Jamlick and Robert had been learning a lot about each other. What began as hesitant friendship had grown into something strange but steady—something real. Jamlick followed Robert everywhere these days, especially when he went hunting.
He never tired of watching Robert carnate. Every time, he stood in awe, eyes wide, breath held. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen it happen—how Robert closed his eyes, murmured something ancient-sounding, and drew power from the world itself—it always left him speechless. Robert, the boy from another world, wielded abilities that, here, belonged only in folklore and bedtime stories.
But even legends had limits.
The animals in this world were weaker, less attuned to Gana, or maybe just never meant to hold it. Robert found himself seeking more and more to sustain his power, to practice, to feel alive. The thrill of carnation never left him—but the weight of it was starting to press on his chest.
So, he adapted.
With the fallout from his old group of friends—if you could even call them that—Robert had started exploring new ways to pass time. Surprisingly, he realized he was naturally gifted at nearly every sport offered at the academy. Of course, it helped that he could control his strength with surgical precision. He could jump higher, run faster, catch quicker—but never too much. Never enough to raise suspicion.
And yet, it was the quiet of the library that called to him the most.
There, in the silence between bookshelves, he found peace. In the worn pages and the distant smell of paper and dust, he could think—really think. About this life. His old life. His family. His name.
Sometimes he let his thoughts wander where they wanted to go:
Today, he visited the library like he always did. Nothing about the sunlit afternoon suggested anything unusual. He traced his fingers along the spines of ancient books, most untouched in years, and let them guide him without much purpose. Just wandering.
Until something stopped him.
A title. Faded, barely legible. Tucked between two history volumes.
"Robert Rous, the Unranked Hero."
He blinked.
The book was slim, bound in leather cracked at the edges. Dust puffed softly into the air as he pulled it out, heart beginning to race.
No one in this world was supposed to know his name—not this name. Not Robert Rous.
He opened the book slowly. The ink was smudged in places, but the first line was unmistakable:
> "He came from beyond the Veil, born of Gana and flame. A hero with no title, for none could measure him. The Unranked. The Watcher. The one who walked between pages."
Robert's fingers trembled slightly. He read further.
> "He would be mistaken. Feared. Loved. He would walk the story and change its spine. He would not be one of them. He would be one of us, and yet… not."
The words were old. Poetic. Vague. But unmistakably about him. Somehow, this world remembered him—or maybe dreamed him before he arrived.
He closed the book softly and looked around. The library felt colder now, as if the shadows had grown curious.
So it's true, he thought. I'm not just in the story. I am the story.
But that meant something else, something heavier.
If this world had written him before he came… could it write him out?
He stared down at the cover. "The Unranked Hero." A title without a place. A legend with no anchor.
Robert pressed the book to his chest, letting the silence settle around him again.
What does the world think of me?
Maybe the world wasn't just thinking. Maybe it was waiting.