Chapter One: Trapped in the World of the Novel
Morning crept into the city on hesitant feet, as if time itself were reluctant to begin. The fog split open to let in the first timid rays of sunlight, slipping between buildings that trembled in the chill of dawn. The streets were nearly empty, a faint breeze playing a melody of absence across their quiet surfaces. Hanging streetlights swayed above the wet asphalt, as if searching for a path lost long ago.
Theodore walked alone, dragging his body like an invisible weight. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the echo of his footsteps. From afar, the scent of coffee seeped from a closed café—once familiar, now strangely alien, stinging instead of soothing. He glanced at his watch.
5:30 a.m.
He paused at the entrance of the building. The modern glass façade reflected a face he barely recognized. No one moved inside, yet the silence was heavy, as if the walls whispered a warning. His hand moved automatically, pulling the key from his pocket, while his mind remained adrift.
He opened the door… The sound was soft, yet it struck his ears like a scream.
At the threshold, he took a deep breath. The scent was unfamiliar. Not the smell of a home, but of an inhabited emptiness—the scent of a man he didn't know.
The darkness inside wasn't ordinary. It had depth, density, a life of its own—as if it stared back at him.
Slowly, cautiously, he closed the door behind him. He removed his shoes as though sneaking into forbidden territory. Every morning, he told himself the same lie:
"Just a morning stroll…"
But the truth was, he was fleeing—from a reality he refused to acknowledge.
He let his body collapse onto the bed, drained, without resistance. And there, memory burst open like a wound:
The first day—the moment he opened his eyes inside a body that wasn't his…
In the body of Kayn Nomero, a name that meant nothing in the novel he knew: "Champion of the Ruined World."
A minor character, barely mentioned.
He pressed trembling fingers to his temples, trying to dam the flood of thought.
"Seven days… Seven days wearing skin that isn't mine."
But the body wasn't the only problem. It was the humiliating frailty.
Kayn was ranked F—the lowest tier of strength. Too weak to survive in a world ruled by overwhelming power.
A strange family: a stern father, a kindhearted mother he felt unworthy of, younger siblings who looked at him with silent longing—but his cold expression and lifeless gaze kept them at a distance.
Even his original memories—from his real world—had begun to fade… leaving only a pervasive, irrational fear. Fear of everything. Even the sound of a mouse in the wall made him tremble.
He shut his eyes and saw what he would become if this continued:
A nameless death. A fleeting end no one would notice.
As if someone had erased a sentence from the page—and the reader never realized.
---
After half an hour of spiraling thought, in a moment of quiet despair, a faint idea surfaced—barely a plan, more like a whisper.
In the original novel, there were secrets, treasures, immense powers that emerged later—meant for villainous characters.
Opportunities that never came free: they demanded blood, trials, risk… and perhaps death.
"Me? I can't even raise my voice at home—how would I survive that?"
But now, his choices had collapsed into just two:
1. To continue this faded existence, and die as he lived—silent, unseen.
2. Or to risk everything... even if he owned nothing to begin with.
Even if he did find that power—would it work the way he imagined?
In the corner untouched by morning light, something strange flickered across his face:
A smile born of pure despair—a reflection of the helplessness that consumed him.
---
A gentle knock on the door. A hesitant, soft voice:
"Kayn… breakfast is ready."
He opened his eyes, as if the voice had pulled him from a dream he wasn't ready to leave. Sitting up slowly, he picked up the small mirror from the bedside table and reshaped his features into the same expression Kayn had worn every morning: cold, indifferent, empty.
Kayn… the boy crushed under the weight of his F rank, who had grown to avoid his family and resent the life that showed him no mercy.
He stepped out of the room, his footsteps heavy but measured. The house was alive: the scent of bread, the clatter of dishes, the laughter of his younger brother…
A warm scene—but he felt no warmth.
He took his seat. No one commented. No one asked. Quick glances in his direction, then silence.
His mother said gently:
"Good morning, Kayn."
He merely nodded, without a word.
His father was buried in the newspaper, the older and younger sisters bickered over something, the youngest yawned wildly. And all of them... avoided looking at his cold, lifeless face.
It had always been this way. Present… yet invisible.
He reached for a piece of bread, took a small bite. A delicious flavor, unfamiliar—like tasting a memory that wasn't his.
He sat among them, playing his part as if in a strange play.
A beautiful family… but not his.
A well-known name… but not his truth.
And somewhere d
eep within him, a voice whispered:
"Kayn is gone.
And what remains… is something even more fragile."