Chapter 9: Wake Up Call
In his room, he sat hunched on the edge of his bed. Palms pressed tight against his head. Eyes locked onto the floor like he was trying to burn a hole through it. He barely blinked.
His mind wasn’t in the room. It was far away—spiraling somewhere between confusion, fear, rage, and then back to confusion again. An endless loop.
"What is this Velocraux?" he muttered. "Their last names are tied to their family deities, right? That’s what I remember. I... think so. Velocraux... Velocraux... Velocraux..."
—Silence—
Then—
"WHAT THE FUCK IS A VELOCRAUX?!"
His head jolted up. Hands dragged down his face like he wanted to peel the skin off and restart.
Then a spark. A single functioning thought cut through the fog.
"Books."
He slid off the bed in a frantic rush—immediately falling flat on the floor.
"AGH—"
He scrambled back up, crawling with a wild energy toward the small stack of books Avin had collected.
"Mhm... covers," he muttered, yanking a book off the shelf. He flipped it open and skimmed through pages like a man possessed. "Mhmm... mhmm... mhmmm..."
"words... words... characters... symbols"
Then, he paused. Looked up at the door. Smiled faintly with a new wave of emotion washing over him—
WHAM!
He hurled the book at the door.
"I CAN’T FUCKING READ!"
He dropped onto his knees, bent forward, and slammed his fist onto the floor over and over.
His face showing his current state: frustrated and tired.
"WHY—"
BAM
"CAN’T—"
BAM
"I—"
BAM
"READ!?"
Groaning, he collapsed face-down into the cold stone. All energy drained out of him. His arms sprawled wide like he’d just been defeated by gravity itself.
"Different world... different language," he sighed, muffled into the floor. "Wait—that’s weird. I can talk to them just fine, so...?"
TSK.
"Someone out there is seriously fucking with me, and I don’t appreciate it."
He rolled over lazily, back flat against the ground. His face stared blankly at the chandelier above.
"Maybe if I prayed..."
Silence.
Then a small chuckle.
"Pray to what? For what?" he muttered. He rolled over again, still face up, staring at the chandelier like it owed him money. "Rich bastards... with their...chandeliers... and maids.. and sword fights?"
The silence stretched again. And then—
Whoosh.
He sat upright with sudden energy, taking in a huge breath like he’d just remembered oxygen existed.
"There’s a reason I was sent here," he said confidently. "Maybe I’m a sword prodigy. Or a magician. OR BOTH."
He puffed out his chest. Forced a smile that barely clung to his lips.
"Yep. I’m special. Been special."
He grabbed a broom handle from the corner of the room—his makeshift sword—and struck a stance.
Legs awkwardly far apart. Back arched too much. Arms tensed like he was posing for a photo and a fight at the same time.
He started swinging vertically. Big exaggerated motions, like those dramatic anime moves. Trying to imitate what the swordsman does when in their training arcs.
One.
Two.
Three—
THUD.
He collapsed to the floor, broom clattering beside him.
"This is hard... vertical slash is hard" he groaned. "How do people do this for a living?"
He stared at the ceiling again, panting.
"I should really respect that old fart at the dojo more... if I make it."
He chuckled faintly.
"When... I make—"
And that was it.
He didn’t know what hit him.
Stress, maybe. Or the Primordial’s lingering touch. Or whatever the hell Leo did to him with the snake thing.
Or maybe—just maybe—it was a god playing jokes on him again.
But he fell asleep. Just like that.
No ceremony.
No warning.
Time passed.
The sun rose.
The silence was broken.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!
He groaned.
The door pounded again.
He pulled the blanket over his face.
"I DON’T HAVE SCHOOL TODAY!" he screamed, rolling over like a stubborn teen skipping Monday.
Then—
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!"
"WAKE THE FUCK UP—VELOCRAUX IS HERE!"
His eyes snapped open. Blank. Lost.
"...Velocraux? Where have I heard that before..."
A few seconds passed.
Then it hit.
"OH SHIT—VELOCRAUX!"
He flailed onto his feet like someone just lit his bed on fire. His thoughts came rushing back in violent, blurry waves.
"I’m coming!" he shouted toward the door, scrambling to get ready.
No response.
Of course.
His brain was still in pieces, but he managed to shove himself into the bath. His mind raced even faster than the water poured. His thoughts were chaos. No strategy. No prep. Just noise.
He skipped brushing his teeth entirely. "Screw it. I’ll die with bad breath if I have to."
He yanked the door open—
WHAM.
Tripped over the very same book he’d thrown the night before.
SPLAT.
"Ow... Karma strikes as hard as the floor," he groaned, rolling off it with a limp sigh.
He stood up, brushed himself off, and stepped into the hallway.
—and stopped.
Again.
Same long corridor. Same towering ceilings. Same ridiculous, gold-obsessed architecture that made him feel like he was walking inside a bank built by gods.
And still...
He had no idea where the hell to go.
He ran a hand through his messy hair. Exhaled.
Then started to laugh.
Soft at first. Then louder.
"This is so fucking stressful," he said, his voice breaking slightly with each syllable.
He laughed again—half frustration, half exhaustion, half losing his mind.
"Where is the fucking training ground?" he whined, his face twisting into a tortured grimace, like he was on the verge of crying just from pure existential pressure.
It felt like the whole world was pulling an elaborate prank on him.
Still, he moved. Step by step. No map. No memory. Just vibes and bad guesses.
He glanced at the walls—lined with oil paintings. Formal portraits. Serious faces. All different, yet all sharing one trait:
Red hair.
Signature Chrono lineage.
He scanned them as he walked—some old, some younger, some armored, some robed—but all clearly powerful. Respected. Important.
Then he stopped in front of one in particular.
It didn’t need a nameplate.
It didn’t need a memory prompt.
He knew.
The Duke.
He didn’t even need to be there for his presence to bleed through the canvas.
Avin—no, Clive—felt it in his bones.
This was a demigod. The weight of his existence pulsed through the paint like a second heartbeat.
Clive’s breath caught in his throat.
"Ahhh... I know it’s my inherited job to hate him," he muttered. "But he’s so fucking cool."
He sighed, deeply.
"Why couldn’t I have been dropped into this world as him?"
Another sigh.
He stood there for a while. Just soaking in the presence of a man who wasn’t even in the room.
Until the illusion shattered.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE LIKE A CREEP?!"
Ashborn’s voice cracked like a whip from down the hall.
Clive sighed again—longer this time. He turned toward the direction of the voice.
"Ah. This must be the training ground," he thought flatly.
He walked toward the sound, through a heavy arched doorway—
And stepped into a space that felt like a stadium built by titans.
A massive enclosure. Big enough to fit an entire football field, maybe more. The ground was coarse with dust and sand. The walls curved upward into layered stone bleachers. It looked like a miniature coliseum carved out of war.
"Whoa..." he whispered. "How big is this place?"
Ashborn, naturally, ruined the moment.
"Why are you looking around like an idiot? Armor up. He’s waiting."
Clive turned—and saw it.
A massive set of armor resting on a rack. Or, more accurately, a lump of metal that looked like someone had stacked car parts together and said "go fight in this."
"Um..."
Before he could finish the thought, two guards moved in unison, grabbed the armor, and dropped it over his body like he was a mannequin.
CLANK.
He braced himself.
But... nothing.
It was light.
Way too light.
Not cheap. Not fragile. Just unnervingly weightless.
Relief washed over him—but so did doubt.
"Is this going to protect me or betray me?" he muttered under his breath.
Ashborn wasted no time. He shoved Clive toward the open gates of the sparring arena.
The moment his foot crossed the line—
BOOOOOM.
The entire stadium shook.
The dust in the air twisted unnaturally.
A low-opacity green barrier pulsed around the arena, stretching from wall to wall, rising high into the sky like a dome of glass laced with veins of glowing circuitry. The light shimmered with a strange rhythm, like it was alive—like it watched.
Clive flinched.
His chest tightened. He took another shaky step forward, his feet crunching into the sand.
And then—he saw him.
Standing across the field.
Velocraux.
Not a boy.
Not a brat.
But a towering, broad-shouldered beast of a human. Brown hair. Deep green eyes. Muscles stacked on muscles like they were trying to escape his body.
The man looked carved. Sculpted. Built to win.
Clive blinked. Took a half step back.
"Um... how old was he again?"
—To be continued—