The screen didn't disappear.
Elias stared at the floating yellow interface like it was an unfunny prank. It pulsed softly, perfectly still in the air. No wires. No projector.
Then: "Okay," he said flatly. "Sure. Why not."
The last thing he remembered was his desk. His grimy apartment. His dying energy drink and the blinking cursor on a blank page.
Now he was here.
Somewhere. Nowhere.
A cobbled street. Blue sky. Horse carts. Leather boots on stone. The smell of smoke, bread, dirt.
It was wrong. His senses were working overtime—he could hear birds, people arguing three stalls away, the way the wind moved dust along the curb.
But his brain hadn't caught up yet.
"Lord Veyron?"
The voice behind him barely registered at first.
He turned.
A woman with a basket of bread. Brown hair. Eyes wide. Nervous.
"I—I wasn't sure it was you, my lord," she stammered. "Forgive me."
Elias blinked. "What?"
She flushed, lowering her head. "You look different without the armor."
"Different—?" he echoed.
She waited like she expected something. Then, realizing he wasn't going to respond, offered a fast, awkward bow and hurried off.
"Veyron," Elias said under his breath. "She called me—Veyron."
The name clicked in his skull like a bullet casing hitting tile.
He looked down.
Boots. Black. Fancy. A long dark coat, high collar. Rings—three of them, red and gold, heavy on his fingers.
He stepped off the street, barely avoiding a man pushing a cart full of turnips, and stumbled into the nearest alley.
It wasn't much—just a side path between two old buildings, the kind of place a mugging would happen in his own writing.
His breathing picked up.
This was insane.
This was beyond insane.
He needed confirmation—something. Anything that would—
There. A glass pane. Slightly warped, but reflective. A shop window.
Elias walked up to it like a man approaching a grave.
And stared.
The reflection looking back wasn't his.
Not completely.
It had his eyes—but sharper. His cheekbones—but more defined. Hair: long slicked back, dark, neat. Jawline? Chiseled. Too smooth. He looked like someone who always got the last word in arguments and somehow made it hurt.
It was him. But also—
Not.
And that outfit. The coat. The rings. The sigil on the collar.
He knew them.
He designed them.
"Veyron," he whispered.
Chapter 29. A noble. A minor villain. Magical elitist. Briefly antagonizes Lin, gets shown up in a fight, and dies. Memorable enough to leave a mark. Not important enough to last.
He reached out, slowly, pressed his palm to the glass.
The reflection did the same.
"Okay," Elias muttered. "This is just… a vivid dream. That's all. Some kind of hyper-realistic lucid dream brought on by caffeine poisoning and self-loathing."
He pinched his arm. Hard.
Nothing.
No glitch. No fade-to-black.
He did it again.
Still nothing.
His throat tightened. His heart started to thump, hard now.
"No, no, no—"
He slapped his own face. The sound sounded through the alley. Pain bloomed across his cheek.
Still here.
"Oh god," Elias whispered. "This isn't a dream."
He backed away from the window, hit the wall behind him. Slid down to a crouch.
This wasn't fiction anymore.
This was his world.
And somehow, he was stuck in it.
Wearing the skin of a man who was supposed to be dead in the next chapter.
A man the protagonist hated.
He dropped his head into his hands.
"Of all the characters," he muttered, voice shaking. "Why him? Why not Lin? Or a background healer. A baker. A rock."
He stayed there for a while.
Just breathing.
Slow. Shaky. Trying to convince himself this wasn't some insane psychotic break brought on by too many sleepless nights and discount energy drinks.
This was happening.
This was real.
And the panic? It wasn't helping.
Eventually, Elias exhaled through his teeth. Closed his eyes.
"…Screw it," he muttered.
He pushed himself off the wall and stood.
The dizziness was gone.
"Okay," he said out loud. "Fine. I'm in my own story. I'm a side villain. Cool. Great. Awesome."
He dusted off his coat, ignoring how fancy it felt under his fingers, and looked around. No one in the alley. Just the shop window, a few stacked crates, and a rat the size of a small cat staring at him like you good, bro?
Elias ignored it.
He lifted his hand slowly, and like before, the yellow screen shimmered into view.
[CreatorTools]
– Save File (Create or load a world state. Unlimited saves.)
The line glowed faintly. His eyes narrowed.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's figure out what the hell this is."
He reached toward the "Save File" line—hesitating for just a second, half expecting something to explode—and tapped it.
The interface shifted instantly.
[World Save Slots]
• Slot 1 – Save (Empty)
"…What the hell," Elias said softly.
The interface hovered patiently, like it was waiting for him to stop freaking out and make a move.
He tapped Slot 1.
[Confirm New Save?]
— Location: Kingdom of Aerland – Capital City: Blackridge (West Market Alley)
— Character: Veyron Silas Maelor (Merged – Elias Gray)
— Narrative Status: Divergence Active
— Save Name: ____
It let him type.
He hesitated for a second, then keyed in:
"Market Alley"
The moment he hit confirm, a soft chime rang in his head. Not unpleasant. Almost satisfying. The interface pulsed once—like a ripple in the air—then minimized back into its original line:
[Creator Tools]
– Save File (Create or load a world state. Unlimited saves.)
"That's… not ominous at all," he muttered.
Still, a part of him felt better. Comforted, even. Like he'd just hit CTRL+S on reality.
He gave himself a minute. Then stepped back into the open street.
The world was still there. People. Stone buildings. Cloaks and chatter. No one looked twice at him. Just another noble walking the lower ward.
Elias's boots clicked against the stone as he moved further away from the alley, glancing around for a landmark. Something familiar. The bakery, the smithy. A guard tower, maybe.
But mostly he just walked.
"Okay," he said under his breath. "Let's test this."
He reached out, pulled the screen back up.
[Creator Tools]
– Save File
– Load Save
He tapped Load Save.