Zian, the protagonist of [The Hero Left the Academy], had to be expelled. It was cruel, but necessary. Without that fall, he would never gain the system, [The Voice of the Strong].
Ruvian’s quill stopped moving.
“But if things follow the script, the system’s flaws will deteriorate him.”
At first glance, [The Voice of the Strong] was everything a power fantasy demanded. It rewarded perseverance, grew in tandem with the wielder’s will, mirroring their strength.
Zian would grow stronger each time he refused to fall, each time he stood again when the world tried to bury him. It was beautiful in its simplicity. But hidden in that loop was the rot.
The stronger the will, the stronger the system. That much everyone saw, but what they didn’t see was what the author had buried, which was the inverse.
When Zian faltered, when grief or despair cracked his resolve, the system faltered too.
“The author had clearly meant it that way. A neat little trick to rein in an overpowered main character and keep the story interesting.” Ruvian sighed and leaned back in his chair.
If he did nothing, Zian would receive the system, as intended, and the flaw would claim him when it mattered most.
But if Zian never got the system at all? If someone interfered with that critical moment?
‘No. That was worse. Infinitely worse.’
Without [The Voice of the Strong], Zian wouldn’t survive the next major arc. He wouldn’t make it to the calamity. He wouldn’t become the hero this world needed, let alone the symbol it was promised.
“He must get the system. But the flaw has to be managed. I need to contribute in that part then…”
That was the only path forward. He couldn’t derail the story too much.
The world had a way of fighting back against anything that strayed too far from the path.
But small changes? Tiny ripples instead of tidal waves? Maybe that was survivable.
Ruvian remained still for what felt like hours, his gaze fixed on the ink that slowly dried on the page before him. His thoughts pressed down on him, but he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his satchel.
He couldn’t say whether his plan would succeed but he could only try.
He was uncertain, but it wasn’t enough to paralyse him. He had other matters to confirm first: which version of the draft this world is.
Was it the first draft? Or the second? Or the latest one?
There was no more time for passivity.
He had to test his own abilities too, to grasp what had transferred with him into this world and what hadn’t, to feel out the boundaries of his potential and map the fault lines of his weaknesses as well.
In the novel, it had always been conveniently simple. Every character could summon their own status window with a flicker of thought.
A glowing pane of readable data detailing their stats, affinities, and potential, all laid bare in neat, digestible columns.
He shut out the noise, reaching deeper. Into his own world of awareness.
Then, they took shape.
Ancient symbols, glowing like they’d just woken up from a nap, were floating lazily in front of his eyes.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Their meaning? Who even knows? Maybe even the author didn't. Ruvian stared at them for a long moment, a crooked smirk brushing on his face.
“So, this is what they looked like.”
The runes were beautiful in that abstract, haunting way that ancient things often were.
The author had never described them in any useful detail. Always hinting, dancing around their purpose like it would ruin the mystique if she just said what they actually did.
His memory tugged at him:
—“Hey, you’ll ruin the fun if you ask too much. What's the point of you being a proofreader if I spoil everything for you? That's not proofreading, that's proof-listening.”
‘Why didn’t I press her for more answers back then? At least, she did tell me a few things…’
The Dead Runes were remnants of the Lost Nomav, a civilisation buried so far in time it might as well have existed in metaphor.
The first to discover mana, the first to bend it, and the first to craft it into meaning. Rune-crafting was their legacy, and magic was their language.
Most scholars spent their entire lives trying to reconstruct even a fragment of Nomav's knowledge.
And the important part was that these runes made up his status window and luckily, his body’s memories allowed him to understand them.
Not fully or perfectly, most of it was rough guesswork, half-deciphered meanings pieced together from the knowledge of this body’s previous owner but it was enough.
Ruvian shifted his focus, forcing the ancient symbols into some semblance of order. Their patterns began to align slowly.
Words surfaced. Incomplete, scattered, not as fluent as he would’ve liked, but coherent enough to read now.
Ruvian sat there, staring at the glowing ancient symbols.
This was his status window.
{}---『RUNEHEART』---{}
◇ Name: Ruvian Castelor
[Mana Resonance: (0/100)]
==[General Attributes]==
==[Mage Attributes]==
Casting Speed: F Read full story at 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝※𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖※𝕟𝕖𝕥
Mana Essence: [150/150]
==[Innate Blessings]==
“Ugh, pathetic is an understatement, my stats are downright disgraceful.” He shook his head, refocusing his attention.
His eyes remained fixed on the letters suspended in the air before him. They glistened with a soft golden hue, hovering like fireflies trapped in invisible glass.
With an ability assessment , the chance of him becoming significantly stronger anytime soon was virtually nonexistent.
“I only knew basic mana manipulation from Ruvian’s memory... This won't do as well.'
The most mundane of mana cultivation.
He vaguely remembered the written theory from Ruvian’s memory too. But no amount of theoretical knowledge would make up for his complete lack of experience.
Though he was pretty much confident with his martial arts knowledge and muscle memory that he had honed since Yuzuki’s childhood and his work as a detective... Even so, this Ruvian's current strength was still nonexistent.
If his mind and body were not aligned, it would be useless.
The breeze brushed across his cheek, slipping through the window’s iron frame. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing it to wash over him.
“If I can't grow strong fast enough to survive what is coming, then I need to make sure the ones around me can... for the time being."
That was the only real option.
Especially Zian Herga. The so-called protagonist of this world. Bearer of fate’s chosen sword and all the destiny-related baggage that came with it.
But Ruvian wasn’t naive enough to rely on just that. After all, certain stories didn’t always follow the narrative. Especially when someone like him had already torn the margins apart.
“Also, the same goes for other characters who would normally never make it past the first arc.”
He knew their potential, down to the last stat window, who would shatter under pressure, and who could become something far greater if given the right push.
“...I will sharpen them, whether they like it or not.”
Hone them like blades forgotten in a dusty forge. If he could guide even a handful, then perhaps… he could shape a future where the dead weren’t just footnotes in someone else’s storybook.
He had proofread and edited this world after all. Not just skimmed it or just read it for fun. He had combed through every line, every chapter, and every throwaway scene.
He had shaped their dialogue, motives, and weaknesses, filling in the blanks the author left behind. And now, with all that knowledge branded into the back of his mind, he had the chance to change everything.
But, of course, there was a price.
With every push, every shift in trajectory, he was altering the story, piece by piece and the danger wasn’t just theoretical.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against his arm to slow the swirl of thoughts running through his head.
"I couldn’t afford to misstep..."
“Changing too much or too quickly could unravel everything…”
‘But sticking to the original?’
For him, Zian and also for every single nameless character in this world as well. He’d seen their ends and he wasn’t planning to sit back.
The solution was as clear as it was dangerous and arduous.
He would need to reinforce the foundation before the storm arrived. And if that meant the story he knew started to become something else entirely later, then so be it.
After all, rewriting the future was a small price compared to facing the end of the world.
He rose from his chair, the decision settling into his spine. Ruvian’s gaze swept toward the sky through the window. The wind continued to blow softly against the world beyond.
“Alright then… Let’s get to work.”