The sun had dipped low by the time Daelen stumbled away from the bloodstained clearing, his breath ragged and body aching. His limbs trembled, not just from exhaustion, but from the storm that still churned inside him. His hand was slick with blood—some his own, most not. The weight of the sword in his grip felt different now. Not heavier, not lighter.
Just... real.
Too real.
Each step forward felt like walking through fog, but not the kind made of mist and dew—this fog was in his head, thick with memories that didn't belong and questions that clawed at his sanity.
Earth.
He didn't know why, but the name came to him like a half-remembered dream. A world of endless lights, towering structures of steel and glass, and the deafening hum of machines. People buried in screens, stories told in images and text.
And among those stories... a particular one stood out.
A tale.
Of a world just like this one.
Of sects, swords, fate, and chosen heroes. Of protagonists fated to rise and nobodies doomed to fall. A fictional tale he once read.
And now, he was in it.
"What the hell is going on..." he muttered, dragging himself toward a shallow stream, collapsing at its edge.
He dipped his hands into the cold water, splashing it against his face. The sting jolted him back to the moment. He stared at his reflection, half-expecting to see someone else.
But no. It was him.
Daelen.
The nobody.
The supposed extra meant to die early and be forgotten.
And yet... he was still alive.
Barely.
He winced as pain flared in his side. The cut was deeper than he thought, but it had clotted enough to not kill him outright. His clothes were in tatters, dirt and blood making it hard to tell where flesh ended and fabric began. He needed rest. He needed answers.
But what he wanted?
He wanted to break the script.
He wasn't going to play along. If this world ran on the logic of stories, then he'd bend that logic until it snapped. The protagonist wasn't here yet—Daelen knew that much. The real hero of this world was still walking the path of destiny somewhere far away.
And Daelen?
He was going to walk a different road.
One that would lead him straight into the heart of the story's bones.
Straight into the parts the author never wrote.
Into the gaps where extras became monsters... or legends.
A branch cracked nearby.
Daelen immediately gripped his sword, body screaming in protest as he rose to one knee. Eyes sharp. Breathing shallow.
From behind the trees, a girl emerged.
Young, maybe his age, cloaked in brown leathers and carrying a bow at her side. Her short silver hair was tousled, and her eyes—a piercing green—locked onto him with a mix of suspicion and intrigue.
"You're injured," she said flatly.
Daelen didn't lower his weapon. "I'm fine. Keep walking."
"Doesn't look fine," she replied, stepping closer.
He narrowed his eyes. "You a scavenger? Here to pick my corpse clean once I bleed out?"
The girl raised a brow. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have talked."
Daelen gritted his teeth. His body was still screaming for rest, but his mind—sharpened by the shock of awakening memories—wasn't letting him drop his guard.
"Name's Sylen," she said after a pause. "You fought the mercs back there, didn't you?"
He didn't answer.
"I watched from the trees. You killed Varg."
Daelen blinked. Varg?
"The scarred bastard," she added, reading his confusion. "He's been terrorizing the roads for months. I was tracking him."
Daelen finally lowered his sword a little. "Then you're not with them."
"No. But I'm guessing you're not with anyone, either."
He looked away. "Does it matter?"
"To me? Not much. But a guy like you bleeding out in the woods might matter to the next beast that smells blood."
She tossed a small vial his way. It rolled near his feet.
"Healing draught. Not a strong one, but it'll close that gash."
Daelen hesitated, then picked it up.
She could've poisoned it.
But if she wanted him dead, she'd already have looted his corpse.
He downed it. The liquid burned like fire going down, but warmth spread through his side as the pain dulled to a throb.
"Why help me?" he asked, eyeing her.
Syen shrugged. "Everyone's got a story. Yours just looked... different."
Daelen leaned back against the tree, head tilted up toward the dimming sky.
Different. Yeah... that's one word for it.
He didn't know what tomorrow held. Hell, he didn't know if he'd survive the night. But he wasn't some filler name in a list anymore.
He had remembered.
And now, he would forge something new.
Even if the world tried to erase him.
Even if fate itself demanded he fall.
"Let's see how far I can go before the script tries to correct itself."
And with that thought, Daelen finally closed his eyes.
But not in surrender.
In defiance.