Those memories he had as the archmage were as clear as yesterday.
The summons came not in an envelope, but on a flickering screen—a sterile email from the university's Disciplinary Committee. The subject line read "URGENT: Academic Misconduct Hearing." Nixon read it three times, the blue light of his phone washing out the pallor of his face. His studio apartment, a shoebox with a hot plate and a window that looked onto a brick wall, felt smaller than ever, the air thick with the stale coffee and desperation that had been his companions for the last seventy-two hours.
He stood up, the cheap wooden chair scraping against the linoleum floor. His reflection in the dark monitor was a stranger—gaunt, with dark circles etched under his eyes, hair a chaotic mess. This wasn't the face of a villain. It wasn't even the face of a grand archmage. It was the face of a cornered animal.
"Frame job," he muttered to the empty room, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He knew the script. He'd always known. Plagiarism. The evidence was perfect, too perfect. A file, timestamped from his university account, containing a research paper identical to one submitted by a wealthy, well-connected classmate named Damien.
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Characters:
Nixon: The main protagonist. A former college student, now an outcast following a frame-up and expulsion. He has awakened the memories and magical abilities of his past life as the Grand Archmage, a legendary figure once celebrated as a hero. This past self deliberately orchestrated his own villainous reputation to save his companions from a foreseen demise, a truth known only to him. He is burdened by this knowledge and the weight of being universally despised for an act of ultimate sacrifice.
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The alley smelled of stale beer and damp concrete, a perfume Nixon was becoming intimately familiar with. He sat on a discarded crate, the wood groaning under his slight weight, and watched the neon signs of the city bleed across the wet pavement. His stomach growled, a hollow, insistent ache. Three days. Three days since the campus security had escorted him from the dorm, a box of meager belongings in his arms and a reputation in tatters. The forged documents, the "leaked" exam answers—it had been a masterful frame. Clean, efficient, and utterly devastating.
He closed his eyes, the city's hum fading slightly. Behind the lids, another world flickered. The scent of pine and ancient stone, the crackle of a vast fireplace, and the echo of a laugh that was now a ghost. He saw their faces, not as they were in the memories, but as they were at the end. The Sword Saint's scream, raw with betrayal. The Beastwoman's tear-filled, hate-filled eyes. The Elven Princess's cold, royal contempt. And the Hero... the Hero's disappointed gaze had been the worst.
A familiar pressure built behind his eyes, a throb that was neither headache nor memory, but something else entirely. He pressed the heels of his palms into his sockets, gritting his teeth. *Not now. Just... not now.*
But it came anyway. A shimmering, translucent overlay on the back of his eyelids, like looking at the world through a sheet of mica. Faint, glowing lines of text, coalescing from nothing. They weren't words in any language he knew, yet he understood them as clearly as his own thoughts.
─ [SYSTEM] Awakening Protocol: Stable
─ [STATUS] Soul Resonance: 34%
─ [CLASS] Grand Archmage (Unverified)
─ [SKILL] Script Sight (Active)
─ [SKILL] Mana Weaving (Latent)
He opened his eyes with a gasp, the ghostly text vanishing. The alley was just an alley again, grimy and forgotten. But it wasn't. Not anymore. He could feel it now, a low thrum in the air, a vibration in the concrete beneath his worn-out sneakers. A network of energy, invisible and potent, woven through the very fabric of this new world. Mana. It was thinner here, more subtle than the wild, roaring rivers of his past life, but it was there.
The hunger bit again, sharper this time. He needed money. Food. A place to sleep that wasn't a damp alley. His old life was gone. His future, as a student, as anything normal, was a pyre of ash. All he had left were the skills of a dead man and the burden of a secret that had cost him everything once before.
He stood up, his joints aching. A figure shuffled past the alley's entrance, a drunk businessman fumbling with a tie, muttering into a phone. Nixon's eyes, now seeing a world beyond the visible, watched him. The businessman wasn't just a person; he was a nexus of light, a dim, flickering aura of energy that swirled around him. And in the air around him, faint, almost imperceptible, were the glowing threads of a script.
[SCENE]: Drunk executive. Path intersects with oncoming vehicle. Outcome: Severe injury.
Nixon's breath hitched. The letters hung in the air for a moment, glowing with a terrible certainty, before fading. The businessman, oblivious, staggered towards the street.
The old Nixon, the college student, would have shouted a warning. Maybe tried to pull him back. The Archmage... the Archmage saw levers and pressures. He saw cause and effect, not as a chain, but as a tapestry he could edit.
A small, sharp smile touched Nixon's lips, a bitter, unfamiliar expression. Survival. That was the only script that mattered now. He looked at the discarded beer bottle by his feet, its brown glass catching the city lights. He reached down, his fingers wrapping around the cold, smooth neck. He had a new expulsion to orchestrate. A life to save, whether it wanted saving or not. And this time, he wouldn't need to be the villain to do it. Probably.
He flicked his wrist. The bottle sailed through the air in a perfect arc and shattered with a loud crash against the brick wall just ahead of the businessman.
The man jolted violently, swearing as he stumbled back a step, away from the street and the silent, approaching car whose headlights he had yet to notice. "What the hell was that?" he slurred, looking around wildly.
Nixon slipped deeper into the alley's shadows, the smile gone. He had saved a life with a piece of trash and a flick of the wrist. It was a start. A small, dark beginning in this cruel, new world.