Chapter 3: Abel-Toriel

The annual salary that the castle provided to Rodney the scholar was 2,000 gold coins—a vast fortune for any commoner, roughly equivalent to eight hundred thousand RMB. Byrne had learned indirectly that Rodney earned even more each month teaching the children of nobility in Sevendon. The title of ‘scholar’ was reserved for learned men, carrying greater influence among the common folk than it did among the aristocracy.

Rodney had received care from Count Iolum in his youth, which explained why he now resided in such a remote village. At first, Rodney had scoffed at the sum, but now he found the money somewhat daunting.

Count Iolum was a high-level arcanist, renowned throughout Sevendon and one of the deputy deans at Giles Academy. Byrne wasn’t sure if this arcanist was the same as the one in his memories, but he was certainly some sort of mage. Byrne dared not behave too conspicuously, and after creating a small training ground, he focused on playing the role of a (pseudo) genius.

Apart from diligently training his body, Byrne excelled in his studies, outshining his peers. He tried to act as befitted his age, and upon learning he had a mage for a grandfather, he became even more cautious, refraining from any peculiar behavior.

This was a real world, not the mindless fiction where everyone was a fool; each person possessed their own independent soul. Having occupied another child’s body, if he went around speaking differently or acting beyond his years, it would be obvious that something was amiss. Cases of being burned or hanged for demonic possession were not unheard of, and Byrne didn’t dare wager that the ignorant peasants wouldn’t storm the noble castle and drag him out to be burned.

In a world with beings of extraordinary power, he might have his soul extracted, or his memories harvested and be imprisoned for tens of thousands of years, as so many stories and films had described. Byrne had no intention of gambling on such possibilities.

Rodney was both delighted and troubled. Having a prodigy as a student was certainly a joy, but when the student was too gifted, the pressure on the teacher became unbearable. Even slowing the pace, Rodney was nearly exhausted and was forced to introduce a subject with which he himself was not particularly familiar: the Elven language.

He certainly couldn’t teach fluently, much as someone who couldn’t speak English could still recite the alphabet. “From today, we’ll begin learning Elven script,” Rodney announced.

Byrne’s eyes instantly lit up.

Elves! Elves were the staple of any otherworldly setting, and he wondered if the elves here matched his memories—beautiful men and women. For those children who had managed to endure, Rodney considered accepting a few as disciples—their talent and perseverance were remarkable, though none could compare to Byrne. Not only was Byrne gifted, but his grandfather, Count Iolum, was his teacher; Byrne’s future was limitless.

Rodney ignored the resentful glances from other students; Byrne was his principal pupil, the others mere additions. There was no rebellion or demands for fairness as in novels; in this rigidly stratified society, even gossip behind closed doors was a grave offense. Discovery could mean not only death for the culprit, but ruin for their family.

Simply being allowed to study was a privilege. Rodney had taught many nobles; most were extremely stingy with disseminating knowledge to the lower classes, often forbidding their servants and tenants from even learning to read.

Rodney wrote several Elven characters on the blackboard, then pointed to one. “Authentic Elven script is more graceful, with several forms of writing.”

He let Byrne observe a while, then continued, “The two most classic and commonly used forms are prevalent among human nobility as well. This is the Quenya Elven script,” he said, pointing to another, “and this is the Sindarin Elven script.”

“To learn Elven script, we must discuss the history of the Elven race. Besides Common, most human writing systems are improvements upon Elven scripts. Unlike elves, we humans are not long-lived, but we have advanced many crafts through diligent study.”

Rodney soon slipped into his element—once he found his stride, he couldn’t stop boasting, especially with an audience. He became so engrossed in his own world that he wouldn’t snap out of it until he finished.

As Rodney spoke, everyone listened with rapt attention, enchanted by the allure of Elven culture.

No one noticed Byrne’s face growing increasingly grim.

“After the Three-Leaf War, Melirita became the center of all Elven art and advanced magic, a place coveted by scholars of all races across the continent…”

“At the height of the Elven civilization, the first civil war erupted, known as the ‘Crown War.’ During this period of conflict, the elves turned upon one another; all elves were drawn into the strife, affecting countless nations and races. Afterwards came the Dark Cataclysm, which destroyed Melirita, leaving a wasteland in the Supreme Wilds. The exact causes are now lost to history.”

Rodney’s face was tinged with regret and longing for Melirita.

“I once read in an obscure journal a passage you might find amusing. It claimed that the continent we inhabit was once a single, vast landmass.” Rodney wrote a few more characters. “In Elven script, it is called the ‘One Land.’ Human nations use the Elven term, though elven throats are more delicate than ours, making their pronunciation difficult to match. The word in Elven is…”

“Faerûn!”

The moment Rodney uttered the word, Byrne’s mind exploded in shock.

His face blanched, teeth chattering, cold sweat pouring down.

Rodney, being close, immediately noticed something amiss and asked with concern, “Byrne, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

“N-no, nothing’s wrong, Professor Rodney.”

Byrne forced a smile, “I’m just a bit uncomfortable, probably didn’t rest well yesterday.”

“Perhaps we should stop here for today, and let you rest,” Rodney suggested.

“Alright.” Byrne immediately stood, bowing, “Thank you—sorry for the trouble.”

He hurried out of the classroom.

Rodney watched him leave, worried.

The guard outside looked at Byrne’s pale face in surprise, unsure what had happened.

Within ten minutes, news of Byrne’s condition reached Viscount Gordon. Fearing a recurrence of ‘old illness,’ he summoned the physician and rushed to Byrne’s room.

They found Byrne lying in bed, surprised to see them. Viscount Gordon approached, seeing only pallor and no other symptoms, and sighed in relief.

Byrne realized he must have startled Viscount Gordon, and felt a warmth in his heart.

“It’s nothing, just a stomach ache. I feel much better now.”

Soon the physician arrived, examined him, and found nothing amiss.

Viscount Gordon was finally at ease.

“Rest well. Today’s lessons are canceled. If you need anything, ask the maid…”

Knowing Byrne needed rest, he gave a few more words of concern and left with his retinue.

Creak…

As the door closed, Byrne let out a long breath.

His head throbbed; Rodney’s revelation had triggered a torrent of memories.

The information was a little chaotic and incomplete, but he understood the essentials, and his physical reaction was mainly from fear.

Though some memories were missing, he now knew exactly where he was.

Abeir-Toril!

The most famous world of Dungeons & Dragons!

The history and stories of Toril could fill tens of thousands of novels and scripts.

The genesis of fantasy worlds: a tabletop game turned global phenomenon.

After generations of development, the spin-off products were countless; nearly every fantasy novel or film bore its influence.

If one were to sum up this world in a single phrase, it would be—

Demigods as common as dogs, liches everywhere!

As a multiverse, the origin of all fantasy and magic, Byrne could understand why the world seemed so hostile to him.

Every transmigrant was a destroyer of history; no world would welcome someone intimately familiar with its lore.

The butterfly effect was no mere theory—any minute change could alter the course of history.

If it were the Tang Dynasty, or the worlds of Condor Heroes, or other film worlds, Byrne might be able to change history. But not in D&D, not in Toril.

He didn’t know which unknown deity or powerful entity granted him this new life.

Yet, having lived one life, he felt gratitude—being alive was preferable to being dead.

His memories from his previous life slowly resurfaced, though his life was nothing special. Given the choice, he would prefer modern comforts: copying books, singing songs… even in ancient times, he’d settle for a peaceful existence with a few confidantes.

But now he had been tossed into a world of swords and sorcery.

And not just any world, but the most lawless, chaotic, illogical realm—Faerûn!

Changing the world was out of the question; this was a recipe for disaster!

This was hell mode. Death wasn’t the worst—if his soul could return after death, that would be fine; but he feared his soul would remain trapped here.

Yes, in this world, every sentient being had a soul!

Those who were devout would have their souls enter the divine realm after death, to dwell eternally with their gods.

But for someone like Byrne, a young man raised under the red flag of new society, faith in deities was impossible—even starting now, he could never achieve true devotion.

He had no pious heart; even uttering a deity’s name could invoke divine punishment (due to missing memories, he wasn’t yet aware of the distinctions between zealots, believers, and nominal worshippers).

The most likely scenario was that, after death, he would be plastered onto the Wall of the Faithless, or swept into the Styx and dragged into the Abyss.

This world was truly repulsive—without faith, even death offered no escape. If your soul ascended, you might be caught and used as a brick in the wall.

This place, known throughout the multiverse as the Wall of the Faithless!

Even fleeing Faerûn meant risking the Styx, which spelled certain doom, as the river would gradually erase all memory.

The Styx flowed directly into the endless Abyss!

The Abyss, a name synonymous with terror everywhere!

It even had layers—a particularly ominous number.

666!

Was it not especially ironic?

(666, in Western culture, symbolizes devils and demons, an unlucky number!)

The Abyss had 666 layers, each virtually infinite, home to countless demons!

Even gods could be slain here in an instant.

(The 666 layers are not literal; the Abyss constantly expands, and no one knows its true depth. 666 is merely an estimate.)

…