Five years had passed since their summoning.
For most of the "Heroes," the days were simple — study, spar, sleep, repeat.
For Ryn, each day was a quiet war against an invisible enemy.
The Forgotten Gods
There was an old legend in this world — a tale the priests whispered to lull children into obedience.
"The Creators are the hands that shaped the world," they said.
"They wrote our fates in the Book of Eternity, and we, their creations, live to fulfill their story."
Most dismissed it as harmless mythology.
But Ryn knew better.
He'd read this world before — in a novel back in his old life.
He remembered how the story had described them: not gods, not benevolent beings, but bored entities who rewrote reality whenever it strayed too far from their "intended path."
Whenever fate was defied, the world was reset.
The heroes reborn.
The villains erased.
Over and over.
The Creators… they're not gods.
They're puppeteers.
The memory of that book was faint, but it haunted him.
And when he'd seen that name appear before his eyes five years ago—
Copy code
[Eye of the Creator - Unknown Rank]
This eyes can analyze any technique and gifts to copy them and see through every illusion- copy limit 10 slots and will increase as the user ascends in rank
—his blood ran cold.
The Eye Opens
At first, he'd thought it was a coincidence.
But the more he used the Eye, the more he realized the truth.
He could see the world's fabric — glowing threads binding every person, every object, every motion together.
The more he stared, the more he understood:
those threads weren't natural.
They were instructions.
Even thoughts are predetermined, he thought bitterly one night.
Even choices are scripted.
And if he had gained an ability tied to the Creators themselves…
then surely, they were watching.
The Perfect Shadow
That's why he hid everything — his Eye, his potential, his power.
He used the Eye to study the appraisal orb, learned how it read mana signatures, and twisted his own until the reading settled neatly at B-rank.
Not too high to attract jealousy.
Not too low to invite pity.
Perfectly forgettable.
As long as I remain a shadow, they won't rewrite me.
He never revealed the second gift, Stealth.
Its ability to let him vanish into any shadow as long as he had mana was his one true freedom.
The Secret Routine
While the other "heroes" competed for the instructors' attention, Ryn observed.
He watched the guards train, memorized every swing of their blades, every flaw in their footwork.
[Observation Detected: Basic Swordsmanship - 48%]
At night, he meditated beneath the moonlight, guiding mana through his veins.
His progress was slow — his body still that of a child — but his control was terrifyingly precise.
He also discovered something new:
the Eye didn't just copy movements or skills — it copied understanding.
He could sense how techniques worked, why they flowed, what laws of mana they followed.
Now he was peak E rank
But still, he never pushed too far.
Every time he touched the limit of the Eye's vision, he felt it — that silent, suffocating gaze.
As if something far above reality stared back.
I see you, little anomaly.
Dance well.
The thought alone made his blood freeze.
The World's Balance
The priests often spoke of balance: five races born from creation — humans, elves, dwarves, orcs, and demons — each with their champions, each holding the world together.
Until the day a demon broke through the SSS rank and shattered the scale.
It was then the races summoned new heroes — them.
But Ryn knew this story too.
He knew it was all part of the "script."
Even the rise of the Demon King was just another act in the Creators' endless play.
The world will burn.
The heroes will rise.
And in the end, they'll fail, so the Creators can begin again.
He clenched his fists in silent rage.
Not this time.
The Trial Ground
The fifth year marked their initiation.
Commander Darius stood before the twenty students, his voice booming through the marble hall.
"Tomorrow, you enter the Trial Ground — a land untouched by man. You will hunt monsters, gather resources, and grow stronger. No instructors. No guards. Only survival."
Excitement erupted.
Sun's confident grin gleamed like a hero out of legend.
Alicia's fiery eyes burned with determination.
Eli, ever the quiet one, nodded solemnly — a swordsman with an unremarkable gift, or so everyone thought.
Ryn stood still, expression unreadable.
The others believed this was freedom.
He knew better.
They're not sending us to survive, he thought. They're watching what we become.
The Eye flared softly in his vision — faint, like a heartbeat.
He could see mana signatures hidden behind the walls, faint magical surveillance circles drawn into the very ceiling.
The Creators never let their actors offstage.
A Villain's Vow
That night, as the others slept, Ryn stood by the window, moonlight carving his masked face in silver and shadow.
He whispered to the quiet world:
"You can write all you want… but I'll change the ending."
The Eye shimmered faintly, as if responding.
And when I find you, he thought, I'll drag you down from your throne.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the Trial would begin.
The stage would open.
And for the first time, the puppet would start cutting his own strings.