Ruvian reached into his coat and pulled out ten silver coins, placing them onto the counter. Dain’s eyes darted to the coins before turning to his son, who had been watching from the side.

“Gared,” he called out.

“Take it and put it in the chest.”

Gared then quickly moved to collect the coins. Meanwhile, Ruvian adjusted his coat, slipping the knife into his belongings before turning toward the door.

“You’re leaving already?” Dain’s voice followed him, carrying an edge of amusement. Ruvian stopped just before stepping out, casting a glance over his shoulder.

“I have preparations to make for my enrollment.”

Dain let out a loud laugh, shaking his head.

“Hah! You’re busier than the damn count himself.”

Ruvian merely shrugged, offering a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Then, without another word, he stepped out of the workshop and disappeared into the bustling streets.

The forge was silent for a moment.

Then, Gared approached, his arms weighed down by a bundle of weapons that had been left for repair. He adjusted his grip before looking at his father with a furrowed brow.

“Father, why have you been rejecting so many repair requests these last few days?”

Dain exhaled through his nose, wiping his hands on his apron. He cast a glance at the weapons Gared carried, the last of their pending work.

“Because, after we finish these repairs, we’re shutting the shop down for a while.”

He said, voice calm but carrying something heavier beneath it.

Gared froze. His grip on the weapons tightened.

“…What?!”

His father didn’t elaborate further. Instead, he reached forward, placing a strong hand on the boy’s shoulder. His grip was warm, a reassurance, and a promise.

“Get ready,” Dain said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I’m going to teach you how to make weapons, like a real blacksmith.”

Gared’s breath hitched.

For a long time, those were words he thought he’d never hear again. His father, once a proud craftsman, had abandoned forging long ago, resigning himself to repairs and maintenance.

Gared had always wanted to learn, to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he had long since given up hope. And yet… His father was looking at him now, waiting for his response.

Gared’s eyes burned with something fierce, something unspoken. Then, finally, his lips stretched into a wide, uncontainable smile.

“Yes, Father!”

Without another word, he turned and rushed inside the workshop, his excitement practically radiating off of him as he carefully placed the last batch of weapons onto the workbench.

His hands, which had only ever held tools for repairs, itched to grab the hammer.

Dain let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he watched Ruvian disappear into the crowds.

‘Who would have thought that crafting a kitchen knife would be more satisfying than hammering dents out of broken weapons?’

He hadn’t expected much from that simple request. But somewhere between shaping the steel and engraving the delicate flower patterns… something had moved him.

A flame long thought extinguished had sparked back to life.

The joy of crafting.

Dain exhaled, his calloused fingers running over the rough surface of his apron.

“Hah. I ought to thank you for that, kid.”

His gaze drifted to the forge, where embers still smouldered beneath the blackened coals.

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The smirk on his face deepened.

The forge would burn brighter soon.

…

[You have been rewarded +100 Plot Points]

‘Whoa. That's a big one. What did I do this time to get that big amount of points?’

Ruvian wandered through the plaza, weaving between bustling stalls filled with artefacts and trinkets.

He scanned each item with keen eyes, searching for anything of value. Yet, no matter how much he observed, it was too early for him.

Too early, because he lacked the means to discern what was real and what was mere deception. His knowledge of this world was vast, but knowledge alone wasn’t enough.

Counterfeit artefacts, mislabeled relics, and items whose true worth was obscured by layers of misinformation—without a way to identify them, everything blended together in uncertainty.

And when faced with the unknown, even his memories were of little use.

In the end, he opened the cramped parchment that he had received the other day.

From this memory, it's a traditional custom to buy gifts or leave something behind for the family whenever you're leaving them for a long time.

So, Ruvian decided to buy another 2 items for his father and his little sister. After that, there was nothing left other than practising his mana control before the enrollment.

After claiming his custom-forged knife and securing the last of his preparations, Ruvian found no reason to linger in the plaza’s restless tide.

For the remaining days, he withdrew into quiet discipline—tempering his body through relentless exertion and exercise. Refining his mana with control and weaving the threads of his future with carefulness.

{}---『RUNEHEART』---{}

◇ Name: Ruvian Castelor

◇ Age: 16

◇ Spellcore: Tier 1

◇ Relevance Tier: Stage I – Footnote of Fate

◇ Plot Points: 2180 (PPs)

◇ Current Arc: Arc 1 – The Prologue

[Mana Resonance: (0/100)]

==[General Attributes]==

Strength: F

Agility: F

Endurance: F

Vitality: F+

Perception: E-

==[Mage Attributes]==

Mana Control: F+

Casting Speed: F

Magic Power: F-

Mana Sensitivity: E-

Mana Essence: [170/170]

==[Innate Blessings]==

- [N/A]

==[Magic Affinity]==

- [N/A]

****

And then, the day arrived. Two weeks have passed.

The day of his enrollment.

He managed to increase his Mana Essence by +10 within 2 weeks, which was slow progress even with the help of the system.

But at least, in terms of controlling his mana, Ruvian felt that he had become more adapted to freely weaving them at his will, compared to his early days.

Now, bathed in the pale gold of morning, Ruvian stood clad in the uniform of Velthia Academy, its fabric whispering against the breeze.

A mark of distinction.

The deep navy-blue coat fit snugly against his frame. Beneath it, a high-collared white undershirt peeked through.

His trousers, black and impeccably fitted, bore the resilience of fine craftsmanship. A sturdy leather belt cinched the coat in place. Get full chapters from novel⁂fire.net

At his feet, boots of rich black leather rose to his calves, made for those who walked paths paved in discipline.

Draped over his shoulders, a dark-blue cloak lined with silver accents shifted with the wind. Unlike the grand capes of nobility, it was meant not for vanity, but for movement.

Though not ostentatious, the uniform carried an undeniable presence, it was the attire of an academy student, one who had earned the right to stand among the best.

‘Even in my past life, I had never worn anything like this.’

A lone carriage stood at the edge of the dirt road, its horses shifting impatiently. Ruvian adjusted the strap of his travel pack, his fingers cool against the rough fabric.

His expression was calm, almost indifferent, but beneath it lay a heavy pressing against his chest.

‘Was this sadness?’

The feeling sat deep, persistent, like a dull ache that refused to fade. It wasn’t as if he was the type to be sentimental, nor did he have a history of emotional farewells.

And yet, something about this moment unsettled him.

The remnants of the original Ruvian, the boy who had grown up in this quiet home, who had been raised by this family, still lingered somewhere within him.

A faint echo of emotions, memories, and attachments that weren’t originally his… but had long since intertwined with his own.

Did it matter that he was not truly their son? Not truly her brother?

He had lived under this roof, heard their voices every morning, watched his mother cook, listened to his sister’s endless chatter, and worked under his father’s quiet, steady guidance.

At some point, their warmth had become home.

A soft sigh left him.

He didn’t know what to make of this feeling. It was complex, tangled between the past and present, between what was his and what wasn’t.

But one thing was certain.

Even if he never spoke the words aloud, even if he struggled to show it…

They were his family now.

And if he had taken over this life, then it was his responsibility to protect them.

Perhaps, that was what this body had wanted too.

It was an irony that Ruvian could not easily dismiss. He lived among people who loved him, yet the one they loved was not him at all. Their affection, their trust, their small habits of care were directed toward a boy who no longer existed.

From a logical standpoint, the situation was almost absurdly simple. Human bonds are built less on objective truth and more on continuity of presence.

If he woke up under the same roof, if he spoke in familiar tones, if he mirrored the daily rituals they expected, then their emotions adapted to the continuity rather than the reality.

To them, he was the son and brother.

But to him? Were they his parents and younger siblings?

Ruvian… doesn’t know how to answer that yet.

Memory and identity are not static constructs but fluid, constantly reinforced through shared experience. By participating in their lives, he effectively became the very thing he claimed he was not.

So, what was there to conclude? That he was both a fraud and a family member, a liar and a loved one. That he could dislike the falseness of it, and yet still like the comfort it gave him. In the end, it was laughably human. To resent the lie, but cling to the warmth it provided anyway.

He let out a humourless chuckle, eyes tracing the walls of his house that wasn’t really his.

‘What a joke… stealing someone’s life, and somehow ending up caring about it more than my own... Even so, this is my reality now.’