Ding–!
The chime sliced through my sleep, yanking me awake with a jolt. My mind clawed its way to clarity, sluggish but sharp beneath the haze. Sunlight poured through the windows, gold streaks slashing across the room. I froze. The curtains should've been drawn—I'd always kept them shut, a habit from nights spent planning moves no one else could see. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up, scanning the space. Sleek furniture, modern curves, luxury dripping from every corner. My stomach tightened. This wasn't my cramped apartment.
Adrenaline spiked, cold and familiar, as I threw off the blanket and lunged to my feet—too fast. My body surged forward, slamming me into the opposite wall with a dull thump. I braced for the ache, the stumble, but nothing came. My limbs hummed with power, responsive in a way I'd never known. Not normal. Not my normal.
I needed answers. A mirror.
I turned toward a metallic door—futuristic, gleaming like something from a sci-fi set. My hand waved in front of it, half-mocking, and it slid open with a hiss. I stiffened, a thread of suspicion tightening in my chest. That tech… it mirrored Saga of the Divine Swordsman. Too close. Too real.
Inside the bathroom, I twisted the sink's faucet, splashing water on my face. The cold bit my skin, grounding me. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe some rich eccentric had snatched me up, dumped me in a high-tech playground. Better that than the truth gnawing at me.
I lifted my gaze to the mirror.
Black hair. Fair skin. Azure eyes.
The face staring back was younger, sharper—too familiar. My breath snagged. I knew those features from illustrations, fan art, endless chapters. Arthur Nightingale.
I stumbled back, gripping the sink, ceramic cold under my fingers. My mind raced, rejecting it. This was fiction. I should've been hunched over my phone, dissecting Saga's latest trainwreck, not—here. But the lavender scent in the air, the weight of my own body—it was real.
I swallowed, forcing calm. One way to be sure.
Back in the room, I spotted a study table by the window. A book sat there, gold letters glinting: [Guide to Mythos Academy]. Next to it, a student ID.
======================================
Name: Arthur Nightingale
Age: 15
Class: 1-A
Rank (1st year): 8/100
Mana core rank: Low Silver
Weapon of choice: Longsword
======================================
The photograph on the ID was a perfect match for my new face.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I couldn't deny it anymore.
I had transmigrated.
I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly weak. My breathing quickened, and my fingers dug into the bedsheets. This was impossible. Why this novel? Out of all the books, games, and stories I had consumed, why did I end up in Saga of the Divine Swordsman?
I knew what was coming. Volume 8. The arc where everything fell apart.
Lucifer Windward, the undisputed protagonist, was supposed to be invincible. He was a monster, a warrior who stood above all others. But that didn't stop the world from dragging him through hell. The story had taken a turn for the worse—his allies perished, his enemies multiplied, and the balance of power crumbled under the weight of unforeseen catastrophes.
And now, I was here. As Arthur. A mere extra.
I sucked in a deep breath, forcing myself to focus.
Okay. Think. I had an advantage most people in this world didn't—I knew the future. That alone could change everything. Arthur had already secured a spot in Class A, meaning he wasn't completely powerless. He was ranked eighth in his year, a position most could only dream of.
I turned my wrist, activating the smartwatch strapped to my arm. The date flashed across the screen:
3rd September 2042.
Tomorrow marked the official start of the Academy term. That meant I had one day to assess my abilities before being thrown into the shark-infested waters of Mythos Academy.
I glanced at my hands, flexing my fingers. My body felt different, honed in a way I had never experienced before. Even without mana reinforcement, my physique alone was far beyond what I was used to.
I needed to test it.
Pushing off the bed, I moved toward the door. Mythos Academy's Class A students had access to a private training center, operational 24/7. That would be the perfect place to get a feel for Arthur's capabilities.
Just as I reached for the door handle, a sharp, piercing pain exploded in my skull.
"Mhmm!" I gasped, gripping my head as agony shot through my nerves.
It felt like someone was driving a hot iron straight through my brain, branding every neuron with fire. I staggered back, knees giving out as I collapsed onto the floor.
Then the memories came.
A flood of images, thoughts, emotions—all foreign yet familiar—poured into my consciousness. I clenched my teeth, body trembling as Arthur Nightingale's life flashed before my eyes in rapid succession.
The rough grip of a wooden practice sword. The relentless drills under his father's watchful gaze. The cold, metallic taste of blood after countless sparring matches. The aching exhaustion of swinging a sword long past the point of collapse.
The laughter of friends—Rowan, the son of a blacksmith, always boasting about his father's latest work. Elias, who had an uncanny ability to predict an opponent's next move. Their voices echoed in my mind, distant yet vivid.
The pride in his father's eyes the first time Arthur had won a duel. The crushing weight of expectation. The elation of his first breakthrough, the terror of his first real battle.
The moment he first set foot in Mythos Academy, heart pounding as he stood among the greatest prodigies of his generation.
A scream tore from my throat as my mind struggled to contain the torrent of information. My body convulsed, wracked by sensations that weren't my own.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain receded, leaving me gasping for breath on the floor.
Sweat dripped down my face, my chest rising and falling in erratic motions. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping my head as if to steady my thoughts.
"What… the hell?" I croaked, voice rough but soft—still playing the part, even alone. Inside, I was ice. Memories slotted into place, a puzzle I could use. Arthur Nightingale, Slatemark commoner. Skilled, not a monster, but good enough to scrape Class A. I'd seen worse hands and played them better.
I hauled myself up, leaning on the bed, hands still shaking. The mask stayed—calm, confused, just a kid figuring things out. "Okay," I muttered, faking a chuckle. "That was intense." But my thoughts were blades, cutting through the fog. This was a chance. Not Lucifer's stage, not yet, but I'd carve my own.
I wouldn't be a footnote. Not here. Not ever.
I knew what was coming. Volume 8. The arc where everything fell apart.
But this time, I won't lose everything.