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Elias Gray leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and took a swig from a half-finished energy drink that tasted like melted batteries.
The hum of his old PC was the only sound in the room, aside from the faint tapping of rain outside his apartment window.
"…Whatever," he muttered, minimizing the stats. "Doesn't matter."
He cracked his knuckles and scrolled down to the blank page.
Elias wasn't writing for fame—not anymore. That phase had passed around Chapter 10, when his peak performance was seven views and one guy accusing him of ripping off both Eastern fantasy and Western magic clichés.
Now? He just wanted to finish the damn thing.
Not for readers. Not for validation.
Just for himself.
The world he'd created had started as a random idea, a "what if" that got out of hand. Now it was a full-on epic stuck in the weirdest genre fusion imaginable.
A planet split by the Voidsea—an impossible ocean of broken space and swirling storms. On one side: Arcanis, the land of spellcraft and Empires, knights and bloodlines, magical universities and cursed relics.
On the other: Tianxuan, ruled by ancient sects and spirit beasts, where cultivators lived for millennia chasing immortality and enlightenment.
Two continents. Two power systems. Two completely incompatible ways of life.
No one crossed the Voidsea. Ever. That was the point.
Except, apparently… his main character.
Lin—half-mage, half-cultivator. A walking contradiction. Born in the slums of Arcanis with a rare affinity for mana, but secretly carrying a spirit root inherited from a mother he never knew—a cultivator from Tianxuan who had "mysteriously disappeared" before he could speak.
It sounded cool when Elias came up with it.
Lin was supposed to be the bridge between two worlds. A pariah in both, a hero in neither. Gritty. Relentless. The guy who clawed his way up not because of fate, but because he had no other choice.
Symbolic. Tragic. Epic.
But now?
Now it was starting to bother him.
Elias leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes narrowing at the screen.
The Voidsea wasn't just dangerous—it was a cosmic firewall. Warped time. Shattered physics. In Chapter 6, he'd written that even light couldn't cross it properly. Entire fleets had vanished. Archmages had tried. Cultivation sects had thrown divine treasures into the sea just to watch
them dissolve into nothing.
So how the hell had a cultivator from Tianxuan ended up in Arcanis, gotten close enough to a mortal, fallen in love, had a kid, and then disappeared… all before Chapter One even started?
"I literally made that impossible," Elias muttered, rubbing his temple.
Maybe he'd planned to handwave it later.
Some secret Voidsea technique. A rift in space. An ancient prophecy. A forgotten god.
All the classic plot-saver moves. Maybe around Chapter 52 or so.
But he was only at Chapter 38.
Lin had just survived his second near-death encounter with a knight commander from Arcanis.
The rain outside had picked up—tapping harder now. Rhythmic. Soothing.
Elias sat there, fingers still on the keyboard, not typing. Just thinking.
There were still pieces missing. Not just in the plot—but in the feel of it.
Something… or rather, someone, was missing.
Two someones, actually.
He stared at the outline pinned to the edge of the screen. Names crossed out. Arcs half-finished. The next part of Lin's journey was supposed to
take him deeper into the capital. Court politics, magical bloodlines, corrupted nobles.
That was where she could appear. Mysterious. Regal. Dangerous. Golden light and sharp words. A believer in order, in divinity. The kind of woman who saw weakness as something to be corrected.
Not now. But soon. Maybe Chapter 41. Maybe later.
And the other one?
Someone softer. Still strong, but hidden beneath layers of quiet grace. A calm storm. Someone bound by duty—but still willing to bend the rules for someone who made her feel again.
She didn't need a flashy entrance. No wings. No declarations. Just one moment: high cliffs, wind in her robes.
Yeah.
He didn't even need to name them yet. Just shadows on the horizon. Let the readers fill in the gaps. He'd make them his. Different enough.
Legally distinct.
The soul would be the same.
He allowed himself a small smirk, then returned to the keyboard.
Chapter 39 was waiting.
His eyes burned. Maybe from the screen. Maybe from too much thinking. He blinked a few times, rubbed at his face, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh that felt like it came from his soul.
"Twenty-minute nap," he muttered to no one. "Then I'll figure out how to fix the Voidsea mess."
He let his eyes close. Just for a bit. The soft patter of rain was almost hypnotic now.
Silence.
Then—
A breeze.
Cold. Crisp. Real.
His brow furrowed.
Was the window open?
But no—the windows were always locked shut, sealed tight to keep the city noise out.
So why did it feel like wind was brushing across his face?
His eyelids twitched. The chair under him didn't feel like a chair anymore. It felt… like nothing.
His eyes snapped open.
No desk.
No screen.
No buzzing PC fan or blinking taskbar.
Just… sky.
Pale morning sunlight poured through gaps between wooden rooftops. Cobblestone streets stretched out beneath his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a blacksmith's hammer rang out in rhythmic clinks. People bustled past him—cloaks swaying, boots echoing, carts creaking over stone.
Elias turned slowly, mouth slightly open.
"What the hell?" Elias muttered, but his voice came out wrong—too deep, too polished. His hand flew to his throat, fingers long and pale, not his.
A silver ring glinted, etched with a snake coiled around a star. He froze, heart thumping. His clothes were off—a heavy black cloak, silver trim fraying, over a tunic and belt, not his ratty hoodie.
His body felt too tall, too light, like he'd been stretched. A strange buzz hummed in his chest, like a trapped bug. He patted himself, half-expecting to wake up, but the cobblestone stayed solid, the air sharp.
This wasn't his apartment. Wasn't even a city he knew. The knight in armor with a sword that shimmered—it looked like a medieval fair on steroids. His mind spun, grasping for something familiar. He'd seen this before, not in life but… on his screen. Chapter 38.
Blackridge, the capital of Arcanis, his fantasy world. The market, the smells, the knight—it matched his notes. But that was nuts.
He was in his story? How?
A kid lugging apples stared, eyes wide. Elias stumbled toward a stall, catching his face in a polished bronze tray. Sharp jaw, dark hair, gray eyes like a brewing storm—not his round face, not his glasses. He knew that look. Veyron Maelor, a noble he'd half-written, a minor character with a failing house. Elias's stomach dropped.
"No way," he whispered, touching the stranger's face—his face. His last memory flashed: the PC, Chapter 38, Lin's fight, the Voidsea mess. Had he… crossed it? Was that even possible?
Ping. A chime rang in his head. A yellow screen popped up, floating like a video game menu.
[Creator Tools]
glowed at the top, white text on a plain background.
Below:
Save File (Create or load a world state. Unlimited saves.)
Elias blinked, nearly laughing. "My cheat code?" he muttered. The kid with the apples yelped, dropping one, and bolted. Elias swiped the screen away, pulse racing. This was Arcanis, no question—his world, his rules. And he was Veyron, Lord of House Maelor, stuck in a role he'd barely
fleshed out.
He moved, boots scuffing, trying to blend in. That chest buzz—magic, he figured—flared when a knight passed, her sword glowing faintly. Veyron was a weak mage, he remembered, barely above street hustlers who lit lanterns. His dad, Gavren Maelor, had been the big shot, keeping House Maelor afloat.
Then he died six months ago, some magic drought, leaving Veyron, the only heir, with a lordship he couldn't handle. Elias groaned. "I screwed this guy over."
An alley offered cover, the blacksmith's clang fading. He summoned [Creator Tools], the screen flickering.
Besides "Save File," it showed "View Stats." He tapped it.
Name: Veyron Maelor(Elias)
Age: 19
Title: Lord of House Maelor, Author
Rank: 2nd Grade - low - Mage - ( Shadow - Affinity)
Elias stared at the yellow [Creator Tools] screen, the words Veyron Maelor (Elias) glaring back at him. Lord of House Maelor, Author. 2nd Grade - Mage. Shadow - Affinity.
He let out a choked laugh. "Author? That's my flex?"
The screen knew he was Elias—the idiot who wrote this world. Now, he was stuck as Veyron, a 19-year-old lord with magic so weak it was a joke. Shadow affinity sounded cool, but 2nd Grade? That meant he was pretty much average.
Every grade had three stages—low, medium, high—and he was stuck at low. It suggested he was weak compared to his peers, who could easily reach high if they had decent talent.
He swiped the screen away, letting the alley's shadows swallow its glow. The sounds of Blackridge's market roared beyond the narrow gap—merchants shouting, carts rattling, and a kid's spark spell fizzling out like a dud firecracker.
Elias slipped out, his boots scraping against the cobblestone as he weaved through the crowd.
His brain kicked into gear, pulling up Chapter 10. House Maelor's manor was located in the northern part of the city, past the market, up a hill where the noble houses sat in quiet, proud rows. He'd written it as a typical noble estate—stone walls, serpent banners, a solid gate. Nothing flashy. Just a house that said, We're still kicking.
If he could find the street with the three-spout fountain, he'd be set.
His cloak brushed a stall, and a merchant grumbled, "Mind yourself, lordling!" The guy eyed the serpent ring on Elias's finger—House Maelor's crest. Elias nodded, keeping his head down.
He was a lord, but a nobody, outclassed by 19-year-olds slinging high-grade spells.
He followed his notes: left at the stall with the glowing fish, right where the blacksmith's smoke curled. The three-spout fountain appeared, water glinting like it was alive.
The manor was up the hill, past a row of neat houses. He stuck to the crowd's edges, avoiding anyone in armor.
The hill climbed steep, houses getting fancier.
Maelor's manor came into view—solid stone walls, serpent banners fluttering, a heavy iron gate that looked sturdy, if a bit worn. He'd written it as a standard noble house, not some crumbling ruin, just a place that hadn't seen a remodel in years.
The gate creaked as he slipped through, heart racing. The courtyard was tidy: clipped grass, a small fountain trickling, a couple of servants hauling firewood.
One, an older guy with a scar, glanced up. "Lord Veyron? You're back." Elias nodded, playing it cool. "Yeah, just… home."
Inside, the manor was plain but lived-in—polished wood floors, faded rugs, portraits of stern Maelors on the walls.
A servant in a crisp tunic approached, bowing. "My lord, shall I fetch anything?" Elias waved him off. "Nah, I'm good, just… heading up." The guy nodded, stepping back respectfully. Elias's boots echoed as he climbed the stairs, aiming for Veyron's room.
Chapter 7 had it pegged: lord's quarters, second door on the right, overlooking the courtyard. Plain, practical, not a king's suite.
The oak door, carved with a faint snake, creaked as he pushed it open.
A narrow bed with dark sheets, a desk cluttered with papers, shelves packed with books, and a window showing the courtyard's fountain.
A mirror reflected Veyron's face—sharp jaw, dark hair, gray eyes. Not his. Elias muttered, "Still weird," and dropped onto the bed.
Ping.
The yellow [Creator Tools] screen popped up,
hovering like a game menu.