Luke woke to the sound of wind moving through pine trees.
For a long moment, he didn't open his eyes.
The smell was wrong—not salt and coal smoke, not damp wool blankets and iron decks. This was dry mountain air, faintly earthy, mixed with wood ash from a stove that had gone cold overnight.
He lay on a narrow wooden bed. His own bed.
The ceiling above him was low, beams darkened by age. A crack ran along the mud-plastered wall, exactly where it had always been.
Reality.
Luke finally exhaled.
His chest rose and fell—slow, steady. No freezing pain. No numbness creeping up his limbs. His fingers flexed easily, warm and alive.
Yet his heart felt… tangled.
Rose's face surfaced in his mind without warning. The way her hand had tightened around his coat. The tremor in her voice when she'd said his name. The Statue of Liberty emerging from the fog, immense and silent, bearing witness to a future that wasn't his.
Luke sat up abruptly.
The motion was too smooth.
Too controlled.
He froze.
His body obeyed him with a precision he'd never possessed before. Muscles responded instantly, without stiffness or hesitation. Even his breathing felt different—deeper, more efficient, as if his body instinctively knew how to conserve heat, regulate itself.
So it wasn't a dream.
That realization brought a second wave—heavier, quieter.
Jack.
Jack's optimism. His recklessness. His warmth.
Luke pressed a hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
"I didn't die," he murmured.
But Jack had.
Not in pain. Not in despair.
In fulfillment.
That was what unsettled Luke the most.
He had lived countless ordinary days in this mountain village, waking up alone, working until his back ached, falling asleep to the sound of insects. Yet the most complete life he'd ever experienced had ended in icy water under a starless sky.
The emotional weight lingered, knotted and unresolved.
Luke closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.
Calm down.
He had chosen this.
And there would be more.
A familiar translucent glow appeared before him.
[World of Remorse — Mission Summary]
Mission World: TitanicIdentity Assumed: Jack DawsonCompletion Status: Perfect Resolution
Karma Points Earned:+300Initial Free Points Used: -100Current Balance:200 Karma Points
Luke stared at the number.
Two hundred.
He swallowed.
"So it's real," he said quietly.
Another interface unfolded, smoother this time, as if responding more readily to his thoughts.
[Karma Store — Available Enhancements]
Skill Category: Artistic & Cognitive
• Jack Dawson's Sketching Talent — 180 KP
Perfect visual memoryMaster-level freehand drawingEmotional expression through artHigh authenticity compatibility
• Foundational Fine Arts Mastery — 120 KP
Drawing, painting, compositionUsable across multiple worlds
Skill Category: Physical & Survival
• Biological Resilience (Thermoregulation) — Acquired• Cold-Endurance Optimization — 150 KP
Skill Category: Mental
• Situational Insight — 100 KP
Faster comprehension of unfamiliar settingsImproved narrative awareness
Luke's gaze lingered on the first option.
Jack Dawson's Sketching Talent.
He remembered the feeling—the pencil gliding across paper, the certainty of line and shadow, the way he'd captured Rose in a single breathless moment. It hadn't just been skill. It had been instinct, emotion translated directly into form.
Art that meant something.
In this village, art had no value. No one needed paintings. They needed crops harvested, roofs repaired, firewood split before winter.
And yet—
Luke looked down at his hands.
They felt steady.
Capable.
"I'll take it," he said.
[Confirmation]Spend 180 Karma Points on Jack Dawson's Sketching Talent?
"Yes."
The warmth came immediately—not burning, not overwhelming. It flowed into his arms, his eyes, the back of his mind. Images flickered—light on skin, fabric folding under gravity, faces caught in fleeting expressions.
Luke gasped softly.
When the sensation faded, he reached for the scrap notebook on his bedside table. It was old, filled mostly with work notes and crude measurements.
He found a pencil.
His hand moved.
Lines appeared—confident, alive. Not copying, not hesitating. In less than a minute, a face emerged on the page. Not Rose. Not anyone specific.
Just… someone real.
Luke stared at it, pulse quickening.
"…So this is mine now."
The interface dimmed.
Remaining Karma Points:20
Morning arrived as it always did in the village.
Luke stepped outside into crisp air. The mountains loomed in the distance, unchanged and indifferent. Smoke curled from chimneys. Chickens scratched at the dirt. An old man down the path was already chopping wood, movements slow but practiced.
Life had gone on while he was gone.
As it always would.
Luke grabbed his tools and headed toward the fields. Today's work was repairing a broken irrigation channel near the terraced plots. Hard, muddy labor.
Yet as he worked, he noticed things he never had before.
The angle of sunlight on water.The rhythm in repetitive motion.The way exhaustion settled into muscles—not as suffering, but as a measurable state.
He adjusted his breathing instinctively, conserving energy. When cold wind cut across the valley, his body compensated without conscious effort.
No one noticed.
And that was fine.
At midday, he sat beneath a tree to eat, sketchbook open on his knees. Without thinking, he drew the village path, the crooked roofs, the distant ridgeline.
It looked… beautiful.
Luke paused, pencil hovering.
This world isn't tragic, he thought. It's just quiet.
The System didn't interrupt him.
But somewhere, beyond mountains and oceans, beyond fiction and reality, another broken life was waiting.
And sooner or later—
Luke would answer.