Chapter 5: wasn’t it just another kind of lie?

Christ had nothing left to do.

He stood at the threshold of the final shelf, the silence of the library pressing against him like a forgotten weight. His eyes, glassy yet firm, gazed into the high windows where eternal light filtered through—light not from a sun, but from knowledge itself. And still, he hesitated.

He had taken a book. A single, seemingly insignificant tome with a cracked leather spine and golden symbols worn away by time. He wasn't particularly interested in its content—it spoke of ancient grain cultivation methods—but he had verified it held no special protection, no enchantments or spiritual worth. In short, it was sellable.

Sellable. That word had a bitter taste.

Is this what I am now? A merchant of forgotten knowledge?

And yet, the idea held a strange comfort. If he could turn knowledge into value, into currency, into power, then he had another way to survive.

Perhaps he could even become a dealer of arcane lore, trafficking between truth and ignorance. A collector of secrets. A seller of silence.

But beneath that fantasy lay a deeper truth.

Christ was afraid.

Not of pain, or death, or failure. No, it was something far more intimate: himself.

Returning to the City of Stars meant returning to uncertainty. There was no guarantee he would remain who he was. The transition could rip Christ away from consciousness and leave behind Donald—the fool. The host. The delusion.

More frightening still was the possibility that Donald was not a mask. That Christ was. That the Library's protective aura only held his mind together temporarily, like glue binding a cracked mirror.

He had studied this phenomenon. Memory erosion. Mental rewriting. In certain zones of the Academic Cities, powers interwove and created strange effects—some destabilizing cognition, others embedding false memories as a form of magical espionage.

So yes, Christ understood what was at stake.

To lose memory is to lose agency.

To lose identity is to lose self.

And if he lost the memory of this place—this haven of power, the Library—he would be set back immeasurably.

But more than that, he would lose himself. The self who had clawed his way through madness and ignorance to stand here with open eyes. Christ wasn't merely afraid of becoming Donald. He was terrified of becoming only Donald.

He took a breath. Then another.

No. I won't let that happen.

He closed his eyes, whispering to the void between memory and will:

Even if I lose everything. Even if I forget my name. Even if my mind crumbles like ash...

I will survive.

Whether Christ or Donald... survival is carved into my instincts. I was made for it. Molded by it.

A long silence followed, until a faint smile curved his lips.

"I am Christ Donald. That's not a name—it's a declaration."

And with that, he vanished from the Library.

The eternal shelves stood still for a moment.

Then, deep in the labyrinth of forgotten wings, something shifted. A presence smiled. Wide. Knowing. Hungry.

---

He woke up in front of Academic City A.

Again.

People around him stared, blinking with curiosity and a hint of alarm. After all, it's not every day someone just pops into existence like a glitch in reality.

Donald blinked.

Then stretched.

Then grinned.

Alright! Showtime, baby.

Bits of memory clung to him like post-it notes in a hurricane. He remembered acting like a genius. Remembered secrets from forbidden books. Remembered that he had fire powers. Fire! Not the flashiest ability in the world, but hey—it was still better than farting smoke rings.

Guess I'm a new student now, huh? Got the black badge and everything. Time to come up with a cool fake name, register in the Academy, find a dorm...

But first...

Time to find some action. Ideally involving a damsel in distress. Or a dragon. Or a dragon holding a damsel. Or both.

He nodded, satisfied with his ambition. Then frowned slightly.

Also... did I just inherit the body of a rich guy?

He looked down at his clothes. Yeah. Definitely rich. The fabric screamed "custom tailored by royal unicorns."

And if the Library was right, everything—including clothes and books—could be sold for cards. Crystal cards. The universal currency here. They came in colors: Blue, Silver, Gold, and the coveted Black. Donald remembered the exchange rates too. Roughly, twenty Black Crystals were worth over six thousand Blues.

So I'm loaded. And yet... I died in a damn alley.

That thought soured his grin.

Rich people didn't get stabbed in alleyways. At least, not alone. Where were his guards? His entourage? His anti-stabbing insurance?

Something fishy's going on with this body, Donald mused. Too many secrets. Too many blanks.

But whatever. He could figure it out later. First: shopping.

Donald strutted into a clothing store like he owned the place. Maybe he did. The clerk looked up, saw the black Academy badge, and straightened like a soldier.

Donald removed his coat with a dramatic flair. "How much?"

Moments later, he walked out with 20 Black Crystals and 500 Blue ones. Apparently, the clerk had added a bonus for being from the Academy. Fanboys were everywhere, even in fantasy realms.

Damn, Donald muttered, admiring his cards. This world is basically pay-to-win and I just rolled legendary.

He bought a new jacket—less expensive, but still stylish enough to scream "main character." Then he dove into a food court like a starved war veteran.

He sampled everything. Glowing noodles. Singing dumplings. Something called 'Void Cider' that made him hiccup fire for ten minutes.

Each bite was divine. Every taste was a new flavor of joy.

If this is isekai, I better get at least ten girlfriends.

He paused mid-bite of a spiced galaxy croissant.

No, twenty.

He clenched his fist, fire flickering around his knuckles.

"Waifu acquisition... begins now."

---

Somewhere else, something in the Library stirred again.

It knew he was gone.

And it remembered him.

It always remembered.

____

Uso had returned.

The wind whispered secrets through the glasslike trees of the Mirror Village, the closest settlement to the sacred artifact known only as the Divine Mirror. Here, the veil between mortals and gods was thinner, as though the sky itself bent down to whisper in the ears of the faithful.

The Oas people had long since scattered into divided villages, each forming a line of resistance against the looming threat of the Skyriders. The Mirror Village, though small, was revered. For it was not strength that protected them, but proximity—to the divine.

Uso walked slowly down the gravel path, the familiar architecture rising around him like ghosts of a dream half-forgotten. Yet everything felt hollow.

He had done it. He had spoken to a god.

But it hadn't been what he expected. Not at all.

The encounter had shaken him, yes—but he had also played his part. Trembling hands, lowered eyes, a voice laced with awe and fear. A perfect performance.

Uso had trained for years to master himself. To suffocate emotion. To paint his soul in the colors the world wanted to see. But before the Divine, weakness was currency. Humility was armor. He had chosen to appear small. It was the safest mask of all.

Did the god see through it? Probably. Did it care? Probably not.

Gods, he suspected, had little interest in the truth of mortals. Emotions were dust to them. Fleeting, fragile things.

A long sigh slipped from his lips as he approached the gates. Guards awaited him there, their eyes a strange mix of hope and dread.

"Uso! Did it go well?" one asked, younger than the rest, his voice carrying the tremor of someone who desperately wanted to believe in salvation.

Uso lowered his gaze. Shame adorned him like a second skin.

"I failed. I'm sorry... truly."

A grizzled older guard placed a hand on Uso's shoulder, a quiet, resigned compassion in his gaze.

"Don't blame yourself. Hundreds have failed. Someday, the gods will answer us."

How many of them believe that lie? Uso wondered, eyes still downcast.

He bowed and moved past them, disappearing into the mist-laced streets. Behind him, the guards whispered.

"That's him, isn't it? The genius boy."

"Yes," the elder replied. "The one they say was born to change everything."

But Uso heard them. Of course he did.

He was no genius. Just someone who had read more, remembered better, and thought deeper. Knowledge was the only true power. That, and the will to wield it.

He reached his home.

Inside, his father sat hunched in a shadowed corner, nostrils flaring from the faint line of silver dust on the table before him. Ultra Powder. The curse of the weak. A drug spreading fast in the village, devouring men and women in their despair.

Uso had long since ceased to judge his father. Everyone needed something to run toward—or away from. Some fled into faith. Others into pleasure. A few into self-delusion.

Uso had chosen immortality.

He climbed the steps to the back rooms. There, his older brother awaited: Uho.

A man carved from pride and cruelty. A tyrant in their home. A soldier to the world. Uso found him seated, shirtless, scars decorating his torso like medals of perverse honor.

Uho looked up.

No words were needed. The way Uso held his shoulders, the tilt of his chin—the message was clear.

Failure.

Uho stood.

"You failed."

Uso said nothing.

Here it comes.

The fist landed with a crack. Pain blossomed. More followed. Blows rained like judgment. Bones screamed.

Crack. Crack.

Uso made all the right sounds. He gasped. He whimpered. He bled.

He gave Uho what he wanted.

Because that was the game.

When it was done, Uho wiped his hands and summoned his power. Light enveloped Uso, mending bone, closing flesh. Like nothing had happened.

Except it had.

Uso lay still, breathing shallow. Empty.

If emotions are water, and the human heart a vessel... then mine has been dry for a long, long time.

Uho turned to leave.

"Get stronger. Or get out of my sight."

Uso slowly rose to his feet.

He would get stronger. He would earn a place in the army. Rise in the ranks. Learn every power, every weakness. Master every weapon.

And one day, he would kill Uho.

Not for vengeance. Not for justice.

But because monsters must be destroyed.

And he would do it with the same emotionless eyes with which he watched the stars each night, wondering which god watched back.

Uso did not believe in justice. Or mercy. Or love.

He believed in survival.

And the immortality that comes with perfect understanding.

But for now, he would wear his mask, and play the genius child.

After all, wasn't it just another kind of lie?