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CHAPTER 13 — The Weight of a World
Aren woke before the sun rose.
Not because he wanted to—but because the world itself wouldn't let him rest. Ever since he arrived in this strange land, a quiet pressure hummed at the edges of his consciousness. Not a voice. Not a command. Just… a pull. A reminder that he wasn't brought here to be a hero or a destroyer.
He was brought here to understand.
To endure.
To teach.
But how could he teach anyone how to live… when he was still struggling just to breathe?
He sat up, wincing as yesterday's bruises flared across his ribs. His fight with the fangbeaks hadn't been close to a heroic victory. He almost died—again. He had no cheat skills, no divine blessing, no hidden stats to save him.
Just grit. Just pain. Just stubbornness.
And yet, despite everything, he was still here.
A soft rustle drew his attention. Elira—silver-haired, soft-spoken, and somehow both ethereal and painfully human—watched him with worried eyes.
"You didn't sleep well," she said gently.
"I slept enough," he lied.
Her gaze dipped to his bandaged side. "Your body disagrees."
Aren forced a small smile. "It's learning to shut up."
She didn't laugh, but the faintest smile tugged her lips. Then it faded, replaced by something heavier.
"The village elder wants to see you," she said. "Now."
Aren blinked. "At dawn?"
"He said it concerns… the disturbance."
Ah. That.
The storm of mana that had erupted last night when Aren lost control of his emotions. The ground trembling. The air cracking with unseen tension. That unnatural surge of energy that wasn't magic, wasn't aura, wasn't anything recognized by this world.
Something born purely from him.
Aren swallowed. "Alright… let's go."
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The elder's hut smelled of crushed herbs, woodsmoke, and something older—something ancient enough to make Aren feel like he was stepping into the memory of the world itself.
Elder Rhylen sat cross-legged by the fire, his wrinkled face sharp with focus. He didn't greet Aren. He didn't smile. He simply watched him with eyes that had lived longer than some kingdoms.
"You felt it too," he said at last. Not a question.
Aren nodded. "I… don't know what it was."
"You do not control it," the elder said. "But it reacts to your emotions. Your fear. Your uncertainty. Your pain."
"I didn't choose this," Aren muttered. "I didn't ask for this world or this… responsibility or whatever it's trying to push on me."
The elder leaned forward. "Boy, the world did not summon you to give you a path. It summoned you because you have none. Only someone without destiny can teach destiny-bound beings what life truly means."
Aren froze.
Destiny-bound?
The elder continued, voice low.
"This world's people live by prophecy, by predictions, by fate. It has ruled us for centuries. But you? You are outside it. A paradox. A disturbance in the pattern. And so the world grabbed you—not to fight our battles, but to show us the meaning of choosing."
Aren stared into the fire. For once, he didn't know what to say.
Elira stepped closer, touching his arm. "Aren… you don't have to do everything alone."
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
Her eyes were soft. Warm. Not romantic yet—but filled with a quiet trust that terrified him more than any monster.
Because Aren wasn't strong. He wasn't wise. He wasn't chosen.
He was just… him.
But maybe that was enough.
A sudden crash echoed outside. Shouts followed—fear-filled, sharp, urgent.
The elder rose instantly. "Prepare yourselves. Something has breached the barrier."
Aren's heart hammered.
Of course. This world wouldn't give him time to think.
It barely gave him time to breathe.
But as he stepped outside, feeling the buzz of that strange inner power awakening again, he whispered to himself:
"I'll figure this out… one breath at a time."
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