In my novel, the Tower of the Third Realm is where monstrous beings dwell. Every hundred years, its gates open, unleashing the horrors it has nurtured upon the world—a cataclysm that could bring about the end of civilization. To prevent this, the Holy Sacral Empire gathers a team of skilled individuals every fifty years: the Hero's Party.
Comprised of mages, summoners, aura users, and other formidable talents, the party is sent into the tower before its gates open, tasked with slaying the abominations still growing within. The tower harbors creatures so terrifying that even a single fully matured monster could annihilate a small country in minutes.
And now, that very tower looms before me. Distant, yet unmistakable. Somehow, I've transmigrated into the world of my own novel—one that barely lasted fifty chapters. It wasn't even noteworthy enough to warrant such a fate.
I've tried everything to convince myself this is a dream—slapping, punching, pinching—but reality refuses to bend. Strangely, it doesn't unsettle me. My heart races with exhilaration. This world can fulfill my deepest desires. Whether it's real or a delusion, I don't care. For the first time, I can live the life I've always coveted.
But first, I need to survive.
I woke up on a small hill, my new body frail and weak. My limbs are thin, my energy depletes with the slightest exertion, and my stomach growls relentlessly. A copper card in my pocket provides scant details about my identity:
Name: Aizo
Aptitude: C-grade
Occupation: 1st Circle Mage
Age: 17
Sex: Male
Citizenship: Arkan Kingdom
Strange, who's this? Never did I wrote someone like this guy.
And it seems like bad luck struck on me, I really had to have the lowest grade of aptitude huh.
My throat is becoming dry, I'll assess these things later. I'll try to explore for some water first.
After an hour of exploration, I found a river. I drank it's water, and surprisingly it's a bit refreshing. It also leads to a nearby town—a sizable settlement with tall gates and guards clad in gleaming armor. One holds a flag bearing an unfamiliar emblem. I don't know the current year or how much this world has diverged from my novel, so caution is necessary.
I set up camp 500 meters from the town, constructing a crude tent by propping sticks between trees and layering twigs and mud for a roof. Now, I need fire. Gathering wood was easy, but lighting it poses a problem—smoke might attract unwanted attention. Still, I have no choice.
Fortunately, this world has magic.
Is magic easy? No. But creating fire? Pff. I'm this world's creator. I once designed a character so adept at fire magic that I invented an entire power system just for him—a villain meant for the first volume's climax, though I abandoned the story before introducing him.
I don't know if it'll work, but my current body has a trickle of mana in its primordial vessel.
I flicked my wrist.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
Frustration gnawed at me. Maybe I misremembered? It's been three years since I wrote this. After an hour of racking my brain, it hit me—the wrist-flicking technique requires a higher aptitude than my C-grade vessel allows. Instead, I need a magic circle.
I etched one into the dirt, placed the firewood atop it, and channeled my mana.
A flame sparked to life.
Survival demands more than makeshift fires. My body is feeble, and my knowledge of this world's power system is patchy at best. I only outlined a third of it before abandoning the project.
Night fell. Birds roosted in the trees, wolves howled in the distance, and my stomach protested its emptiness. I'd endure until morning, then attempt fishing.
My tent was far from luxurious—a bed of leaves and twigs, itchy and uncomfortable. The only solace was the crackling campfire's warmth. Bugs skittered across my skin, but I ignored them. The hardship thrilled me. Challenges awaited, and my heart burned with anticipation.
"Amidst endless flocks of sheep, I yearn to be a mountain goat—unbound to keep."
Peace is fleeting. Boredom erodes purpose. Why live? For most, the answer is hollow. But for me? Excitement is enough. Joy, however fleeting, is worth everything.
Even if this is a dream, I'll savor it.
Two Days Later
I've learned to fish, crafting a spear from sharpened sticks. My body regained some energy and my tent now has a wooden bed—rough but better than rashes. A stone knife serves as my only tool, but it's proven invaluable.
I've also recalled fragments of this world's power system.
First there's aptitude Ranks which is from C to A.
C-grade is the lowest, A-grade the highest.
Higher grades have bigger primordial vessel, allowing greater mana or aura storage.
Then there's Mana vs. Aura
Mana fuels mages.
Aura empowers martial artists (knights, assassins, etc).
Conversion to mana or aura with whatever you already have takes a year for C-grade individuals.
Third the B-grade Options
Dual-class as mage and aura user. Or become a summoner (easier for mages; aura users must convert to mana first).
lastly the A-grade
You can master all three paths. Or embrace the rare Echoist class—mimicking others' abilities.
My recollection is hazy, but it's a start.
As I mused, hoofbeats approached. A lone carriage, old and worn. The driver—likely a messenger—glared as I stepped onto the path, spooking his horses.
"What the hell? You could've caused an accident!"
I bowed. "My apologies. I'm a C-grade mage who lost my memory. Could you spare directions—or water?"
His anger vanished. "A C-grade?! Forgive my tone! Here, take this."
I drank gratefully. "Thank you. I won't forget this kindness."
Ordinary humans hold no power here. He knew I could kill him effortlessly—but murder invites investigation. Better to manipulate.
"Strange question—what year is it?"
"It's uh...1440, in Arid Calendar."
Perfect. The protagonist's era, it's right about time that he'll become more active. Unless something had happened that changed the timeline... Lets hope not.
"And where am I?"
"The Arkan Kingdom, near Seka Town."
The Arkan Kingdom borders Solaria and the Kraelion Empire. Seka is safe.
After asking questions, I bid the messenger farewell and head back straight to the camp. I packed smoked fish in broad leaves and followed the carriage tracks to the town gates. Four guards patrolled the walls; two stood below.
As I approached, one barked:
"Halt!"
He approached me with his eyebrows furrowing accompanied by the stomping of his metal boots.