CHAP
Osmanthus City was smaller than he imagined.
The walls were sturdy but worn. The stone carried stains from decades of weather and neglect. Guards at the gate checked caravans lazily, more interested in coins than contraband.
Definitely bigger than his village.
Adrian stepped through with the merchant convoy and did not look back.
One hundred and fifty miles.
He had made it.
The streets inside were crowded but not grand. Vendors shouted over each other. Blacksmiths hammered in narrow workshops. Children darted through traffic like stray cats.
It was chaotic.
But it wasn't suffocating.
That mattered.
⸻
He did not rush.
For three days, he observed.
Guard patrol patterns.
Market density.
Noble presence frequency.
Which streets were safe for common trade.
He rented a narrow corner near the southern market from an elderly spice seller.
"You're young," she said bluntly.
"Yes."
"You cause trouble, I throw you out."
"Understood."
He restarted chocolate production in small batches.
Not flashy.
Not loud.
He kept preparation private.
Sold only limited pieces.
Accepted only 3 bronze coin for a single piece.
When a merchant tasted it and blinked in surprise, Adrian simply said, "New sweet."
When a guard laughed and asked for the recipe, he smiled faintly.
"Family secret."
He did not expand quickly.
He did not boast.
In a third-rate city, attention was danger.
He kept his head low.
Saved coins.
Watched people.
Learned patterns.
⸻
It was time to verify the timeline.
He could have avoided it.
He could have focused purely on awakening.
But curiosity—and strategy—pulled at him.
If the protagonist was here, the timeline can be confirmed and the world's setting can also be confirmed.
He waited a full week before going.
He just asked around.
He did not mention names.
He simply walked toward the eastern district where the orphanage stood.
⸻
Praya Orphanage
It was larger than the one he stayed.
Stone walls.
Wooden yard.
Training posts in the dirt.
Adrian remained across the street, blending with pedestrians.
Children sparred awkwardly.
Some argued.
Some sat alone.
Then he saw a kid.
Pale skin.
Thin.
Almost fragile.
Dark Blonde hair falling loosely over his forehead.
Beside him stood a small girl—delicate, quiet, holding a worn cloth bundle. She stayed close to him without speaking.
An older boy shoved the thin child.
Hard.
The thin boy staggered but did not fall.
He did not curse.
Did not shout.
He adjusted his footing.
When the shove came again—
He moved.
Not with brute strength.
With timing.
The aggressor stumbled and hit the dirt.
Murmurs rippled through the yard.
The thin boy stepped back immediately, positioning himself subtly between the aggressor and the girl.
Protective.
Instinctive.
Adrian's chest tightened.
He recognized that frame.
The early descriptions had been clear.
Before fame.
Before power.
Before politics.
This was him.
The Protagonist .
The Holy one.
The future hero.
The Great Saint.
The Messiah.
Right now—
Just a hungry orphan protecting his little gilfriend who was sick.
No aura.
No destiny glow.
No divine soundtrack.
Just stubborn resilience.
Adrian watched in silence.
Memories rose uninvited.
The hardworking commoner who defied nobles.
The one who crushed corrupt officials publicly.
The one who became a symbol of defiance.
And then—
The reveal.
His Hidden identity.
A lost noble heir.
At first, readers tolerated it.
It didn't erase his struggle.
But slowly—
He aligned himself with them.
Stood beside them.
Spoke for them.
Justified their structure.
Claimed he had eliminated the "real evil nobles"—
Conveniently those who were political rivals to his newly acknowledged house.
Promised reform.
Delivered stability.
Preserved hierarchy.
By the second half of the novel, he wasn't fighting the system.
He was managing it.
And when he finally ascended—
When he became a god—
He left the "pure"empire intact .
Untouched at its core.
Adrian remembered reading those final chapters in silence.
The comment sections had been brutal.
Some called it convenience.
Some called it Garbage.
Others called it betrayal.
The disappointment had been visceral.
Not because he became powerful.
Not because he gained OP cheats one after another.
Not because of his identity.
Not because of his innocence.
Not because of his stupid IQ.
But because he stopped standing where he began.
He became the one,who he hated.
Adrian looked at the boy again.
Right now—
He was just weak.
Just hungry,weak and pathetic kid.
Just protective of a frail girl beside him.
There was no noble aura.
No divine destiny.
Just a kid trying to survive.
For a moment—
Adrian felt something almost like sympathy.
Then it faded.
He wasn't here to admire him.
And he certainly wasn't here to follow him.
"I won't put my future in your hands." He murmured under his breath.
This city had opportunities.
Awakening chance.
Hidden cracks in the structure.
The protagonist would carve his own path.
Adrian would carve his separately.
Because he had read the ending.
And he had no intention of becoming someone who rose from the dirt only to defend the palace.
The thin boy in the yard glanced up suddenly.
For a split second, their eyes met across the street.
No recognition.
No destiny spark.
Just two children measuring the world.
Adrian looked away first.
He turned and walked back towards the market.
Back toward chocolate.
Back towards earning coins.
Back toward practical survival.
Behind him—
The future hero resumed training in the dirt.
Ahead of him—
Osmanthus City hummed with opportunity and danger.
Adrian adjusted the pouch at his waist.
Awakening first.
Power second.
Alignment later.
He would not repeat someone else's mistake.