Trapped like an extra in a blatant cliche

—At the edge where light fades into shadows, a warrior rose, his gaze igniting an ancient vow. Neither beasts nor hidden forces swayed his steps; in his silence, a legend began to awaken.— Excerpt from Volume 1 of The Reborn Hero

On a seldom-trodden dirt path, hidden beneath the canopy of a beautiful forest where sunlight barely filtered through the leaves, two figures walked in silence, heading home to their village. The breeze carried that distinctive scent of the wild, bringing with it the smell of damp earth from a recent drizzle and fresh wood, wrapping them in a tranquility that starkly contrasted with the ominous stillness of their surroundings.

One of them was a tall, imposing man, on whose broad back rested two crossed war axes, now little more than simple tools for chopping trees. His stride, despite his size, was smooth and unhurried as he pulled a cart loaded with freshly cut logs with one hand. His weathered skin, marked with scars from countless battles, spoke of a past life as an adventurer. And yet, his gaze—though stern—held a glimmer of gentleness, an attempt to reflect an inner calm that only came with age.

Beside him, a small boy walked with quick, light steps, trying to keep up with his father—his son. The resemblance between them was undeniable, but the differences were striking. The father, strong as an oak, could carry hundreds of kilos without effort, while the son, far more modest in stature, could barely hold a bundle of dry twigs in his arms, carefully tied with ropes. Yet, they walked together, in harmony, complementing each other like day and night.

The sky, veiled by gray clouds, had hidden the sun all morning. A cool breeze filtered through the trees, brushing the boy's skin and making him shiver slightly, while the adult remained indifferent. Each breath taken was filled with that pure, clean air so delightful—a refreshing sensation that seemed to fill him with energy with every inhalation.

Yes, Brián loved gray days like this, when the heat didn't overwhelm him, and he could see a bit of the world beyond his home. There was no better feeling than walking through the forest alongside his father on days when the sun hid behind the clouds.

—You seem happy, Brián,— his father remarked suddenly, his deep, grave voice resonating warmly in the air, a contrast to his intimidating demeanor. The warrior offered a smile that didn't seem to fit his imposing frame but was genuine. —Could it be because Emma's eighth birthday is approaching? You seem pretty excited to see her,— he teased, and the man's smile widened as he noticed his son's cheeks flush red.

Brián quickly covered his face in embarrassment, nearly dropping the small bundle of sticks he was carrying. His father, a man with dull green hair and eyes of the same shade, let out a hearty laugh that echoed along the path as if the trees themselves responded to him. Despite his intimidating appearance, his laugh was that of a man who had learned to enjoy life's simplest pleasures—something that only came from facing death many times. His son, in contrast, with bright aquamarine-green hair and eyes to match, made a pout, irritated by the joke.

—It's not my fault she's been spending so much time with the shaman,— Brián muttered, more to himself than to his father, his irritation momentarily betrayed by the blush still coloring his face.

The father, as shrewd as in his old glory days, didn't let the opportunity slip. —So, you're not denying it, huh? Your mother will be thrilled when I tell her this.— Another hearty laugh filled the air, and Brián, overwhelmed with embarrassment, hid even more behind the bundle of branches he was carrying.

The next few seconds passed in silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the handmade cart's wheels and the forest's distant murmurs. But the boy's discomfort remained palpable, and his father, always one step ahead, smiled mischievously before saying, —Have you thought about what you're going to give her? Girls like Emma can be hard to impress, but don't worry; your mother and I will help you with whatever you need,— he added, offering encouragement with a cheeky grin that made Brián wish the ground would swallow him whole.

Brián didn't have time to respond or process his embarrassment further. A gut-wrenching, unnatural sound filled with pain emerged from the underbrush, cutting their lively conversation short and stopping them in their tracks. The forest, which moments ago had felt peaceful and welcoming, suddenly felt unsettling, as if the shadows among the trees moved on their own. The growl didn't seem human but something far more dangerous—something wild, something beyond the ordinary.

Berlian Morningstar's instincts, those of a former Mythril-rank adventurer, kicked in immediately. His body tensed as he felt a familiar tingling at the back of his neck—the same feeling that had kept him alive during the darkest days of his missions. Letting go of the cart without a second thought, he grabbed his son in his arms and, with surprising agility for his size, leaped off the path just as a colossal creature barreled through, toppling trees and obliterating the cart in a single blow.

The beast roared past where they had been standing moments ago, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake, until it finally came to a halt, crashing into more trees to stop its momentum. Berlian landed a safe distance away, still holding his son, both wide-eyed in shock.

With just one glance, the ex-adventurer recognized what it was, and confusion swept over him.

—A Land Goliath—he murmured in awe.

A creature mutated by mana, a quadrupedal monster of the lizard race, with a body as large as a house, covered in brown scales as tough as metal. Its four eyes glowed with a fierce, primal fire, and sharp, bone-like spikes jutted from its back. The most dangerous thing about it, however, was its ability to manipulate the mana of the earth...

The tingling sensation at the back of his neck returned, and Berlian, following his instincts, jumped again just in time. A series of sharp earthen spikes erupted from the ground where they had just been. He looked at his son, his heart pounding.

—The ground's no longer safe—he whispered to himself.

Quickly, he leapt onto the canopy of a nearby tree and set Brián there, out of harm's way.

—Don't worry, son. Your old man will take care of this thing before it gets a whiff of the village.— He ruffled his son's hair, trying to comfort him with a smile, though he knew the boy was still paralyzed with fear. He had no time to spare. The village was in danger; it was too close to ignore, and right now, he was the only barrier between the beast and his home.

But as he dashed toward the creature, a question hammered in his mind:

What is a Land Goliath doing here? These beasts lived hundreds of kilometers away, deep within the forest, inside the tumultuous territory of Berkroa. And besides, something else bothered him… The Goliath looked wounded, as if it had battled something stronger and managed to escape.

He shook his head. There was no time to be distracted. With a roar, Berlian unsheathed his old axes, tools that had accompanied him since his glory days. He had a mission: drive the creature away from the village or kill it if necessary.

That last option would be tough with his current gear. After all, a six-skull warning-level monster was nothing to take lightly.

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The night fell over one of the many dormitories of the academy, dense and cold, like a curtain of eternal shadows. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, whispering ancient secrets that only the moons could hear. But inside, in that small dark room, the calm was shattered by an abrupt and violent awakening.

A young man with aquamarine-green hair jolted awake, his breathing ragged and uneven, his chest heaving as if he had been running for hours. Terror still clung to him, cold and suffocating, a shock of helplessness that left him momentarily paralyzed.

With a near-leap, he sat up on the bed, his hand clutching his head, praying for the pain to subside. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath unsteady, and cold sweat ran down his body, soaking his clothes and amplifying his discomfort.

Panting echoed in the room. Two figures fighting with ferocity had jolted him awake, pulling him out of an abyss that felt far from an ordinary dream—something much worse. His hands trembled, barely able to close into fists. He felt his skin burn beneath the sheets, which now clung to his sweaty body, suffocating and irritating. With a low growl, he violently threw them off, as if tearing them away could release something more than just the weight of the fabric.

The pain in his head was unbearable, sharp, like a thousand needles piercing his skull from within. He gritted his teeth, his hand clutching his head as he tried to control the migraine—or whatever it was. "It wasn't just a dream," he thought. "It couldn't have been just a dream."

What he felt was real; the fear and helplessness were real, and now they were consuming him. The truth hit him hard: what he had experienced while sleeping wasn't an illusion. It was something much worse... something etched into this body's memory, a cursed remnant of the past.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The cold sweat still trickled down his body, drenching his clothes and leaving him feeling even more out of control. He rose from the bed with clumsy movements, his body still trembling from the intensity of the experience. "A bath... I need a bath," he murmured in a hoarse voice, speaking to the emptiness of the room as if that could dispel the sensation of being prey to whatever had attacked him.

The room was dark; he had no idea of the hour, and the only light came from the moon faintly streaming through an uncovered window. He walked toward the small bathroom like a wandering ghost, not bothering to turn on any light source. It took him just a few steps to reach the small bathroom, a second to open the door, and another to step into the shower.

As soon as his hands found the faucet, he turned it abruptly, letting the icy water pour over his body, soaking him completely, clothes and all. The cold hit him like a slap of reality, but it was welcome. His breathing began to stabilize, and little by little, his mind emerged from the spiral in which it had been trapped.

Yes, this wasn't the first cursed dream to torment him. Brián... Aiden... Who the hell was he now? Every time he woke from these dreams, he felt as if something inside him was fracturing. Memories that had once been clear from his childhood vanished, small fragments of his old life blurred. The cost of these strange dreams was steep. When they ended, he always felt that a part of his past—something vital—was lost to the shadows, replaced by images of another world, another life that wasn't his. Or maybe it was... now.

He stripped off the soaked, uncomfortable, and heavy clothes, letting them fall with a wet thud onto the bathroom floor. He stayed under the water for a few more minutes, letting the cold numb him, soothing not just his body but also his mind, exhausted from overthinking, from trying to understand. When he stepped out, unsteady, as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders, he noticed the darkness around him. How long had he been there in the dark? He didn't know, and at that moment, he didn't care.

With his arm extended, he fumbled for the switch on the wall. Here, there was no fear of electricity; soon, a magical light flickered on with a soft hum, an alchemical product this world could pass off as the science of his old home. He blinked, squinting as he adjusted to the sudden brightness. Before him, the mirror reflected the face of a stranger—a young face, too perfect, too... unreal. If not for the exhaustion in his eyes, he could have mistaken it for the face of some child actor. But in that reflection now, there was no shine, no life.

"Too long..." he muttered, referring to his hair, which reached his shoulders and fell like a dark curtain over his forehead and eyes, hiding part of that unrecognizable face. He turned off the light, letting the shadows envelop him once more, and walked back to the simple room.

The room was now clean, except for the traces of his routine: clothes scattered around and an unmade bed. Well… a little more mess couldn't hurt, he thought as he tossed the wet clothes onto the growing pile of dirty laundry. Then, he found a half-used towel, sniffed it briefly, and decided it would do. He dried his hair and body with it before throwing it back into its usual corner.

He dressed without much thought, choosing the first thing he found in the closet, then closed it. His gaze wandered to the bed, the crumpled sheets still damp with his own sweat. With a resigned sigh, he forced himself to change them; sleeping in his own sweat would be far too uncomfortable.

He had seen another set at the bottom of the closet, so, of course, he opened it again and, almost rolling his eyes, got to work. It was a tedious task, but his mind focused on it, grateful for any distraction that could pull him away from those dark thoughts.

Clean clothes were starting to run out, he noticed almost unconsciously. Soon, he'd have to find a place to wash them or be left with nothing to wear. He sighed wearily; that would be a problem for future him. Searching for a magical laundromat wasn't an adventure he wanted to embark on in the middle of the night.

Changing the sheets was easier for this body compared to his previous one. Well… that was a silly thing to think. This world, this place, operated under its own universal rules, which meant some things would change, including themselves—even humans. Yes, here, seeing superhumans casting magic was completely natural.

Not that it stopped him from making casual comparisons, like this body having a greater running capacity than the best runners back home, and an impact strength greater than that of their best boxers.

He brushed the annoying hair out of his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as he surveyed his finished work. What was illogical back home was logical here. Now, with a bundle of fabric in his arms, he didn't hesitate to toss it onto the pile of dirty clothes heaped by the closet. With that, the pile nearly turned into a mountain. He would definitely have to find that magical laundromat hidden somewhere.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep again despite his fatigue, he sat in the wooden chair beside the small table he now used as an improvised desk. An antique-style hand lamp lit up with the motion of a crank. A mana stone glowed at its center, casting a soft, warm, orange light that filled the space—a light that reminded him of a campfire.

Such a simple alchemical object, used in everyday life, seemed incredible to him, like a small miracle. Not because of its main function, but because it could absorb mana from the environment and sustain itself indefinitely.

He reclined in the chair, gazing around the table at scattered papers, ink, and books he had been skimming out of boredom. On those papers, countless scribbles—masquerading as words—rested, scribbles he had written himself in a poor attempt to learn. He smiled with a bitter expression that didn't reach his eyes; he couldn't claim they were good attempts. Damn… it felt like going back to kindergarten with some developmental delay thrown in.

He scratched his head, embarrassed. He didn't have a good comparison method; his native tongue and this new language were so different it felt like writing in an alien dialect. He drummed his fingers on the table and brushed his hair out of his face again. Besides… why the hell did he have to attend classes on a Sunday? Because, apparently, here—or at least in this academy—days off didn't exist.

"Dumbrax…" he murmured, testing the day's name in his tongue, the equivalent of what his world would call "Sunday."

Vintar, Sator, Dumbrax… what he considered Friday, Saturday, and Sunday here were fully devoted to fencing training, which now also included first-year mana arts. He sighed resignedly and massaged his temples. He was getting frustrated over nothing. He was poor, had nowhere to call home, so he had to endure this until he could change it or find a way to return home.

That last thought made him frown, because he would return, and this world was definitely not just some stupid manga or a pathetic novel.

Whatever… screw it, his tired mind thought. If the illogical was logical here, then he'd do whatever he wanted until he had a stroke or woke up legless in some hospital.

Brián… Aiden… it didn't matter anymore. They no longer felt so different from one another.

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What to do when one feels lost? Undoubtedly, a difficult question to answer—one his mind couldn't easily shake off, one that continued to echo through the different corners of his life. It was like a persistent refrain, a nagging enigma that followed him relentlessly, offering no reprieve.

His aquamarine green eyes, pure as two gleaming jades, gazed at the night sky, where the vastness of space and its stars seemed to stare back, twinkling and enigmatic. Not a single cloud marred the horizon, nothing tainted the beauty of the night. It offered him a unique view, one that, far from the light pollution of home, revealed a sprawling universe seemingly unfolding just for him.

Yet something about this perfect scene felt almost surreal: two moons. Yes, two moons, orbiting like sentinels above the planet, each surrounded by a mysterious halo that captivated his gaze.

He sighed, fascinated by the oddity, unable to suppress his awe. That landscape, with its captivating details, held an almost hypnotic power over him; it made him feel small yet filled with an uncontainable sense of admiration, as though his eyes refused to part from this extraordinary beauty. A celestial canvas reminded him that this place was not the home he knew.

The night wrapped around him with its cold claws; his flimsy clothes failed to shield him, and he soon felt its chill seep into him. In hindsight, going out with just an old jacket wasn't the wisest decision, but could he be blamed? He had ventured out on impulse, seeking to soothe the frustration and suffocating stress that weighed on him, searching for that one escape that had always managed to calm him.

His sneakers touched the ground, the tips tapping against the dirt, the sound resonating in the stillness of the environment, accompanied only by the icy gusts of the restless wind. His leg muscles stirred, attempting to activate. He stretched a bit, evaluating his mental state, questioning how close he was to breaking down, how near he stood to collapse. Upon discovering the answer, he couldn't help but smile, though bitterly.

"Gods… I'm acting like a child," he muttered, wanting to laugh at himself, but not even a faint sound escaped his lips. His legs moved, his feet carried him along an unfamiliar path, pulling him away from the dormitories now receding behind him.

Running... that old, reliable therapeutic routine he had adopted over the years to clear his mind, to grant him a reprieve when everything seemed overwhelming. He had no music to accompany him this time, so the results might not be the same as usual, yet he had to try anyway.

He wanted to think. He wanted to decide what to do and how to move forward.

His feet moved rhythmically, the pace that once seemed unsustainable for long stretches now felt like a light jog. As the minutes passed, his breathing began to labor, the result of pushing himself to the maximum his legs could carry him in short, uncontrolled bursts. And the outcome? Well… he discovered he could run at speeds exceeding 50 kilometers per hour—an unheard-of feat in his world. Yet here, reality seemed to operate under a different set of rules.

Suddenly, he came to a dead stop, his soles digging into the ground as he fought to catch his breath. His mind remained a chaotic mess; however, a faint thread of clarity began to weave itself together—something fragile but firm enough to grasp, and he had no intention of letting go.

To little surprise, the nearly superhuman speed he had achieved failed to astonish him as much as it should have. Somehow, he already knew he was capable of it, unconsciously aware of his current capabilities and limits. He lifted his gaze toward the sky, where the spectacle of stars continued to unfold before his eyes. His body, now warm, no longer felt discomforted by the crisp autumn night air.

"Go all the way, huh?" he whispered, the cold wind carrying his words and rustling the leaves of nearby trees. That sense of clarity grew stronger, that fragile thread of thought becoming more dense, stable, and undeniable.

The path he had been running led him on a full circuit around the imposing Academy, its outer walls still visible from his position. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to flood his exhausted lungs with oxygen.

"Alright… nine more laps without stopping," he muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. Without music to drown himself in thought, he decided to recreate the challenges he had once set for himself during the early days of this routine. Back in high school, the idea had seemed brilliant to his younger self, though his body had wholeheartedly disagreed.

Partially recovered, he resumed his run, determined not to stop until he completed the promised laps. And so began what would soon become a recurring ritual—not merely a stress-reliever, but a rigorous physical training regimen.

The rhythm of his jog gradually took form, interspersed with sprints at full power that pushed him to his limits. Midway through the challenge, his muscles began to protest, his legs begging for rest. Yet he ignored them, pressing on without hesitation, without pause, until the task was done.

Slowly, endorphins flooded his system, his body surged with dopamine and serotonin, and his chaotic mind finally found peace. It felt as if every cell in his body was aligning, forming that thread he had glimpsed earlier. With each lap, his pace quickened, moving with an almost mechanical precision.

Another lap was completed, faster than the last… and another, again quicker. Another was finished, even swifter than before, and finally, one more—the fastest yet, nearly breaking the 70 kilometers per hour barrier. The realization brought a satisfied grin to his face.

At last, he stopped, returning to the point where he had begun. His breaths were shallow, the air barely reaching his lungs as his legs trembled from the exertion, almost numb. Yet a broad smile lit up his face, unbothered by his current state. His mind, finally calm, allowed him to think clearly and decide on his next move.

"In the end… in a reality straight out of a shonen, maybe it's time to think up shonen solutions," he mused, amused. What was illogical in his old world was logical here, so… why not make the most of it while he could? He suppressed a laugh at the thought. Yes, that was the thread his mind had latched onto.

Even as the cold wind stabbed at his sweaty skin, his brain felt sharper than ever, more focused than usual. If he couldn't return, if he couldn't give this body back, then he would live it to the fullest, burn through every second of this experience, and allow himself to dream. His arms stretched wide, his expression lifted as he gazed at the heavens… he would give it his all, consume everything, and see how far he could go before he fell.

Childish, he knew. But in a sea of possibilities, what kind of fool wouldn't seize the opportunity? Yes, he was being an idiot—a fool blinded by fear of the unknown, a very human fear that had anchored him to the single perspective of trying to return home. Oh, and don't get him wrong; of course, he would try to find a way back. But now, he wouldn't hesitate to explore these new possibilities. If death awaited him at the end of the road, then so be it.

"After all, I think I've already died once," he thought wryly, though he didn't truly believe that was the case. Yes, dopamine was likely playing tricks on him, but he didn't care. His decision was made, and it wouldn't change—not even hours later, when he had calmed down.

Brian… Aiden—did it even matter? They were one and the same now. He had known this from the start but had refused to see it amidst the chaos thrown onto his shoulders. The memories of his first twelve years were being overwritten by the twelve years of this body's experiences. So what? He could barely remember much from those days anyway. Why should he care? Exactly… screw all that. There was still so much of him left.

He began to stretch, certain that this way of thinking would soften in a few hours, but also sure it wouldn't waver. Yes, it was time to make the most of it, to follow a childish path his younger self had always dreamed of walking.

Who hadn't wished to belong to a fantastical world at some point? Who hadn't wanted to be like Goku, Spider-Man, or Superman? To cast magic or unleash bursts of energy from their hands? Who hadn't imagined themselves as the protagonist of a story, wielding power and shaping their destiny?

He sighed, brushing hair out of his face. Yes, it was definitely the dopamine talking, but it didn't matter. "So, where do I start?" he asked himself, his thoughts racing with possibilities. If he treated his innate ability like a video game mechanic, countless ideas came to mind.

A 100% chance for all his attacks to be critical hits. A 100% resistance to magic. A 100% capacity to use anti-magic. A 100% chance to parry everything. Even 100% penetration through anything. So many ideas, limited only by time.

He shook his head slightly, reining in his overactive imagination. He had to think about the consequences—because there would undoubtedly be consequences. His ability essentially allowed him to alter a fundamental aspect of himself, a power as dangerous as it was intriguing. That's why understanding its limits was crucial.

"Alright… critical hits it is," he decided aloud. It seemed like the least dangerous option to test out, at least for now.