[1 December, 355 Modern Age]

"Seems like the dream gets weirder and weirder," Riktor mumbled, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

He squinted at a paper hanging on the wall near the nightstand. On the paper, there seemed to be some writing, kinda like it was done with a pencil or charcoal. It looked like some sort of calendar, keeping track of the date and the passing of the seasons, over the span of a month.

Having already unfolded the initial sheet, he found another beneath it, adorned with different words.

Among the markings were notations for significant dates, some encircled in black. Next to these circles were reminders like "Enrollment Deadline for Atheanora Academy."

After zoning out for a solid hour, he finally peeled himself off the bed.

His brain was still a bit foggy, couldn't quite register what the heck was happening here. This must be a dream, he thought, as nothing about the room seemed familiar.

"Is this Grandma's new room? When did she decorate it to be so bland, lacking all those sophisticated details?" He scratched his head, trying to recall something that didn't feel as strange as his unfamiliar face staring back at him.

He wobbled as he tried to walk to a table and ended up falling back onto the bed. "Ouch!" escaped his mouth, clearly in pain from hitting something hard.

Tok tok, his hand unwittingly tapped against the bed frame beneath him.

His bed was a simple wooden frame, possibly handcrafted from local timber. The wood appeared roughly hewn, bearing the marks of the axe or saw used to shape it. Though he wasn't an expert in the field but it reminded him of the furniture back at his grandma's house. His uncle, who lived near the rice fields owned by her, used to make furniture from chopped wood. It was somewhat sloppily trimmed, lacking the fine, smooth edges indicative of the amateurish nature of his uncle's short time in the field.

"No way, she really didn't like such a roughly trimmed bed frame like this one. Hmm, the last one Uncle Dop made wasn't to her taste because of the lackluster design," he muttered, a amused expression on his face as if reminiscing about the past.

He noticed the bedcover, which appeared to be a patchwork quilt, with each square made from a scrap of fabric from worn-out clothes or leftover material.

A faint, rustic smell caused him to grimace slightly.

The mattress seemed to be a sack filled with straw, judging by how rough it felt when he pressed his hand on it. In fact, he felt many pricks on his hand as he pressed down. The bedding looked handmade with a homespun fabric decorated with hand-stitched patterns.

Glancing down at his feet, he observed the floor was made of some kind of fine wood, reminiscent of scenes out of a Wild West movie. The furniture had a decidedly peculiar quality to it, and the books were filled with squiggles that made his eyes cross. Everything seemed to scream, "You ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto."

The weirdest part his brain knew its stuff. He could read the gibberish in the books and even spit it out without much tripping over his tongue. It wasn't English, or any language he'd ever heard, but it felt as familiar as his own name.

Take the whole mirror thing. Apparently, the original Riktor was a bit of a narcissist, always checking himself out. That was gonna take some getting used to.

Day six in this wacky world, and it still felt like he'd fallen down a rabbit hole.

It was etched in his memory like it happened yesterday: a rainy night, the basic design of the game spread out before him, and he was brainstorming item models when the lights suddenly went out. "Damn power company," he cursed, assuming he must have forgotten to pay a bill. Being quite handy, he opted to investigate the circuit breaker himself. No need to bother the landlord or shell out for some overpriced electrician.

But as soon as he flipped the switch, there was a loud bang, followed by a blinding flash that swallowed him whole.

Next thing he knew, he woke up in this crazy new unfamiliar room.

For the past days, he had been playing hermit crab, holed up in the room like it was a bomb shelter. Bathroom breaks were his only excursions into the outside world.

Luckily, someone kept dropping off grub at the door two times a day, so at least he wasn't starving.

He was playing it safe, afraid of blowing his cover with some out-of-character move. Memories were one thing, but habits and mannerisms? Those needed some serious practice.

Glancing at the clock on the table, 8 p.m. Chow time was approaching.

Suddenly, a frantic pounding on the door shattered his peace. "Riktor, you've been cooped up in there for days! So what if you're a knight dud? Get a grip, will you?"

"Look, you're about as useful in a fight as a wet noodle. Instead of getting yourself killed, why not become a Nourisher in the city? Baking bun and purifying water pays good money, and it's safe, to say the least." The voice triggered another memory download.

After a long silence, the voice outside softened. "Sigh~, alright, I'll lay off. Mom worried sick about you. Come down for dinner and talk to her, okay?"

"Ok. I got it, S-Shiela, I'll be down in a bit."

"Huh? That's weird, why'd he call me by my name? Did he hit his head or something?" The voice murmured softly, conjuring an image of bewildered scratching gestures as if puzzled by something.

Noticing the voice no longer present by his door, he picked up the weird triangular pyramid-shaped thing from on top of his bed. This little trinket served as a souvenir from his transmigration adventure. It was proof that he wasn't just tripping on some bad mushrooms; he'd actually jumped universes. Probably.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Alright, Mr. Mysterious, how the heck do you work?" he fiddled with the thing. There was still a dried bloodstain on one side, courtesy of his earlier experiments. he'd tried the whole blood recognition thing, hoping for some magical reaction. No dice.

He'd tried everything: kneeling, drawing circles, chanting gibberish, even spitting on the damn thing, and some other stuff he'd rather not mention. Nada.

But he had a hunch. This wasn't just some ordinary paperweight. It had to be special, considering it had somehow dragged him across dimensions.

Just as he was about to head downstairs, his eyes landed on the career plan plastered on the bedroom door.

It was the Riktor's roadmap to success, and curiosity got the better of him. The list was a who's who of badass professions, each with the previous owner's assessment.

First choice: Knight. Big fat X next to it. Apparently, the dude was a weakling.

Second choice: Warlock. Another X. No talent for the dark arts, it seemed.

He kept reading, his lips twitching in amusement. The list went on and on, each option more combat-focused than the last. This kid had some serious delusions of grandeur. Why not just stay home and knit sweaters?

Next to the door was a piece of paper: the aptitude test results from some primary school.

"Arcane affinity? N-not bad, at least it's not a total bust," He muttered to himself.

....

A few months before, Riktor’s brother made one of his infrequent visits to the Falling Hammer.

Riktor borrowed money from his older brother, Zarya. He was the only one willing to lend it since he was already studying at the fanciest academy in the country. It was like all the money went to him, being the golden child of their parents. Riktor gave his black hair a trim until it met his father's idea of "neat," then treated his brother to a meal at his favorite tavern.

His father smelled something fishy right off the bat, but he was too worn out from his trip to grill them then and there, so he just waved the two bros off to go have some fun outside.

Riktor waited until his brother had downed a mug of beer before he broached the topic he wanted to discuss.

“Zarya,” he said in his most respectful voice, “aren’t father doing something important with the jade trade in Elocha right now?”

His brother grunted and eyed him over his second mug. "What's this about then?" He seemingly didn't care that his little bro said his name without any honorifics nor even added "brother" before his name as if he had dealt with him multiple times and didn't bother to reprimand him again.

He really was a very suspicious man. Riktor didn’t feel he’d earned this much caution. Well, it was no good to beat around the bush. His request was likely too much, and it was definitely too strange. He understood well, being born into a family of traders, that there existed no gentle pathway to guide someone into the jaws of a dragon.

“I need a few jades from the magic pavilion. And monster corpses.”

Zarya sputtered on his beer. Then he stared at Riktor incredulously, an actual laugh bubbling out of his mouth.

“few jades from magic pavilion and monster corpses,” he repeated. “Are you still not giving up entirely on being a warlock?”

Riktor winced. This next part was key. “I have a new kind of magic experiment in mind.”

His brother’s mirth ended in an instant. “No. I can’t believe—”

“If it doesn’t work,” Riktor said hastily, “I’ll never spend another moment studying summoning magic. I’ve already decided…this is the last time. The last time ever if it fails. I promise. I’ll swear it in blood before the family council if you want me to.”

His brother tilted his head, eyeing Riktor thoughtfully. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do, Rikt?” he said, when his contemplation had ended. “Do you think you can do a magical ritual without proper manual inscriptions book like a sacred grimoire?”

Riktor hesitated. “It’s complicated, but I have some inscriptions rune ready.”

His brother sighed.

“No really!” said Riktor. “I…well, I’ve realized that i dont have the affinity for dark arts and my magic is useless the way it’s always been done. It’s a complete waste. But I think I can scry a faint fel energy and tell if i can somehow invoke the right spell to do the ritual. Actually, I can tell how noticeably true they are, which is even better than forming a pure arcane.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone scrying for fel energy in their body without even forming contract first with demonic sources,” said his brother in an incredulous voice.

"Also -" his words were cut off midway.

“It works!” said Riktor, unable to keep a little bit of his enthusiasm from leaking into his voice. “I’ve been refining a technique for it over the past three months, and have tried inscriptions rune I got from my teacher and even without grimoire I still noticed the fluctuations getting bigger. That’s why, It’s different from a normal scrying. It’s better to do it using magic rituals which probably makes it harder and more expensive. But the thing is, it really does work!”

“You can tell how the fel energy in you fluctuates using some dark rituals,” his brother repeated.

“Yes, I can,” said Riktor.

“What’s the catch?”

“Pardon?”

"I might not be a mage," he said, "but I know enough to understand it can’t be that simple. Especially not with whatever strange ritual you're thinking about.."

“Oh,” said Riktor. “I…yes. There’s a bit of problem. But it’s just the same problem there always is with the ritual. It can only tell you something’s past or immediate present. I can only tell you how the feelings are right at that very moment.”

“It doesn’t account for future variables you mean,” said his brother. “That’s more than a small problem, Riktor. Your thing could be lucky one minute and unlucky the next. And I don't know what will happens if someone failed at those rituals, have you asked your teacher what the consequences are?”

“They can. But it’s about likelihood. I think the magic inscriptions actually bridges the future variables problem better than other kinds of ritual. Because of its nature. It seems to be working that way so far, at any rate. Only I need to perform a much bigger experiment to prove it."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Uh, it's like only a little experiment to try to prove the fel energy fluctuations reactions to such rituals, without actually performing the summoning itself, so it's all safe.”

His brother raised a hand to halt the torrent of words. "What do you mean by proving only the existence of fel energy? You just stated you’d given up on that, and you said you can perform the summoning ritual without actually conjuring any demon?”

Riktor's eyes widened, and he leaned forward over the table. “Za—I mean, Brother…it's not precisely about performing a literal summoning, as the rune wasn't explicitly intended for such use. That’s why I need to do something with the ritual. I think…I might be going a little mad, but I really, truly believe I might’ve figured out a way to find that small hope or else risk living with the regret of never attempting it.. And all I ask is for your assistance in locating the necessary materials."

Riktor calmed himself as well as he could. He’d been dying to tell someone what he’d done for the past three months, but he knew he had to be careful about it. If he was wrong, the family would give up on him for good. If he was right, then…he wasn’t sure, but he thought it was very important. The kind of important that shouldn’t be shared casually.

He explained to his brother, proceeded to detail, step by step what he had been working on. He elucidated the outcomes and conveyed his thoughts on what mastering this newfound magic could potentially signify for the family

After Riktor finished, his brother reclined and folded his arms. "Well, I'll be," he remarked, "but it's logical, isn't it? It's actually quite straightforward once you grasp the concept of applying magical scrying principles. I believe you might be underestimating the importance of something like this."

“You believe me?” Riktor said, a thrill running through him. Nobody had ever believed in his magic before.

Riktor was thrilled that his request had finally been approved by his older brother, who may not have fully understood the consequences.

Little did he know that his actions would soon lead him to regret his past decisions.