Altair.
The name lingered in his mind like smoke that refused to clear.
Yukio let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the sword leaning near his bed. The same sword from the dream. The weapon the masked man had used to counter magic.
He hadn't asked to become someone else. But he was someone else now, like it or not. He couldn't keep walking around with two feet in two worlds forever.
"Yukio…" he said aloud, testing the word.
It felt thin in his mouth now. Like paper. The kind of name that made sense in a school hallway, not on a battlefield. Not in a world where swords clashed and races bled.
He glanced at the sword again, then slowly nodded to himself.
"Altair," he said.
"I'll keep it," he muttered. "Not just for cover, or convenience. If I've taken this life, I'll carry the name too."
It wasn't just a choice—it was a promise. To face whatever came next not as someone lost and scared, but as someone who would claim the identity and rewrite its meaning. He didn't know what Altair had done, or what he'd stood for, but from now on…
He would decide that.
With one last glance at the slowly brightening sky, he stood up and stretched his arms, bones cracking slightly.
"Alright," he mumbled, cracking a faint smile. "Time to see what a guy named Altair is supposed to do around here."
Altair tied the leather pouch at his waist and slung his cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood low enough to cast a shadow over his silver hair and bright eyes. He gave one last glance around the room—clean and simple. Just like he had gotten it.
.
.
The streets of the town were mostly still. A few groggy townsfolk moved about, sweeping storefronts or preparing carts. Lamps still flickered dimly, burning out the last of the night's watch.
He considered his options. Getting a decent meal was tricky.
He could probably pick up some fruit at a street vendor—nothing fancy, just enough to hold him over—but a real meal? That would mean walking into a restaurant or diner. And even if he covered up, the moment someone noticed his ears or got a glimpse of his eyes…
Altair sighed. 'Probably not worth the trouble.'
This world wasn't exactly subtle about its feelings toward half-elves. Judging from the stares he got yesterday, ordering a meal in a public place might end with more than just food on his plate—maybe a side of insults or a request to leave, no matter how much coin he flashed.
He glanced toward the small tavern space at the inn. Empty tables. A couple mercenaries from upstairs nursed drinks at the corner.
Altair approached the barkeep, an older woman with half-tied hair.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
She barely looked up. "Not till the sun's over the church bell. Two hours, give or take."
He nodded. Fair enough. It was still absurdly early.
With nothing else for it, he decided to go the safe route.
A few vendors had begun to open their stalls in the market street. He slipped quietly among them, picking up a few pieces of fruit. They looked like apples, but with a slightly more citrus-red color and a firm weight to them. The vendor called them "appas", and sold three for 6 copper.
Altair handed over the coin and bit into one as he walked away. Sweet, a little tart, but good. Better than instant noodles and lukewarm vending machine coffee, anyway.
'Still early,' he thought, taking another bite. 'Might as well do something useful.'
There was one place he'd been wanting to check out since yesterday.
A library.
He didn't know much about this world. Not really. Magic, geography, politics, religion—even the rules of how people lived and worked.
'Time to study up,' he thought.
He tossed the last bite of the appa into his mouth, wiped his hands, and began scanning the street signs, listening to gossip, and asking the occasional neutral-looking passerby.
Next stop: books. Hopefully without getting kicked out for existing.
.
.
Altair finally spotted a modest building near the City's central district. Its stone archway marked by a weathered wooden sign:
Lugunica's Public Repository of Records and Lore.
'Fancy way to say 'library',' Altair thought, tugging his hood a little lower as he stepped inside.
The interior was quiet, with that familiar scent of old parchment and polished wood. Shelves lined the walls, and though it was no grand palace of knowledge, there were enough books to keep someone busy for months—maybe years.
At the front desk sat a woman in her late thirties, hair in a tight bun and expression already locked into "suspicious librarian" mode the moment she saw him.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Altair stepped up and kept his voice even. "I'd like to read. I heard this is a public library."
She eyed his cloak, his face—likely caught a flicker of silver hair or the angle of his eyes.
"It is," she said, her voice neutral. "One silver coin buys a full day's access. No books leave the building."
He nodded and slid the coin across the counter. She took it without another word, but not before subtly glancing to the side.
Altair's gaze followed hers—toward a slouched guard sitting near the wall, half-dozing in a wooden chair. The man blinked at the librarian's look, gave Altair a once-over, and then… shrugged.
The librarian's expression shifted from tension to a sort of exhausted I don't give a fuck resignation. Probably just wanted to get through her early shift without drama.
Altair noticed the whole thing, but didn't comment. 'Suspicion turning into apathy. I'll take it.'
He moved quietly toward the nearest shelves, where thick books sat waiting.
'Alright,' he thought, eyes scanning the spines. 'Let's find out what kind of world I've landed in.'
With a few books in hand—titles ranging from "Basic Geography of Lugunica" to "The natures of magic"—he took a seat by a high window where morning light poured in.
For now, it was just him, a table full of knowledge, and the peaceful silence of unread history.
.
.
Altair leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of pale sunlight pouring through the high-arched windows of the library. His eyes were dry from scanning dozens of pages, but he'd found what he needed—for now.
"Lugunica... easternmost kingdom, five major cities around the royal capital, magic capital of the continent. Divine Dragon, vanished royal bloodline, six schools of magic, spirit arts, and the Flow Method," he murmured inwardly, mentally ticking the items off. "That's the basics. I can worry about the dead kings and divine stones later."
Most of the heavy political history and religious nuance he skimmed past with trained efficiency, just enough to grasp how this world operated. He wasn't trying to be a scholar—he needed utility, survival knowledge.
'Afterall a wise man once said: "20% of knowledge gives 80% of the results."'
He gently closed the worn tome in front of him, stretching his arms with a quiet sigh. About two hours, he guessed.
The woman at the desk hadn't spared him a second glance since he entered—and the guard by the wall was still slumped in his chair like a man with better dreams than responsibilities.
'Still the best silver I've spent,' he thought.
His stomach gave a quiet, low rumble. That, more than any internal monologue, marked the end of his study session.
He rose silently from his seat, carefully pushing in the chair. His cloak rustled slightly as he turned, already thinking of warm food and the smell of woodsmoke again.
"Time to see if they're finally serving breakfast," he thought. "If not, I'll buy more appas and eat like a squirrel again."
With that, Altair exited the library, cloak brushing the worn stone floor, blending back into the early morning crowd as a quiet shadow.
.
.
The sun had fully broken over the rooftops by the time Altair made it back to the inn. Pale gold light filtered through the front windows, catching on the dust in the air and lending the place a sleepy warmth.
A few early risers were already seated at the long, rough wooden tables in the dining area, murmuring over their meals. The scent of baked bread, root stew, and some kind of grilled meat clung to the air.
Seeing him enter, The looks and murmurs came. But he ignored them as usual.
A woman set down a plate in front of him without a word. Bread, sliced thick and still warm. Some kind of stew, thin but fragrant. A single grilled peppered sausage. And water.
He nodded in quiet thanks, and she gave a small, barely noticeable nod back before walking away.
The food wasn't anything close to amazing—but it was far from bad.
The looks never really stopped, but no one said anything either. There was a wall now.
'I guess the looks are a lot more tolerable now, Huh?' He thought. 'Maybe I've just gotten used to them or something..'
.
.
'
By the time the capital was fully awake and the streets buzzed with the clatter of carts and gossiping vendors, Altair had slipped through into the trees.
The forest near the capital wasn't much, more like a polite suggestion of wilderness than actual danger. Still, it was quiet, empty, and most importantly: private. If anyone saw him swinging a sword at thin air and muttering to himself, he'd rather it be a confused squirrel than a suspicious knight.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath as he came to a small clearing. "Let's see if I can figure out what anime logic my body runs on."
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
His body felt like it was at peak human ability or something, It was something to be felt. He could perform any task with no effort. Like even if not tiring atleast stuff is supposed to wind you a little right? Buts this body felt like it was a machine working on diesel and made up of metal.
It was probably that "Flow Method" thing he'd skimmed about in the library. Channeling mana through your body to enhance strength, speed, reflexes—it wasn't magic per se, more like flexing your inner anime protagonist.
He drew his sword, the same black dragon-hilted blade from his dream. Holding it felt natural, like muscle memory not his own.
"Okay. Try to activate it. Flow. Channel. Uh… circulate chakra or some shonen anime thing."
He took a stance and focused inward, trying to imagine mana moving through his limbs like water through pipes.
Nothing.
He frowned and tried again.
Still nothing.
"…Cool. Guess I'm still garbage."
Annoyed, he swung the sword in a wide arc. A tree branch several feet away snapped with a loud crack. Birds exploded from the canopy above.
"I'm doing it unconsciously, aren't I?" He looked down at his own hand like it had personally betrayed him. "Figures."
The mana wasn't the issue—his body was already using it, probably reacting to threats without him even noticing. The problem was control. Like holding a game controller with half the buttons taped over.
So, he trained.
Swing after swing, breath after breath, he moved—sometimes slow, sometimes fast. He tried different forms, focused on his breathing, his posture, his thoughts. Sometimes it felt like something clicked, but more often it just didn't.
Hours passed. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat, his arms ached, and his legs felt like someone else's. He collapsed on a patch of grass with a grunt.
"God, I'm so glad I skipped P.E. in school," he wheezed, staring up at the swaying branches. "That was the right call. Fuck cardio."
Still, he had to admit… he made a little progress. A flicker of power now responded when he focused on it. Not enough to dash up trees or punch through walls, but enough to know he could get there.
Eventually.
He sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Alright. Flow Method, day one. Result: I suck—but slightly less than before."
With that, he sheathed his sword, pulled his cloak over his head, and started walking back toward the city. His stomach grumbled like a dying monster.
"Note to self: next time, bring food. Training arcs are way less fun when you're the one starving."