My gaze swept across the unfamiliar surroundings. For a fleeting moment, I half-expected to wake up in my cramped apartment, the distant hum of traffic filtering through a thin window. But no such luck. That would be too easy—too convenient.

  The air crackled around me, charged with something richer than electricity. Beneath my feet, a faint vibration pulsed through the ground—not mechanical, but alive, like the heartbeat of some great, slumbering beast. Overhead, sleek vehicles glided effortlessly through the sky, propelled not by engines but by an unseen force that defied gravity with impossible grace.

  Magic wasn’t just present here—it was the law. It flowed through the air, seeped into the architecture, and hummed beneath my skin like an unspoken truth.

  I wasn’t just in another world.

  I was in my world—the one I had written.

  A sense of awe settled over me. Seeing it firsthand was nothing like imagining it on paper. The details, the depth, the vibrancy—it was all beyond what I had ever envisioned. There were nuances I had never considered, lives playing out in ways I had only hinted at.

  My fingers slid into my pockets, brushing over objects that weren’t mine but belonged to this body. Most were unremarkable, but one stood out: an impossibly smooth card with shimmering gold lettering on its surface.

  Astramirum.

  The name struck like a bolt of lightning. One of the Five Great Academies, historic alliance of the church and the government. Their mission? To find and train the gifted.

  A slow realization settled in my gut, heavy as stone. This confirmed it. Somehow, impossibly, I had transmigrated into my novel.

  A bitter laugh escaped me, raw and shaky.

  Why me? Why not someone else?

  The question gnawed at me, but another thought shoved its way forward.

  I had an unlimited monthly allowance. Deposited straight into my student badge.

  I stared at the card, its weight almost too much to bear. Infinite money? After years of scraping by as a struggling author, this felt like divine intervention.

  A disbelieving chuckle bubbled up before I could stop it. I don’t think I’ll ever want to graduate.

  But the amusement faded quickly. My situation was precarious. If I wanted to survive, I needed information. And for that, I needed to find an artifact I had written about in my novel.

  Getting to the station was easy enough. Magic ran through every system in this world, including the transit network. With a simple press of my badge against a shimmering blue panel, I paid my fare—no card swipes, no paper tickets—just pure, seamless enchantment.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A gust of wind rushed past me as I stepped onto the platform, carrying the faint scent of rain. The train glided into view, its sleek surface glowing with pulsating runes. No wheels, no noise—just effortless hovering, magic coursing through it like blood through veins.

  I boarded and sank into a seat by the window. The city outside blurred into streaks of neon and silver. It was breathtaking.

  Would anyone believe me if I told them this world was nothing more than a fan-made expansion of my novel?

  Of course not.

  Leaning back, I glanced down at the device in my hand—a rectangular slab no thicker than a sheet of glass. This world’s version of a phone. Transparent. With a single thought, a holographic interface flared to life, responding to my mind like an extension of my will.

  It wasn’t just technology—it was magic-infused technology. Here, sorcery wasn’t a relic of the past. It was the foundation of progress. Spells powered the city’s transportation, communication, and security. Even simple objects like this device were attuned to their user’s mana, responding seamlessly to intent.

  A part of me wanted to explore every inch of this world.

  But another part of me—more pressing, more urgent—reminded me: If I wanted to survive, I needed to get that artifact before anyone else did.

  It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t even a tool. It was knowledge itself. A living repository of history, secrets, and truth—both known and forbidden.

  In my novel, it had been a keystone of the world’s power structure. Those who possessed it didn’t just know the world’s mysteries—they could rewrite them.

  My grip tightened around the device in my hand. If the story I had written still followed its course, then I had a limited window before the wrong hands found it first.

  However, there was something I had to consider.

  Was the information I had truly accurate?

  As I tightened my grip. A hairline crack splintered across the device from the pressure.

  I exhaled slowly.

  This is real. I’m here.

  Unlimited wealth, effortless travel, a city built on the laws I had imagined… It should have felt like paradise. Instead, it felt like a test.

  A strange mix of fear and excitement churned in my gut.

  I had written this world.

  But now, I had to live in it.

  And that meant playing the game better than anyone else.

  The station sign read Foamfield. I stepped onto the platform, tilting my head back to watch the last remnants of the downpour fade into a thin mist. The air smelled clean—crisp, like rain-soaked stone.

  The streets pulsed with life. Towering crystal lanterns lined the roads, their glow shifting as pedestrians passed, adjusting their warmth and brightness to match the movement of the crowd. A dozen different dialects murmured through the air, blending into a steady hum of city life.

  My destination was nearby—Pop Meadow Park. The city was famous for it, and for good reason.

  As I approached, the drifting orbs came into view—shimmering bubbles that filled the air like floating lanterns.

  Children dashed through the park, their laughter ringing as the bubbles shimmered and shifted at their touch, morphing into whatever shapes their imaginations desired—a dragon soaring here, a butterfly fluttering there.

  The Mirth Spheres danced like fragments of pure imagination, reshaping at a child’s whim—a living testament to wonder.

  I had created them, but now, for the first time, I envied those who could simply enjoy them.

  Something was humbling about seeing this world in motion—beyond the confines of my written words, beyond the outlines and notes I had so carefully crafted.

  My fingers tightened around my badge, the smooth surface grounding me. I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.

  Even in all my writing, I had never seen the world as clearly as I did now.

  A lump formed in my throat. My chest tightened with something I couldn’t name, something too big to contain.

  The scent of rain still lingered in the air, cool against my skin.

  I exhaled, long and slow, forcing the tension from my shoulders.

  This world—my world—was real.

  And that meant it was mine to navigate, mine to shape.

  My grip on the badge loosened.

  Enough.

  I had work to.