A week passed, and Arlon's mastery of mana stones grew. He could now summon bursts of light, streams of water, and even enhance his strength for short periods.
Yet, every time he activated a stone, he felt the same thrill—a rush of power and possibility. This wasn't something the original Arlon Throndsen had ever delved into, and that gave him an edge.
One day, he sat back in his chair, watching the stone's glow fade after another successful test.
"Not bad for a beginner," he said aloud, a smile tugging at his lips. "Who knows? Maybe I'll be a pro at this before long."
Another day arrive again, The vast oak desk was cluttered with open books, scattered parchment, and an array of quills and inkpots. Arlon leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. Before him lay a large blank sheet of paper, the beginnings of a project that would consume his focus for days: study the world map.
He flipped through another old tome, its yellowed pages filled with fragmented maps and disjointed sketches. Each page offered only a small piece of the world, a tantalizing glimpse of the grander picture that eluded him.
The faint scent of aged parchment lingered in the air as he flipped through the pages of an old atlas. The frustration was beginning to mount.
"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Not a single book in this library has a full map?" Arlon thought as he scanned another page. "It's like they want me to suffer."
What he found instead were fragmented maps, each depicting portions of the world. Some showed mountain ranges, others highlighted key trade routes or isolated kingdoms, but none gave him the whole picture.
"Alright, if they won't give me a map, I'll make one myself," he declared to the empty room. Determination burned in his purple eyes as he grabbed a large sheet of parchment, unrolled it across the desk, and anchored it down with paperweights.
Carefully, he began copying each fragment from the book onto his blank canvas. It was slow, painstaking work. His hand cramped after hours of tracing rivers, mountains, and borders, but he didn't stop. Each completed section brought the larger picture into focus.As Arlon carefully sketched out the pieces.
By the end of the day, he had pieced together a crude but functional map of the known world. He sat back, rubbing his stiff neck as he surveyed his work.
"There," he said, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. "Not bad for someone working with scraps."
The map depicted the three great kingdoms of the world, along with their neighboring territories and uncharted lands. He reached for a red quill and began marking locations he recognized from the original novel.
He paused over one particular region, his brow furrowing.
"The Silver Woods…" he muttered. "Mentioned as a key battleground, but no one in the book ever explored it." He circled the area in red.
One by one, he marked other significant locations—the Forest Cave, the Sunken Isles, and the Forgotten Spire.
"Since the original Arlon Throndsen hasn't traveled much, it's better to be prepared for anything. Advanced knowledge is power," he thought, a determined gleam in his eyes.
Arlon shifted his attention to a different pile of books, each one detailing the unique cultures of the kingdoms in this world. His goal this time was not geography but language. According to the novels and tomes he had studied, each kingdom had its own tongue, and mastering them could make the difference between survival and failure.
The original Arlon Throndsen had no use for such knowledge, relying instead on his status and influence. But Shin—now inhabiting Arlon's body—knew better. Communication was a weapon, one he intended to wield.
He discovered that the three dominant languages of this world were as follows
Velican: The dominant language of the Sun Empire, known for its flowing script and poetic cadence. It was the language of nobility, diplomacy, and formal documentation.It was the most widely used and the one Arlon already knew.
Kyrian: blends the lyrical flow of ancient eastern dialects with a dignified elegance.
Its tone is melodic yet assertive, reflecting the harmony of its diverse heritage. It's often associated with artistry, diplomacy, and the resilience of an island people who value tradition and innovation equally
Mythralis: A rare, ancient language spoken in the secluded kingdom of Mythralis. It was the language of scholars, mages, and those who dealt with the arcane. Its complexity was unmatched, with intricate symbols that could double as spells.
Arlon leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he studied the dense grammar charts and pronunciation guides.
"Alright," he muttered. "Velican I already know,But Kyrian… that's going to take some practice."
As for Mythralis, he felt a strange connection to its symbols. The way the lines flowed into each other reminded him of mana circuits, almost as if the language itself was alive.
He flipped to a page that showed common Kyrian phrases. The script looked like angular and symbolic etched onto the paper, each symbol holding multiple layers of meaning depending on context and tone. He sounded out the words slowly, his voice rough and hesitant.
"Tihren loush—'May the winds guide you.' He paused, furrowing his brow. "That... sounded horrible."
Despite his frustration, he practiced the phrase again and again, his pronunciation improving with each attempt.
Mythralis proved even more challenging. He struggled to maintain the rhythm of the sentences, often tripping over the complex rules.
"Lethrei vara shuun—'The waves carry us forward.'" His tone wavered awkwardly, prompting him to sigh.
Hours passed as he jotted down notes, creating flashcards for key phrases and conjugation rules. He practiced aloud, sometimes laughing at his mistakes but determined to push forward.
"If I'm going to travel or even survive outside the Empire's Capital, I'll need to speak like a local," he thought.
His efforts paid off, little by little. Soon, he could manage basic sentences in Kyrian and Mythralis, though fluency remained a distant goal.
As Arlon closed the final book for the night, he felt a sense of satisfaction. Learning these languages was a daunting task, but it was also a vital step toward understanding the world he now inhabited.
"Knowledge is power," he reminded himself, his resolve firm. "And in this world, I'll need all the power I can get."
The next day, while searching through the study, he stumbled upon an old, unused door. Without thinking, he opened it and peered inside.
As Arlon pushed open the unlocked door, a faint creak echoed through the air. He stepped into a dimly lit room, much smaller than he expected, with only a table and chair in the center.
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The light filtering through the half-closed window barely illuminated the sparse space. Old, tattered curtains swayed gently with the breeze, and the entire room had an air of neglect, but also... something else. A mystery hung thickly in the air.
The room was devoid of bookshelves, paintings, or any décor that a study might usually have. Arlon felt an odd sense of déjà vu, as if he had stepped into a familiar place—something eerily similar to his small work area in his old apartment from his original world. For a brief second, it felt like he had returned home.
He moved closer to the solitary table, spotting an old, worn-out book resting on it. The book's cover was cracked with age, its pages yellowed, adding to the room's ancient and forgotten atmosphere. As Arlon reached for the book, the golden screen—no, the narrator—flashed into view with sudden urgency.
Flutter—
[Arlon left the room—] Arlon ] left the room—] Arlon left ] the room—]
The words blinked repeatedly on the screen, filling it with commanding phrases over and over again like a broken record.
"Whoa!" Arlon exclaimed, stumbling back as the text multiplied before his eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and the book slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
'What the heck?! Are you serious right now?! Arlon thought, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The narrator was glitching out, trying to force him to leave the room as if it couldn't handle the situation.
Just as he bent down to pick up the book again, the screen froze, glitching once more before going completely still. Arlon's breath steadied as he noticed the sudden change. It felt like the narrator was trying to push him away from something... but what?
He dusted off the cover of the book, curiosity outweighing his wariness. Opening the pages, his eyes skimmed through strange, forgotten titles:
"The Ruin Mansion," "Ancient Dragons," "Magic Scrolls," "Record of the Sky," and "Maps of Cursed Treasures."
Each title sparked a flicker of memory in his mind. 'Wait... I've read about these in the novel, but the story never went into detail... The excitement of discovery flooded him. This book was a trove of hidden information, things that should have existed in the plot but were either left unexplained or purposefully omitted.
Flip—Flip
Arlon flipped through the pages with growing intensity, a fire of curiosity burning inside him. Why were these details left out? And more importantly, why are they here? He was about to delve deeper when—
"My Lord," Dimitri's voice cut through the silence, making Arlon jump. Crap!
Arlon hastily closed the book and returned it to its place on the table, his fingers brushing against its worn cover one last time. He turned on his heel and left the room without a backward glance, his mind already racing with plans.
The moment he stepped out, the golden screen flickered faintly, as if acknowledging his departure, before resuming its usual rhythm.
[Arlon left the room casually, answering his butler with calm authority.]
"Yes?" Arlon answered, carefully masking any sign of panic in his voice.
Dimitri stood at the entrance of the hallway, his expression as composed as ever. But there was something about him—something subtle, yet distinct, that Arlon hadn't noticed before. The narrator screen flashed with the text:
[Dimitri is nervous—.]
Arlon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the butler's calm façade. "What is it?"
Dimitri hesitated for a split second before replying, "There is a visitor, my lord. A passing traveler, of sorts."
Shin—no, Arlon—felt a shift in the atmosphere. His instincts told him that this wasn't just any visitor— The first major event was about to unfold —it was someone important. Someone tied to the plot.
It was time to meet the members of Pry, the mysterious group that would shape the path ahead.The tension in his chest tightened, but he smiled and nodded.
"Well then, Dimitri," Arlon said, keeping his voice calm and in control, "let's go meet our guest."
He smirked inwardly. So, it's finally time to play my part in the first arc.
The game begins now…
———
As Arlon and Dimitri walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, their footsteps echoed softly against the stone floors. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Dimitri followed closely behind, his expression as unreadable as ever, though Arlon couldn't help but notice the faint furrow in his brow.
'Why is Dimitri acting so oddly?' Arlon wondered, stealing a glance at the man out of the corner of his eye. 'Does he know something about the Pry? Or the Celestia Clan? Does he know more than the original Arlon ever did?'
They approached the mansion's grand lobby, where a row of guards and maids stood at attention, their uniforms immaculate. Arlon descended the staircase with calm confidence, his gaze fixed on the figures waiting just beyond the line of servants.
The Pry had finally made their move.
The visitors were draped in long, dark robes that obscured their features, the deep hoods casting shadows over their faces. Only one stood apart, his hood pulled back to reveal a sharp, angular face marked by piercing red eyes and dark gray hair that fell in loose strands around his temples.
The man stepped forward, his voice smooth and polished. "Greetings, my Lord. I apologize for disturbing your afternoon." He gestured vaguely toward the doors behind him. "We were passing through when one of our carriage wheels broke—an unfortunate delay on our journey."
Arlon's lips twitched at the corners, suppressing a smirk. A "broken carriage"? How convenient.
'So, this is their excuse to get close to me,' he thought, his mind already dissecting the man's story. 'The Pry have finally decided to show their hand.'
He glanced at Dimitri, catching the faintest twitch of the butler's eyebrow. Dimitri's composure was otherwise flawless, but Arlon could sense the undercurrent of tension in his silence. 'He's angry. Or maybe suspicious. Either way, he knows something.'
["A faint trace of anger simmered beneath Dimitri's composed exterior."]
The golden screen's quiet observation only confirmed Arlon's suspicions.
"Of course, you're welcome to stay for a while," Arlon said, his tone smooth and noble, masking the amusement bubbling under the surface. "Perhaps a meal while your carriage is repaired?" He turned to Dimitri, adding, "Do help our guests with their… predicament."
For a fleeting moment, Dimitri's emerald eyes betrayed a flicker of panic. "Of course, my Lord," he said, his voice tight with barely concealed urgency.
Arlon bit back a laugh. 'Is he… trusting me? Or just resigned to whatever madness I'm about to stir up?'
The Dining Room
The Pry members were seated at one end of the long, ornately decorated dining table, with Arlon at the other. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the flicker of flames reflected in the polished silver platters piled high with glazed meats, delicate pastries, and fresh fruits.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft clinking of silverware and murmured thanks as the Pry members dined. Arlon maintained his calm exterior, his gaze flicking occasionally toward their leader, who seemed far too comfortable.
Finally, the robed man set down his fork and lifted his cup of tea. His red eyes locked onto Arlon's with a gleam of calculated gratitude. "My Lord, your hospitality is truly remarkable. It's rare to meet someone so gracious."
He paused, his tone shifting ever so slightly. "As a token of our appreciation, allow me to offer you something in return."
Arlon leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest. 'Here it comes. The Pry's pitch about Celestia…'
The man's voice took on a reverent quality as he continued, his words measured and deliberate. "We would like to share the story of our god, Celestia, and the legacy of the Soul Guardians."
'Wow, they're really laying it on thick,' Arlon thought, suppressing a yawn. He kept his face impassive, but his mind drifted briefly to the novel's plot. This was exactly where the original Arlon had been drawn into the Pry's schemes—hooked by their tales of ancient gods and forbidden power.
The man gestured with his hands as he spoke, his tone growing more fervent. "These four gods—Sky Dragon, Fire Phoenix, Water Serpent, and Earth Lion—bestowed their powers upon chosen individuals, creating the Soul Guardians. They are the protectors of balance, wielding unimaginable power to shape the fate of the world."
'Guardians, huh? So anyone can inherit these powers? What a convenient recruitment pitch,' Arlon thought wryly.
As the man spoke, Arlon's attention drifted briefly to Dimitri, who was brewing tea at a nearby side table. Dimitri's movements were precise, but his sharp green eyes flicked toward the Pry members now and then, his distaste barely concealed.
Flutter—
["Complete nonsense! My Lord isn't foolish enough to believe this drivel."—Dimitri's ready to pounce if they try anything funny.]
Arlon gave Dimitri a slight nod, silently signaling him to stay calm.
The robed man pressed on, his voice taking on an almost theatrical cadence. "Celestia, one of these great gods, sacrificed herself to protect humanity from an ancient evil. Her powers were passed down through a sacred bloodline, ensuring that her descendants could continue her work."
Dimitri's jaw clenched as he poured tea for the guests, though his face remained impassive. Arlon caught the briefest flash of frustration in his eyes and almost laughed. 'Oh, I know that look. He's seconds away from declaring this all a sham.'
The man leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. "Your noble lineage, my Lord, is entwined with this legacy."
Arlon arched an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical. "Oh? And what does that mean exactly?"
The man's face lit up, his passion renewed. "With your lineage and the Pry's guidance, you could become a guardian of unparalleled strength—one who could rise above the nobles who seek to control you!"
Before Arlon could respond, Dimitri interjected, his voice sharp. "I beg your pardon—"
Arlon raised a hand, cutting him off with a calm but icy look. "Dimitri. Let them finish."
The robed man pressed on, undeterred. "With your power, my Lord, you could surpass even Grand Duke Ciel. You could become one with the Soul Sky Guardian and reshape this world."
Arlon's mind raced, recalling how the original Arlon had been swayed by this very speech. It felt so scripted, so predictable—like a poorly written plotline he already knew by heart.
He leaned forward slightly, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Your proposal…" His tone dripped with sarcasm. "…is absolute bullst**"