The thing about walking your own path is this—no one's ever done it before.
That sounds obvious. But when you're in the middle of it—trudging forward, blind, uncertain, scared—it stops being a poetic idea and becomes something real. You have no guide. No map. No master whispering "you're doing well" behind you. You move through trial and error, inch by inch, hoping something clicks before it all goes wrong.
This is where brainrot helps.
I'm talking about the countless MTL novels I consumed like junk food. The endless cultivation stories with broken power systems. The RPG mechanics, the myths in disguise, the urban fantasies with twelve different martial arts schools and ten thousand forbidden techniques. I remembered them all.
You can laugh.
But those stories gave me ideas. And ideas were fuel.
They made sure I never ran dry, even when I was fumbling through spiritual theory in a cold room, trying to figure out if moonlight could be stored like electricity or if I was just hallucinating.
Right now, I was working on something simple.
Every night, I stood by the window and meditated beneath the moonlight, eyes closed, breath slow. I gathered the pale, silver strands of light into myself—not with any ritual, just intent and repetition. I stored the energy, feeling it collect in my limbs like static clinging to skin.
Then I tried directing it. To my eyes. To my nerves. To my bones.
It didn't do much yet—no x-ray vision or spiritual awakening. But it had effects. I could see slightly better in the dark. My reflexes twitched a little sharper. My dreams felt clearer. And more importantly, it gave me a path to follow.
Forging something from nothing was hard. But it was fun.
It made me feel like a pioneer.
And I knew—the great cultivators of legend didn't start with instruction manuals. They started with desperation and imagination.
As my days passed in quiet rhythm, I started studying more about the world I now lived in. Trying to fit the pieces together.
This world—called Kaalheim, at least in the older texts—is split across three great continents.
The first is Varestra, where I currently live. A continent shaped by long-standing empires, sprawling merchant republics, and feudal relics. Its people balance progress and tradition. You'll find gunpowder and gas lamps beside temples carved into cliffs. It has a strange harmony of old and new.
Then there's Kaorun, the eastern continent across the silver seas. Mysterious, insular. They say its kingdoms are ruled by philosopher-kings and spirit-priests who live for centuries. Their lands are shaped by seasonal spirits, and their history is written not in books, but in song.
And finally, the third continent: Ifranir—the red lands. Harsh deserts, forgotten ruins, wandering cities pulled by massive beasts. It's said that in Ifranir, names are sacred and gods walk openly among the people. I don't know how true that is, but I want to find out.
The more I studied, the more parallels I found with Earth… but never quite the same.
Some countries bore familiar names—India, Persica, Alban, even a scattered island-nation called Niharu that bore faint echoes of Japan. But their histories were off. Twisted, mirrored, refracted. The Indian analog had not known a British Empire, but rather a colonization from Kaorun's sky-faring dynasty a thousand years ago. Persica was not just ancient but claimed to have once ruled the moon.
The stars were different too.
Constellations danced with unfamiliar rhythms. Some of them… moved.
And the moon? It had a name. Sevatha. In ancient myth, she was a goddess of judgment—cold, watching, unblinking.
That's what pulled me into eastern mythology.
Not just because of curiosity. Because some of the myths, while altered and strange, seemed to align with the strange objects I'd come into contact with. They spoke of objects birthed from fractured concepts, of tools forged in the dreams of dying gods. Not always evil. Not always good. But always... dangerous.
The coin. The pen. The mirror. Even the bell. I began to suspect they weren't simply "magical items." They were echoes. Resonances. Fragments from something greater.
Maybe from outside.
Aside from all this, my days passed freely.
Honestly, I started enjoying myself more.
The anxiety was still there, a low hum behind the bones. But the thrill of discovery softened it. I wasn't just surviving—I was building. Training. Learning. Becoming.
It was still a quiet life. Tea in the morning. Study in the afternoon. Shooting and training at dusk. Moonlight at night.
I sharpened my imagination like a blade.
Because in this world, imagination wasn't just luxury.
It was survival.