The screen had vanished.
The room was quiet again—too quiet.
Noel stood alone, unmoving in the center of that ornate, absurdly polished chamber. The air still carried that faint buzz of mana—something warm, something powerful—but his attention was locked on one question:
When the hell is this?
He paced slowly, eyes scanning the walls, the décor, the clothes laid neatly over a nearby chair. Everything felt pristine, untouched. Not yet shaped by conflict or blood.
'If I'm in Echoes of a Shattered World, then I need to figure out where the story is right now,' he thought, running a hand through his messy blond hair.
The beginning of the novel… it all started with Marcus entering the Imperial Academy.
That was the point where everything spiraled into war, betrayal, forbidden magic, political chaos.
So if he was here now—alive, in this body, not forgotten or killed off already—
'Then this must be just before it all begins.'
He turned toward the window.
Outside, early sunlight bathed the distant courtyard. Carriages were being prepped. Maids moved like shadows across the garden paths. A few young nobles sparred on the lawn with wooden blades—eager, reckless.
It was too peaceful. Like the world didn't know it was already burning.
'So this is my window,' Noel thought. 'A sliver of time before everything goes to hell.'
He exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
'And I'm Noel Thorne. A nobody. A footnote.'
He remembered rereading the novel and never seeing this name. No mentions. No titles. Not even a death scene.
Which meant...
Either the old Noel did nothing worth remembering—or he wasn't meant to be remembered.
Now that was different.
Now, he was here.
He glanced down at his hand. It was steady. Strong.
'Well then. Let's see how much noise a ghost can make.'
Knock knock.
Two gentle taps against the polished oak door cut through the stillness.
Noel turned, slowly.
'Right. Rich people don't barge in. They announce themselves politely before stabbing you with words.'
"Come in," he said, voice steady.
The door creaked open, revealing a girl no older than fifteen, dressed in a modest black-and-white maid uniform. She had chestnut hair pulled into a neat braid and soft, downcast brown eyes that flicked up to meet his only for a second before lowering again.
"Young master," she said with a small curtsy, "your family is waiting in the dining hall."
Noel studied her for a beat longer than necessary.
She looked nervous—habitually so. Not afraid of him, necessarily… more like she was used to walking on eggshells in this house.
'Toxic noble household. Classic.'
"Thanks," he said simply.
The girl blinked. Maybe surprised he didn't bark an order or ignore her.
He walked past her and out into the hallway. As he did, he caught his reflection in a decorative mirror mounted along the corridor wall.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Composed.
But inside?
He was planning, calculating, filing everything away.
'Stay quiet. Stay clean. No attention.'
He couldn't afford to start changing the story before he understood what variables were already in motion.
So for now?
He'd play the role he'd been handed.
Noel Thorne, the invisible extra.
And like any good ghost, he'd haunt the background… until it was time to strike.
The doors to the dining hall were tall, twin arcs of lacquered mahogany engraved with the Thorne crest—three stars over a flame-wreathed sword. The butler stationed outside gave a short bow and opened them without a word.
Noel stepped inside.
The dining hall was lavish, almost absurdly so. A grand chandelier floated above the long table, its crystals infused with mana, glowing softly with shifting hues of gold and ivory. Tall arched windows bathed the room in morning light, filtered through stained glass depicting battles and bloodlines long dead.
The table stretched across nearly the entire length of the room, set with silver cutlery, porcelain dishes, and neatly folded crimson napkins at every seat.
Already seated were six people.
They all turned to look at him.
No one smiled.
At the head of the table satLord Albrecht Thorne, the patriarch. Mid-fifties, with sharp gray eyes and hair swept back like steel. His back was straight, his expression carved from stone.
Next to him, on either side, sat his wives:
Lady Mirelle Thorne—first wife. Regal, raven-haired, with frost in her eyes and posture stiff enough to splinter wood.
Lady Serina Thorne—second wife. Warm smile, honey-blonde curls, but her green eyes watched like a cat waiting for something to move.
Across from each other, seated like chess pieces, were the siblings:
Kael Thorne (21) – the heir apparent. Tall, charming, with that practiced noble smirk that never reached his eyes. His hair was jet black, his features sharp—pure Mirelle.
Damon Thorne (18) – all muscle and ego, his shirt stretched slightly across his chest. He looked like he solved problems by punching them until someone else cleaned up.
Livia Thorne (19) – composed, delicate in appearance, her voice as smooth as her insults. She had Lady Serina's poise and none of her softness.
Sylvette Thorne (17) – quiet, watching everything with amused eyes. She never spoke unless it was to cut.
Noel approached the last open seat at the far end.
No one said a word.
He pulled it out. Sat. Lifted his napkin with slow precision. Began to eat.
The food was exquisite—flaky bread, spiced eggs, fresh fruit, and something like roasted venison.
But the silence was sharper than the knives.
Finally, Albrecht spoke, his voice low and firm.
"You've recently turned sixteen. Tomorrow, you leave for the academy."
Noel didn't look up. He sliced through a piece of meat with perfect calm.
"I see."
"You'll depart at dawn. Carriage will be waiting. No escort. Just the driver."
That was all.
No encouragement. No farewell speech. Just logistics.
Noel set down his knife, calmly.
"Understood."
He could feel their eyes on him. Judging. Probing.
But he didn't meet their stares.
He didn't need to.
He wasn't here to win them over.
He was here to learn.
To wait.
And when the time came—
To burn the script.
The sound of silver against porcelain echoed in the silence.
Noel kept eating with the slow, meticulous efficiency of someone who knew better than to rush in enemy territory. He didn't speak. Didn't meet their eyes.
But that didn't save him.
"Still alive, little brother?" Damon's voice cut through the calm like a thrown rock. "I heard your mana core nearly collapsed last year. Maybe you'll die halfway through the entrance ceremony."
Kael chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his glass with practiced grace.
"Don't be so cruel, Damon," he said, smiling without warmth. "Maybe he'll survive long enough to trip over his robes and embarrass House Thorne in front of the faculty. That would be a nice way to be remembered."
Livia let out a musical, utterly fake laugh.
Sylvette just watched, her lips twitching like she wanted to enjoy the show.
Noel didn't respond right away.
He chewed. Swallowed.
Wiped his mouth neatly.
Then, finally, he looked up.
His green eyes locked on Kael's with all the cold, surgical indifference of a man observing a minor stain on a white wall.
"Wow," Noel said, voice calm. "That's impressive."
Kael blinked.
Noel tilted his head, expression neutral.
"Two whole sentences, and you still managed to sound like a pompous fuckwit. You practicing that in the mirror, or does it just come naturally?"
Silence.
Damon choked on his drink. Livia froze mid-bite.
Even Sylvette's eyebrows rose slightly.
Lady Mirelle's eyes narrowed.
Lady Serina set down her fork a little harder than necessary.
Noel didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Just reached for his cup and sipped, like he hadn't just insulted the heir in front of everyone.
Kael recovered first.
His jaw tensed, but his smile returned—colder this time. "I see the academy might teach you some manners.
Assuming you survive long enough to learn them."
Noel stared at him for a second longer, then looked back to his plate.
"Let me know when yours kick in. I'll send flowers."
Lady Mirelle inhaled sharply. "Albrecht—"
Lord Thorne didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"Enough," he said, tone absolute. "There will be order at this table."
Everyone went still.
That was the end of it.
No more laughter. No more taunts.
Just the quiet sound of a knife carving through meat—and a subtle shift in the air.
Because this wasn't the same Noel.
And they all felt it.
The silence didn't last.
Not here.
Not in this house.
Lady Serina dabbed her lips with a napkin, her voice light as air.
"My lord, with Kael entering full noble duties soon, it may be time to formalize succession. The estate cannot remain without a clear heir."
Kael didn't look up, but the slight raise of his chin said enough.
Lady Mirelle, seated beside him, added smoothly, "He has proven himself capable. His mana aptitude is second only to yours, and his service in House diplomacy has been exemplary."
Noel didn't look at either of them.
He sliced through a piece of fruit with surgical precision.
But his ears were wide open.
Lord Albrecht set down his utensils and folded his hands.
Kael straightened. So did Damon. Livia sat a bit taller.
Sylvette stilled.
Even Noel paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
Everyone at the table knew: this was a moment.
But the patriarch's eyes didn't go to Kael.
They didn't go to Damon.
They didn't go to any of his children.
He simply said, "The matter of succession… can wait."
Kael's jaw visibly clenched.
Lady Mirelle blinked, once, slowly.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "As you say, my lord."
Lady Serina smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes.
Noel resumed eating, unbothered.
But inside?
His thoughts were spinning like blades.
'So the old man's not ready to name a successor. And it pisses them off.'
Kael wanted the seat. Damon probably didn't care about ruling—he just wanted to win. The sisters were wild cards.
And Albrecht?
He was waiting for something.
Or someone.
'Could be an external factor. Or maybe he's watching us all dance before he cuts the music.'
Either way—
Noel was listening.
As the last of the dishes were cleared away, Lord Albrecht leaned back in his chair. The staff moved silently around them, clearing plates with the efficiency of ghosts.
Then the patriarch spoke.
"Noel."
The table quieted again.
Seven heads turned.
Noel looked up, cool and unreadable. "Yes, Father?"
"You depart for the Imperial Academy tomorrow."
A pause.
"You'll leave at dawn. A carriage is arranged. You'll travel alone—with only the driver. Nothing more."
It wasn't phrased as a request. Or a discussion.
It was an order.
Noel inclined his head slightly.
"Understood."
No surprise in his voice. No protest.
Kael smirked. Livia gave him a sidelong glance, as if gauging whether he'd flinch.
He didn't.
Lady Mirelle cleared her throat, clearly unimpressed. "You'll send him off unescorted? It's a three-day journey."
Lady Serina added gently, "At the very least, a proper escort would—"
Lord Albrecht raised one hand.
Both women fell silent.
"He will go alone."
His gaze didn't waver from Noel.
There was no malice in it. No warmth either.
Just calculation.
Like he was placing a chess piece on the board and waiting to see what it would do.
Noel met his eyes without blinking.
'Message received.'
He wasn't being protected.
He was being tested.
Noel stepped back into his room as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The warm glow through the curtains bathed the space in amber, making the stone walls seem almost gentle.
He shut the door behind him and exhaled slowly.
Silence.
Finally.
He moved toward the tall armoire in the corner—dark wood, engraved edges, and golden handles. Inside, perfectly folded travel clothes waited: high-collared uniforms, dark cloaks with silver trim, fine gloves and belts. Every piece screamed nobility.
He packed quickly, methodically. No ceremony. Just precision.
And then, he saw it.
Half-buried behind the cloaks, tucked beneath a spare coat, was a long case wrapped in black leather.
He froze.
Reaching for it, he pulled the latch and opened the lid.
Inside, resting on deep red velvet, was a sword.
Its sheath was dark as ink, trimmed in silver. The hilt was plain, almost spartan—wrapped in worn black leather—but there was a faint symbol etched into the guard: the crest of House Thorne.
Noel lifted it from the case.
It was heavier than he expected.
But balanced.
Natural.
His fingers curled around the grip like they'd done it a hundred times.
And as he drew it halfway, the steel gleamed with a dull, pale shimmer. Not quite enchanted… but not ordinary either.
Then—
A soft chime.
A screen flickered to life in the corner of his vision.
[Item Identified]
Name: Revenant Fang
Type: Weapon – Sword
Grade: ??? (Unawakened)
Description: A relic blade passed down in the Thorne bloodline. Once meant for a forgotten son. Resonates with souls bound to second chances.
Status: Bound to User – Noel Thorne
Trait: Increases clarity under life-threatening pressure. Evolves under extreme stress.
Noel stared at the screen.
Then at the sword.
Then back again.
'Second chances, huh.'
He slid the blade fully back into its sheath and hooked it to his belt.
No flair. No bravado.
Just a quiet acceptance.
"I'll take that," he muttered.
Then he closed the armoire, set his bag by the door, and walked to the bed.
Tomorrow, he would leave.
Tomorrow, he'd step into the academy like a shadow.
Not to be seen.
Not yet.
But the world wouldn't forget his name forever.
Somewhere deeper in the manor, past the grand staircase and behind a door rarely opened, a quiet chamber glowed with the warm flicker of mana-lit sconces.
Lady Mirelle and Lady Serina sat across from one another at a round obsidian table. Their expressions were composed, their postures perfect, but the tension between them was sharp as a drawn blade.
Two porcelain teacups steamed between them—untouched.
Mirelle was the first to speak.
"That little brat dares to insult Kael in front of everyone."
Her voice was ice wrapped in silk.
Serina exhaled through her nose, slow and silent.
"He's always been nothing. A background shadow. But now he wants to grow teeth?"
Mirelle's lip curled.
"He's still weak. Barely able to form a proper mana shield. I doubt he'll last a week at the academy."
Serina sipped her tea without drinking. "Weak, yes. But disrespect must not be allowed to bloom."
Mirelle nodded once, crisp and deliberate. "Letting this slide sends the wrong message. Especially to the staff. To the children. They must know who stands above."
She reached into her cloak and drew out a black envelope—no crest, no markings, just a faint metallic scent on the wax.
She slid it across the table.
Serina opened it and scanned the contents. Her eyes didn't change.
Timing. Route. Number of attackers. Contingency plans.
At the bottom, a name written in blood-red ink:
The Hollow Blades.
Ghosts in the form of men. Trained to kill, paid to disappear.
"Tomorrow," Mirelle said. "Second valley. No guards. No witnesses."
Serina folded the paper and tucked it into her sleeve.
"No loose ends?"
"They're professionals. Noel will be a name we never have to hear again."
Serina finally lifted her tea. "Good. Let our sons rise without dead weight dragging them down."
Mirelle's eyes gleamed.
"For the good of the house."
They drank in silence—two noblewomen, cloaked in grace and poison.