had to return to the Academic City.
That much was certain. For now, he needed intel—about the city, yes, but also about himself. Christ had barely scratched the surface of what this world was, how it worked, and what the cards meant. But what he did know was this: strength was the language here, and power was the currency.
If he could understand even a fraction of the cards he held, it might give him a critical edge.
Before searching for external knowledge, Christ decided to take a moment for self-discovery. He needed to understand what was already inside him. From the brief explanations in the tomes, he knew that in order to "see" the cards one was bound to, there were two basic approaches: meditation or manifestation.
Manifestation involved forcing the cards to physically emerge from one's body or soul—a difficult, volatile process that Christ had no clue how to begin. Meditation, however, while less precise, was safer. It wouldn't give him details like the card's star level or its category, but it could offer a glimpse.
He decided to start there.
Settling himself cross-legged on the cold marble floor, Christ exhaled slowly. His white, pupil-less eyes drifted shut, his breathing becoming rhythmic and steady. Hands resting lightly on his knees, he focused inward.
It was almost laughably easy.
In mere moments, like voices whispering through thin fog, he heard them—not with his ears, but with something deeper.
"Card of Flame."
"Card of Strength."
"Card of Instinct."
A spark danced across the surface of his mind. A faint glow lingered around his consciousness.
So this is it...
Opening his eyes again, Christ lifted one hand, palm facing upward. He focused. A single thought shaped itself into an intention, and from his palm, a flicker of fire burst forth.
The flame danced there, weightless and warm.
With greater concentration, he pushed harder, and the tiny spark exploded into a much larger flame, flickering with raw, elemental energy. It didn't hurt him. It didn't feel alien. It felt natural.
"Huh. So I do have some power..."
Three cards. If the number of cards someone could connect to was a sign of their status, then possessing three might suggest he belonged to one of the official Orders. Perhaps even the Seraphim Wing Corps.
Although... aren't Seraphim supposed to have six wings? he thought, raising an eyebrow. Maybe the structure's different in this world.
He extinguished the flame with a thought.
What surprised him wasn't that he could summon fire, but that there was no fatigue. No spiritual drain. In most fictional worlds, such powers came at a cost: mana, stamina, soul erosion. Yet here, Christ felt... fine.
Had the rules changed? Was the library protecting him? Or was this power simply more refined than he thought?
He had read that overusing cards could erode the soul—a risk that kept people from going card-crazy. But he felt no hollowing of his spirit. Maybe the library was a buffer zone. Maybe the real consequences would come later.
Still, best not to get cocky.
He next tested his strength. Gathering a thick stack of heavy books—some of them as large as his torso—he crouched and tried lifting them with one hand.
It was difficult, but not impossible.
A slight grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Alright. Fire? Check. Strength? Check."
The third card, Instinct, was harder to assess. How do you measure instinct without actual danger?
He considered staging a fake ambush with falling books or imagined threats, but quickly realized how pointless that would be. Without real consequences, there could be no real reaction. So he shelved that idea for now.
This library might've been a crypt of secrets and silent screams, but it wasn't a battleground.
Christ wandered between the endless shelves, hunting for information about the Academic City. After some searching, he stumbled upon a curious find: not a book, but a journal. A personal record, aged and slightly cracked at the edges, with a title etched into its leather binding:
"The Academic Dream: Volume 10."
"Volume ten?" Christ whispered, flipping it open.
He looked around and tried to find the previous volumes, but no matter how far he searched, they weren't there.
Strange. Either the earlier journals never made it here, or they were taken. Or destroyed.
This raised a few possibilities: maybe the library didn't contain every book. Or maybe, just maybe, someone didn't want certain volumes to be found.
If that was the case, then the Academic City itself might hold the missing pieces.
Christ settled into what passed for a chair in this dusty dimension. The journal creaked open like an old vault door. He began to read, bracing himself for whatever revelations lay within.
Because one thing had become very, very clear:
In this world, survival wasn't just about having power.
It was about knowing what not to trust.
And Christ had a feeling the Academic City had a lot more hidden than anyone wanted to admit.
***
---
19th Turzin, 1834
OJY IS DRIVING ME INSANE!
The man actually wants me to take care of some of the demonic creatures that managed to escape the seal.
Why me? Why is it always me?
I'm just a damn support unit! SUPPORT! Not "frontline warrior", not "legendary slayer", just a glorified walking potion dispenser with a few party tricks! My combat skills are lower than a snail's self-esteem compared to the Eternal Blue Candle Corps.
And now he wants me to go ALONE against demons that probably reached the "Bodies Beyond the Sky" tier?
That's not a mission. That's assisted suicide!
He says if I do it, he'll "let" me create the Academic City. As if he owns the right to authorize cities like he's selling cookies! Last time I checked, that's the King's job, not his!
Honestly, I'm this close to jumping into a volcano and letting fate handle the rest. I was planning to propose to someone this week, damn it! And I had an entire buffet worth of food I wanted to devour! The audacity!
I know—I KNOW—I'm going to survive and probably even wipe them out alone. Because I'm a genius and fate loves irony. But still! It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing!
When I become Director, I'm demanding a raise. And a throne. And a shrine. A golden one.
/
20th Vuzin, 1834
I HAVE RETURNED!
You know what? Life-threatening battles aren't so bad...
...when you come back alive and immediately drown yourself in women and wine! Oh yes, my glorious reward: debauchery and cheap alcohol!
Alright, confession—our wine tastes like dragon piss. But I've already spoken to the King about my plans for proper vineyards. And more importantly...
The Zone of Lust™.
That's right. A designated zone in the city for... relaxation. For both men and women, of course. Equality in pleasure!
I shall create an Academic City AND a Zone of Lust. Mind and body, hand in hand. I'm a visionary, truly.
Tomorrow, I meet with the King and Ojy to finalize the city. AND the Queen will be there.
Ohhhhh sweet mother of temptation, that woman is divine. Absolutely celestial.
Of course, I would never do anything. Out of respect for the King, obviously. But yes, he has noticed my glances... often.
Mordren told me a rumor—that the King has a mind-reading card.
If that's true, I might already be scheduled for public execution.
Also, the woman I was going to marry? She's already dating someone. So... I'll kill him later. You know, when I have time.
/
21st Vuzin, 1834
I DID IT! I OFFICIALLY DID IT!
The Academic City has been approved! I'm going to be rich! FILTHY RICH!
And more importantly, I'll be surrounded by high school girls I can stare at all day with zero consequences.
Wait, wait, WAIT—don't misunderstand. I'm not some predatory pervert! ...Probably. It's complicated. It's all about the context!
Anyway, no one's ever going to read this journal. I can write the weirdest crap and it won't matter. TOTAL FREEDOM!
Unless this gets published posthumously, then—hello historians! Please ignore the previous entries. I was drunk. And possessed. Maybe both.
/
...
...
...
3rd Xuzin, 1836
Today we learned a truth more terrifying than any demon.
We are not alone.
I once believed that only a few of us had been transmigrated. Special cases. Chosen by fate.
But no. It turns out many have arrived. Others, from other worlds, other timelines, walk the earth just like me.
And worse still... it seems orchestrated.
By whom? By what? Gods? Higher beings? Beings beyond comprehension?
Are we nothing but playthings?
Humans blindly worship gods they've never seen, only felt. But what are gods if not reflections of ourselves?
They are as cruel, as capricious, as chaotic as the human heart. They torture, destroy, and burn entire civilizations for the sake of their "divine plans". Eternal suffering, infinite agony, all wrapped in the shiny packaging of sacred duty.
But if that is what a god is...
Then a god is just a man with infinite power and no supervision.
So I say this: if gods can shape the world to their will, so can I. So must I. Not only me—but everyone I love, everything I value, must rise to divinity.
Only then can we escape the chains.
Only then will we be free.
So I will take up arms. I will march into the heavens. I will tear the skies open if I must.
I will find the truth of this world.
To protect the family I've built.
To safeguard the friends who stood with me.
And to annihilate every arrogant bastard who thinks they can puppeteer our lives.
I swear it.
---
Christ stared in silence, stunned by the final words.
The founder of the Academic City... was a transmigrator? Just like me?
That changed everything.
There might be more like him out there. Dozens. Hundreds, even. Each with their own story, their own goals... and their own enemies.
The early pages had been absurd, hilarious even—ramblings of a lunatic with too much libido and not enough alcohol. Some were missing, others torn out. But those final entries...
Those were written by a man who had seen behind the curtain.
What happened to him... in those two years?
Christ's hand clenched into a fist.
He had to grow stronger.
Much, much stronger.
Because someone, somewhere, was playing a dangerous game—and he refused to remain a pawn.