Pain.
It crept slow. There was a drumbeat at the back of his head, it was way too heavy, kind of hollow. Ethan groaned. His limbs weren't right. They were too heavy, too slow. His body refused to listen to him. It didn't feel like it at all.
He blinked, not sure if his eyes were even open. Real? Or crazy half-dream?
The air struck him first. It was chilly and clean, it was too clean. It tasted of woodsmoke, fresh bread, and damp stone. There were no fumes from cars. No humming lights or machinery. Just plain, sharp air with no pollution at all.
His fingers touched the ground. It was bumpy and irregular. Cobblestone, perhaps. It was not his room. It was not even his world.
A shiver ran through his lungs. He started to overthink way too much.
He knew that something was wrong. Something was not right at all.
And when he finally managed to open his eyes, sunlight slapped him in the face, it was way too bright. Blinding. He winced and slowly turned his head, as if it was full of sand.
Then he saw it and couldn't believe what he just saw. So he rubbed his eyes once, but it was still the same. Then he did it twice but the scenery didn't change.
Gigantic stone structures loomed on either side of a broad avenue. The sharp rooftops scraped at the sky; they were sending long shadows over the cobblestones. Individuals flowed by, all clad in cloaks and tunics, armor glinting in the light. Their voices resonated half-remembered, muffled by laughter, haggling, and the clank of metal in the distance.
A carriage passed by him. The wheels clattered against stone. Horses snorted, their breath dissipating into the mist.
Knights stood at every corner. They were tall, armored, eyes were sharp, hands on their hilts. They were not the type who asked questions, the type who killed first and called it justice later.
A blacksmith paced behind them, hammering a blade on glowing steel. Sparks illuminated the air like fireflies.
Ethan didn't stir. He just couldn't.
He knew that he wasn't meant to be here. He knew that this was not his world, yet it was so familiar to him.
This wasn't Earth.
But something about it, it wasn't a dream.
It felt familiar and way too real.
Way too much familiar.
Then it struck him.
A name. A memory. A tale.
His throat closed.
"No," he breathed. "No, no. It can't be true."
But the idea persisted. It burrowed its way out of the back of his mind rising like acid in his stomach.
Gods' Final Requiem.
He'd read it the previous night.
A world that was drenched in blood. Tainted by power. There were no fairy tales only suffering and war and destruction. The sort of tale where everyone loses.
And now he was standing there — in the world of Gods' Final Requiem.
A world destined to get destroyed later on in the story.
"This isn't real. I won't believe it. I can't be in this world. This shit will end in a few years," he grumbled. His mind was fucked up with the thought that he had been transmigrated here.
But the chill beneath his palms indicated otherwise.
The wind scouring his skin indicated otherwise.
The acrid scent of fire and bread in the air indicated otherwise.
All around him shouted real.
His heart was pounding furiously now. Fear started clawing its way up to his throat. He had to know — he had to.
He lurched toward the puddle beside the road and fell to his knees. The water shook with a gentle trembling in the breeze.
And the face that was looking back at him wasn't his.
Black hairs, they were disheveled, too long. Gray eyes — dull and far away. Hard jaw. Thin lips. Sickly pale. Far too young — perhaps thirteen, perhaps fourteen. Starved-looking. Good-looking, but in a breakable, almost fragile manner.
It was not Ethan.
Not even remotely so.
His gut revolted.
Then it hit like a floodgate breaking open. A wave of memories not his own crashed into his life. Moments. Feelings. They all belonged to this stranger.
No, now it was not a stranger.
A name emerged.
"Emil," he breathed. "Emil Valcrest?"
It tasted wrong on his lips. But within his chest, it crashed like a stone dropped into deep water.
That was him now.
Ethan was gone. Ethan was no more.
He closed his eyes, tried to catch his breath. It didn't work.
He recognized that name.
Emil Valcrest. He was just a discarded character. Some miserable kid who got just one scene in the book. No aura. No magic. No power. A sick mother and a dead father. No skills. No prospects. The type of person you forget halfway through the chapter.
And now, Ethan was him.
He was that Emil Valcrest.
Or should we say, he was just a nobody.
He scoured the memories once more, hoping for something, anything that could aid him even a bit in his journey.
There was nothing.
No training. No secrets. No hidden powers waiting to be triggered. Only weakness. Poverty. Obscurity.
He gazed at his shaking hands.
"This is bad. I can't live in this body. I am doomed."
Outside him, the world couldn't care less.
This place, the cursed, broken world of Gods' Final Requiem wasn't kind to the weak. He knew what was coming for him in the upcoming future. The Outer Gods would rise. The Demi-Gods would awaken. War would burn everything down. Heroes would fight, fall, and die.
And Emil?
He wouldn't even make it to chapter three of the goddamn novel that he read.
Ethan, Emil stared blankly at the street, his breath shallow.
"I'm dead. Well, yes, it's true," he whispered again. "I'm already dead."
Then something fluttered down beside him, it was light as air.
A sheet of paper.
No, it was a letter.
It must have fallen out of someone's pocket. The paper was thick and costly. A golden seal glinted on the reverse.
He picked it up with trembling fingers.
The crest meant nothing to him. But the words below it were unmistakable:
Empire Academy Admission Letter.
His heart halted. His breath stopped for a while.
His name was typed below it in perfect ink.
Recipient: Emil Valcrest
He blinked.
He read it again.
And again.
The name didn't change.
"How?" he breathed. "Why me?"
He hadn't tried. He shouldn't be allowed within a hundred feet of the place. He whispered in disbelief:
"This is fucking ridiculous."
The Empire Academy was where monsters trained. It was for geniuses, nobles, and warriors whose blood ran thick with power. People who altered the destiny of nations.
Not a guy like Emil.
Not a guy like him.
He whispered, "So who sent this letter? And what the fuck did they want from a dead kid?"
He picked up the letter, it was made of black and gold parchment, tailored with golden embroidery and sealed with a golden emblem.
The moment he opened it, he couldn't believe what he just saw.
Then—