The square of light stabilized in front of me.
Not flickering.
Not glitching.
Just… existing.
Like it had always been there, waiting for me to acknowledge it.
I forced myself to look at it directly.
===== Status =====
Name: Dreyden Stella
Race: Human
Strength: 12
Toughness: 15
Agility: 13
Intelligence: 20
Perception: 10
Magic Energy: 30
===== Skills =====
Celestial Library {0}
—A vast library that stores skill books.
Stored Volumes:
• Eyes of Truth {1}
• None
• None
• None
The air left my lungs all at once.
It was there.
Celestial Library.
I didn't realize how tightly my chest had been wound until it finally loosened.
I laughed.
It wasn't happy.
It wasn't relieved.
It was something rougher.
"Thank God…"
The words sounded thin in the big room.
And that should have scared me.
The fact that I wasn't spiraling. That I wasn't screaming. That I wasn't clawing at the walls begging to wake up.
But my mind had already pivoted.
Already shifted from why to what now.
Maybe panic was useless when your brain understood the math.
If this world was real, then survival was immediate.
Emotion could come later.
Maybe.
Celestial Library.
My loophole.
Level 0. Unregistered. Weak-looking on paper. Dangerous in context.
A skill that didn't overpower enemies.
A skill that accumulated them.
Copy under restriction.
Observe the magical flow while the skill is activated.
Store up to four.
Use two at once.
Delete permanently if removed.
Balanced.
Dangerous.
Designed by someone who was tired of losing systems built around favoritism.
"Skills."
Another window appeared, smaller, cleaner.
The interface felt strangely intuitive. I didn't need instructions. My body knew what to do.
That was… unsettling.
Everything was exactly how I wrote it.
Every flaw.
Every limitation.
It was comforting.
And terrifying.
Because it meant the logic was intact.
And if the logic was intact—
Then so were the consequences.
There was just one problem.
I wasn't actually Dreyden.
Not fully.
My brain had his memories in fragments, but my instincts? My training?
Zero.
Magic Energy: 30.
Which meant I wasn't weak.
But if I couldn't control it?
Then I was just a child holding a loaded gun without knowing where the trigger was.
And tomorrow — 10 AM — I had to walk into the Triangle.
Not a high school.
Not some elite prep academy.
The Triangle.
Where failure was educational.
Where humiliation was a teaching method.
Where promising students became weapons or disappeared.
I looked at the time.
Under twelve hours.
"…Fantastic."
The laptop sat on the desk like it had been waiting for me.
I hesitated before opening it.
If it required a password, I didn't know it.
If it didn't—
Then this world was serious about giving me a head start.
I pressed the power button.
It booted directly to desktop.
No lock.
No delay.
I stared at it for a long second.
"Okay," I whispered to nobody. "Fine. I get it."
I dove in.
Forums.
Archived combat footage.
Beginner mana manipulation tutorials.
Amateur breakdowns of circulation patterns.
Threads titled things like:
"WHY YOU KEEP BLOWING YOUR NERVES OUT — READ THIS."
Not reassuring.
Apparently magic accidents were common.
Improper circulation could rupture internal channels.
Overloading limbs could cause temporary paralysis.
If you interrupted a skill activation mid-flow, backlash could fracture bone.
I took notes like I was cramming for a final exam.
Because I was.
Except the final involved fire.
And rocks.
And people significantly stronger than me.
I practiced sensing energy first.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow.
Feeling for warmth beneath the skin.
It took thirty minutes before I felt it consciously.
A low hum.
Subtle.
Like blood moving through a vein too close to the surface.
Guiding it was harder.
Circulating it from core to limb felt like trying to squeeze water through a straw without crushing it.
I messed up twice.
The second time my forearm went completely numb for a full minute.
Good.
Pain meant feedback.
Feedback meant I was alive.
I didn't sleep.
Not really.
I lay down around 4 AM.
Closed my eyes.
Opened them again at 7:32.
By 9:45, the metallic hallway outside the exam arena was packed.
Hundreds of students.
Different heights.
Different uniforms.
Different levels of confidence.
The air was tight.
Sterile metal walls boxed us in, amplifying every whisper.
Everyone tried to look composed.
No one was.
Shoulders stiff.
Jaws clenched.
Small bursts of magic flickering accidentally around nervous hands.
The massive door at the end of the hall groaned as it slid open.
Silence slammed into us.
A short, muscular man stepped through.
Boots heavy.
Energy controlled.
Fifith.
Level 7 Stone Aura.
An instructor known for breaking arrogance in under five minutes.
"Welcome," he said evenly, "to the first step of the next two years of your lives."
Then—
BOOOM.
The temperature spiked violently.
Heat rolled through the hallway like someone had opened a furnace.
Students flinched.
Someone cursed.
The wave carried the smell of scorched air.
That wasn't Fifith.
That was—
I pushed forward through the crowd.
And saw him.
Red hair.
Confident stance.
Fire coiling around his fists.
Octave Weyle.
One of the rejected submissions.
Just like me.
My stomach dropped.
He was never approved.
So why was he here?
"Pathetic," Fifith said calmly. "I know your family. And I know your face."
Octave smirked. "Then you know you're weaker than me."
Oh no.
That confidence.
That kind of arrogance got people killed in this world.
Fifith cracked his knuckles.
"Unfortunately," he said, "this isn't the Triangle yet."
He slammed his hand into the metallic floor.
CREEEAAAK.
Steel split like paper.
Dirt beneath was exposed.
Energy erupted around him — yellow and dense.
Stones lifted from the broken ground, orbiting him before hardening into layered armor.
Stone Aura.
Clean.
Efficient.
Terrifying.
Octave attacked first.
Fire punches rapid and aggressive.
They hit.
They sparked.
They did almost nothing.
The armor absorbed it.
Redirected it.
Sweat beaded on Octave's face.
He realized it too.
He inhaled sharply.
Blue flames ignited around his fists.
Hotter.
Sharper.
Less stable.
"Flaming Fist!"
"Rocky Fist!"
The collision detonated the hallway.
Shockwave.
Heat.
Smoke.
When the air cleared—
Octave was embedded halfway into the far wall.
Unconscious.
Fifith's armor was cracked.
But intact.
He hadn't even looked worried.
Students trembled.
Some cried quietly.
Others stared at the ground.
Lesson delivered.
I barely registered the message that appeared in my vision.
[Congratulations! You acquired the skill book: Fire Fists.]
I felt it slide into the Library.
A new volume placed onto a shelf.
Warm.
Unsteady.
Powerful.
Even in chaos, I was growing.
But that wasn't the part that unsettled me.
Because across the hallway—
Standing near the silver-haired girl—
Were two people I definitely did not submit.
Dhara Silvius.
Riven Dogers.
Approved characters.
Canon.
Chosen by the author.
They were here.
Existing.
Breathing.
And Octave was here too.
Rejected.
Like me.
Meaning this world wasn't filtering submissions anymore.
It wasn't following ranking.
It wasn't following approval.
It was pulling everything in.
Approved.
Rejected.
Side characters.
Placeholders.
Filling in logic where it wanted.
Which meant—
Anything I thought was safe from canon could happen.
Anything I assumed wouldn't trigger might.
This wasn't a story with rails.
This was a living adaptation.
And I didn't know if that made my odds better—
Or far, far worse.