The wind carried no sound. No birdsong. No weeping.
Just the eerie hush of finality, the kind of silence that settles after the world forgets to breathe.
Charred remnants of timber framed the streets like skeletal fingers clawing toward the gray sky. Ash danced weightlessly in the stagnant air, curling and falling in slow spirals, as if time itself had become hesitant to move forward. Blood had long dried into the cracks of cobblestone paths, now overrun by creeping vines and soot, as if nature itself sought to obscure the horror etched into every surface.
No soul remained to cry for the dead.
And in one corner of the desolated town—beneath the sagging roof of a house so old it sighed with each passing breeze—lay a boy.
Pale.
Still.
Lifeless.
The home, once painted in gentle amber and smells of herbal tea, now stood hollow. Its walls were caked with grime and cracked from neglect. Shattered porcelain littered the floor, as if whatever chaos had claimed the town had spared nothing—not even silence.
And at its heart, he lay.
White hair matted with dust and blood. Crimson eyes, half-lidded, glassy and staring into nothing. His body was limp, colorless, as if drained of all vitality. There was no rise and fall in his chest. No twitch of a finger. No warmth left in his limbs.
He was dead.
And then—he breathed.
Violently, suddenly, as if drowning in a dream and bursting from beneath the surface.
"K-Khhh...!" A rasping cough tore from his throat, sharp and wet. He turned on his side, retching dryly, drawing in greedy gulps of air that burned his lungs like fire.
His hands clutched at the wooden floor, fingers trembling as his eyes widened, vision unfocused—fear, confusion, pain, all flooding in a single, suffocating wave.
He gasped again. Not for air, but for understanding.
"W-Where...?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "What... is this...?"
As the pounding in his skull began to fade, as his thoughts struggled through the mire of fragmented memories, something settled into place.
Memories not his own.
Flashes of a town… a name whispered among villagers… a boy with no remarkable skill or strength…
"Liam…" he breathed.
But not the Liam he was—a failed actor, a man who had spent his life chasing roles he could never hold, always background, never lead.
No, this was Liam Ashborn.
A forgotten boy from a tutorial town in a gacha game called Elyndra—a character he had once dismissed. A name that should have vanished in the prologue. A soul destined for obscurity.
And yet…
"I'm him now," he murmured, stunned. "This town… it was supposed to be safe. The event… wasn't supposed to trigger until later..."
A low chime echoed in the silence, pure and crystalline.
Liam's breath caught.
In the air before him, letters began to etch themselves into reality—glowing with soft blue light.
> Welcome to Elyndra, Traveler.
You have received your Newcomer Gift.
[God-Given Luck] — SSS-Rank Passive Ability Acquired.
Description: "Fate shall bend to your survival."
Type: Non-Combat. Irregular-Class. Cannot be removed.
"…SSS-rank?" Liam blinked. "But… it's not even combat-based..."
His heart pounded, not with joy, but with a strange disquiet. It was a skill above all others—rarer than divine fire, more precious than bloodline legacies.
But what good was luck... if everything else was already dead?
The soft glow of the translucent system screen faded, leaving the room colder than before. The silence returned—not peaceful, but hollow. Like something watching had turned away.
Liam remained seated on the warped floorboards for a long moment, breathing slowly, cautiously—as if any sudden movement might undo the miracle that had brought him back.
God-Given Luck… SSS-rank…
He scoffed under his breath. A humorless sound, dry and cracked.
"Luck, huh…"
His red eyes flicked toward the broken window. A shaft of light crept in, pale and anemic, casting his shadow long against the wall. Beyond it, the town lay in ruin. Homes collapsed inward like dying flowers, stone paths swallowed by weeds and ash. No corpses remained. No blood shimmered in the sun.
Everything had been… scrubbed clean.
Like a crime scene no longer useful to the narrative.
A shiver trailed down Liam's spine.
He pulled his knees to his chest and closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. The scent of old smoke and rot still lingered beneath the dust.
Fragments surged through his mind—not his memories, but Liam Ashborn's. Vivid. Terrifying. Real.
A boy with no family. A town of quiet smiles and quieter disappearances. The rumor of monsters beyond the trees. Cold nights. Rumbling stomachs. Days where he questioned if he'd awaken the next morning at all.
And then—
The screaming.
The night sky lit by unnatural fire.
Eyes that gleamed like oil beneath moonlight.
The town... gone.
His heart clenched as those final moments slammed into him like a tide, crashing, breaking, reshaping. Liam—the actor—was no longer the dominant soul. No... he was now Liam Ashborn, in mind, body, and cruel fate.
He opened his eyes once more.
"I'm not in a scene," he whispered. "No script. No safety net. No second take."
Just death, dressed in prophecy and probability.
But if he was here—if the gods, the system, or whatever force governed this fractured world gave him even this much—it meant something. Maybe not purpose. But a chance.
He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly. His limbs ached from disuse, his joints stiff with cold. He moved with the slow, brittle grace of someone just stitched back into life.
And then he remembered the one thread of hope.
"The Academy".
Not tied to Altheira, Veyrantis, or the Aetherion Concord. Neutral ground. A training sanctuary built around Fate Threads and Class Awakenings. And, more importantly—
The place where all the Main Characters gathered.
The future Heroes.
The Champions.
The blessed fools with cheat-like growth rates, S-rank skills, divine bloodlines, and... plot armor.
If he wanted to survive to the endgame, there was only one choice:
"Cling to their thighs like a starving tick," he muttered grimly.
The entrance season was still some months away—just shy of three.
Enough time.
Liam turned from the window and began to search the ruined house.
Drawers. Cabinets. The floor beneath the old herb rack. Loose bricks behind the fireplace.
Each movement was slow, deliberate, like a priest moving through a holy rite.
Finally, behind a false panel beneath the altar-like shelf of preserved roots, he found a small wooden chest—unlocked, but sealed tight by age and disuse. It creaked open with a whisper of dust.
Inside, the glint of coin caught his eye.
—27 gold crowns
—112 silver marks
—400 copper bits
A fortune, by rural standards. Barely survival-grade in a city. But for a boy from a nameless town and with nothing to his name, it was… salvation.
He opened Inventory and put his Coins.
He found a weathered satchel beneath the kitchen table, its seams fraying but usable. Into it, he placed the coin pouch, a few rations of dried rootbread and smoked meat, two sealed jars of pickled stalkfruit, and a half-empty waterskin.
In a rusted chest near the bedroom's remains, he discovered a spare cloak—moth-eaten but warm—and a bundle of commoner's clothing, stitched with the careful patience of someone who had nothing but time.
Added all to the Inventory.
There was a final item: a thin silver ring with a faded symbol etched on the inside. A small tree. The Ashborn family crest.
Liam stared at it for a moment.
Then slid it onto his left index finger.
By nightfall, he had set his bedroll in the attic—what little remained of it. He did not light a fire. The monsters might have moved on, but luck or not, he had no intention of calling anything back.
He lay still, eyes open, watching the stars through the slats in the roof.
Three months.
He would leave at dawn.
Walk roads patrolled by bandits and worse.
Carry no weapons, no strength, no combat potential.
Only an SSS-ranked passive… and a lifetime of pretending to be someone worth watching.
"Just hold on," he murmured, to the heavens, to himself. "Cling to the plotline. Make it to the academy. Hold onto the protagonists until they forget I wasn't supposed to matter."
And if the world still tried to kill him?
Well...
He'd act like he belonged there.
And let luck do the rest.