Sylas Vermund had a problem. Well—technically, I had a problem.
Several, actually.
First, I was in a different body. A different world. And judging by the fact that I recognized both names and architecture from a book I barely finished, I was now living inside a fictional universe I barely skimmed back in college. You know, the kind of fantasy novel your roommate forces on you and you promise to read "later," then forget because real life has deadlines and tax season.
Except now I was stuck in it.
And not as the chosen hero. Not as the witty sidekick. Not even the misunderstood antihero with trauma and abs.
No. I got Sylas Vermund. Academy menace. Cannon fodder. Chapter filler. Future corpse.
My current best guess was that I'd landed in Aetherhold: Bonds of Flame—a fairly niche fantasy series with magic, kingdoms, drama, and way too many characters with names like Caelvarion and Liraelwyn. I only remembered bits. Something about a magical academy. A hero with a tragic backstory. A bunch of powerful relics hidden across the continent.
And somewhere in that mess: Sylas Vermund.
He didn't have a tragic arc. He had a tragic personality.
In the original story, he was a rich-kid type from a noble house, known for dueling students for stupid reasons—like bumping into him in the hallway or borrowing his quill without asking. Classic magical school jerk.
He was the guy readers forgot by chapter twenty.
Which meant I was very, very killable.
I flopped back onto the tiny bed, the springs letting out a pitiful groan that mirrored my soul. "Great. Just freaking fantastic."
I had no idea how I'd died. One second I was on a bus, the next I was staring into the golden eyes of a fictional prick.
My only consolation? No one had noticed I was a body-snatching impostor yet. No angry gods, no plot police, no "you're not supposed to be here!" ghost whispering in my ear.
So far.
I needed a plan.
And by plan, I meant not dying in the duel that was apparently scheduled for tomorrow.
Let's go over the facts:
I had a duel.
I had no idea what magic I could use.
I was not in shape for a fight.
My opponent was likely someone with actual training.
I didn't even know how to hold a wand.
I sat up again and scanned the room. There was a desk piled with dusty scrolls and a thick grimoire with "Basic Spellcasting - Year One" stamped across the cover in gold. It looked like it had been used mostly to level wobbly furniture.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's pretend I'm a student again. Only this time, the finals can actually kill me."
I opened the book. The first page hit me with a diagram of magical channels in the body, followed by a paragraph in Old Rynish, which I could somehow read. Bonus: the language center of Sylas' brain still worked.
Good. At least I didn't have to relearn the alphabet.
Bad: this textbook was boring as hell.
I skimmed a few spells—basic levitation, light manipulation, a minor combustion spell that had a fifty percent chance of blowing up your own eyebrows. Nothing helpful for surviving a duel against someone who likely trained since infancy.
I needed something subtle. Something dirty. Preferably something that didn't require perfect control or years of magical conditioning.
And I needed to find out who I was dueling.
The hallway outside my room was made of stone, cool and slightly damp. Flickering mana-lanterns floated near the ceiling, humming faintly. Everything here was textbook fantasy academy aesthetic: gothic arches, oil paintings of dead wizards, and hallways that probably led to secret libraries or torture dungeons.
I passed a few students on the way. Most of them gave me a wide berth. One girl outright turned and walked the other direction when she saw me. A guy muttered "asshole" under his breath.
"Ah," I said aloud. "Socially popular. Excellent."
I spotted a familiar face—someone I vaguely remembered from the story. Dren Hallow. Short, wiry, and always had an apple. In the book, he was Sylas' lackey. Not because he liked him, but because Sylas once hexed his pants off in front of a crowd and blackmailed him with the memory.
"Dren!" I called out.
He flinched. "What?"
I gave him a friendly, not-at-all-threatening smile. "Quick question: Who am I dueling tomorrow?"
He blinked. "You're serious?"
"No, I'm auditioning for court jester. Yes, I'm serious."
"…Elric Vale," he muttered. "Same year. Fire affinity. Top ten in our class."
Cool. So I was fighting an anime protagonist.
I sighed. "And why, exactly, did I challenge him?"
"You called his elemental focus a 'fancy pocket lighter' in front of Professor Linden. Then you dumped a bucket of pond water on his head. And insulted his dead cat.
I blinked. "That's… weirdly specific."
Dren looked nervous. "You said—and I quote—'That hairball had it coming for existing.'"
I closed my eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sylas."
"Are… are you feeling alright?"
"Peachy. Just, uh, reflecting on my life choices. Thanks, Dren."
He left in a hurry. I couldn't blame him.
So: Elric Vale. Fire mage. Probably out for blood. And I had less than twenty-four hours to not die.
I needed a way out.
Could I fake an injury? Not unless I was willing to break something real.
Could I plead magical insanity? Would probably end in a lobotomy.
Could I… frame Elric?
No. Too risky. Too early.
That left me with one viable option:
Cheat. Like hell.
Back in my room, I tore through Sylas' belongings. Found a wand (silver inlay, cracked handle), a box of prank potions labeled "FOR LEGAL MISCHIEF ONLY", and something called Blinkdust, which looked suspiciously like glitter laced with caffeine.
Eventually, I found a vial of knockroot extract. Mild paralytic. Used in potion classes. Safe in small doses.
My brain clicked.
If I could lace something Elric consumed before the duel… he'd show up sluggish. Maybe disoriented. That would buy me enough time to surrender in a way that didn't look like cowardice, just unfortunate timing.
Problem: I had no idea how to get close to him.
Solution: bribery.
The next morning, I was in the dining hall, sipping the weakest tea known to man and watching Elric Vale from across the room like a stalker with a plan.
He sat with a small group—typical fire-type aura. Confident posture, short dark hair, silver cuffs with glowing runes. His elemental focus was a gauntlet with embedded crystals. Looked expensive.
I waited until he got up for a refill.
Then I made my move.
"Hey," I said to a passing student. "Three silver if you spill this into Elric's cup when he's not looking."
The girl blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm a bastard," I said with a smile. "But a paying one."
She stared at the vial. "Is this… safe?"
"Absolutely. Harmless. Probably. Just do it before the duel."
When the duel started, I was nervous.
Not because I thought I'd die. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because I wasn't sure the plan would work.
The dueling arena was a circular courtyard behind the west wing. Students formed a half-circle around us. Some sat on stone benches. Others whispered excitedly.
Elric stood across from me, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a fistfight.
I gave him a weak smile. "Hey, about your cat—"
"I will end you."
So much for apologies.
The match began.
He raised his gauntlet.
Flames sparked.
And then… he stumbled.
Just for a second.
But enough.
I dropped my wand.
"Oh no!" I gasped. "I'm unarmed!"
Then I dramatically tripped over my own foot and fell out of bounds.
Gasps. Laughter. Some boos.
The judge blinked. "Mr. Vermund… disqualified. Victory to Elric Vale."
I groaned on the ground. "My pride… it's shattered…"
A few students actually laughed.
More importantly, I was alive.
Later that night, I stared at the ceiling of my dusty room.
I'd survived.
Barely. Pathetically. But survived.
And for now, that was enough.
Because in this world, I didn't need to be a hero.
I just needed to be cleverer than the script.