Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

My heart thrummed in my chest, a steady drumbeat of anticipation and fear, as I finally spoke.

"I'll cooperate,"

I said, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.

Len's gaze lifted from the pages, his eyes sharp and calculating, yet there was a flicker of something else.

He closed the book with a deliberate snap, the sound final, like the closing of a chapter I hadn't realized I'd finished.

"Good,"

"You'll be sent to another world—a game world of Arknight ."

The name hit me like a shockwave, sending a jolt of recognition through my veins.

Arknight. It wasn't just a name; it was a refuge, a place I'd clung to during the darkest stretches of my life.

I'd spent countless hours lost in its lore, its characters, its battles.

 Len was telling me I'd be living it. Not just observing, but *living*.

The thought was dizzying, almost too much to comprehend.

A second chance. A new life. Even if that world was shrouded in darkness, even if it was fraught with danger, it was more than I'd ever dared to hope for.

Len leaned forward, his elbows resting on chair arm rest, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

"You'll be given a new identity,"

. "A new body, one that fits seamlessly into that world. And you'll have four abilities to aid you."

My thoughts raced, a whirlwind of questions and possibilities. A new identity.

Who would I be? What would I look like? And abilities—what kind of power would I wield in a world like Arknight?

My mind clung to the details, desperate for something solid to hold onto, but the room was already beginning to blur at the edges, the walls dissolving into a haze of light and shadow.

I tried to speak, to ask one last question, but my voice caught in my throat as the world around me shifted, the ground beneath me seeming to fall away.

Len's voice reached me, faint but clear, his words carrying a strange mix of finality and promise.

"I look forward to seeing what you'll do."

And then, I was gone—slipping through the cracks of one reality and into the embrace of another.

The last thing I felt was a strange sense of weightlessness, as if I were being carried on a current I couldn't see.

***

Howard woke up.

His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling.

It was white, unblemished, and perfectly smooth.

He blinked, his mind sluggish, as though wading through thick syrup.

This isn't my body

he thought, the realization hitting him like a cold splash of water. He sat up slowly, the sheets sliding off him—crisp, white, and neatly tucked in at the corners.

The room was... ordinary.

Too ordinary. A bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet. Everything was arranged with precision, as if measured by a ruler.

The books on the shelf stood in perfect alignment, spines facing outward, titles neatly ordered by height.

The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, sterile and fresh.

Howard swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the cool wooden floor. He glanced down at his hands, turning them over.

They were unfamiliar—slender, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

He stood, his body feeling strangely light, as though he'd been asleep for days.

His clothes were simple—a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants.

They fit him perfectly, but they didn't feel like his. He walked to the mirror above the dresser and stared at his reflection.

The face that stared back was young, early twenties, with sharp features and red, inquisitive eyes.

This is someone else

Fragments of memories began to surface—like shards of glass catching the light.

A name.

A face. A voice.

They were unfamiliar, yet they felt like his.

New memories,

He realized.

Given to me. But by whom?

He closed his eyes, focusing on the fragments.

Len. Len gave me this body.

The name echoed in his mind, accompanied by a vague image of a man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes.

Len. Oh, now I do remember.

Howard opened his eyes, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of confusion and determination.

This body... this life... it's mine now

His stomach growled, a low, insistent rumble.

Food. I need food.

He made his way to the kitchen, the memories still flickering at the edges of his mind.

The kitchen was immaculate, every surface gleaming.

The countertops were free of clutter, the sink empty and dry.

A single knife rested on a cutting board, its blade sharp and polished. The fridge hummed softly, a steady, reassuring sound.

Howard opened the fridge and found a package wrapped in white paper.

He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a fresh fillet of fish—its skin silvery and smooth, the flesh firm and pink.

Salmon

He thought.

Perfect.

He set the fish on the counter and began to move, his hands working almost on their own.

He reached for the knife, his fingers wrapping around the handle with practiced ease.

The blade glinted as he brought it down, slicing through the fish with precision.

Score the skin,

a voice in his head instructed. He obeyed, making shallow diagonal cuts across the surface.

The memories were clearer now, sharper. He could almost hear the sizzle of oil in a pan, smell the fragrant aroma of herbs and butter.

He seasoned the fish with salt and pepper, his movements fluid and deliberate.

A pat of butter went into a pan, melting slowly over medium heat.

He added a sprig of thyme and a clove of garlic, the scents mingling and filling the kitchen.

Howard placed the fish in the pan, skin-side down, and listened to the satisfying hiss as it made contact.

He pressed gently on the fillet with a spatula, ensuring even contact with the heat.

Flip it when the skin is crisp,

the voice said. He waited, watching the edges of the fish turn golden brown. When the time was right, he flipped it with a flick of his wrist, the flesh now facing down.

He added a splash of white wine, the liquid bubbling and reducing into a glossy sauce.

The aroma was intoxicating—rich, buttery, with a hint of citrus.

Howard plated the fish with care, drizzling the sauce over the top.

He garnished it with a few fresh herbs, their vibrant green a stark contrast to the golden-brown skin.

He stepped back, admiring his work.

Like a chef

But as he sat down to eat, the memories returned, more insistent

They swirled in his mind, fragments of a life that wasn't his—yet felt familiar.

He took a bite of the fish, the flavors exploding on his tongue.

It was perfect. But the taste brought with it a pang of something else—longing, perhaps, or loss.

Len gave me this body

He thought again.

I now have the second opportunity that I desired.

Howard set his fork down, staring at the plate.

*Now what do I do? In this life?*

The questions hung in the air, unanswered.

But for now, Howard ate, the act of cooking and consuming the meal grounding him in the present.

The neat room, the perfect kitchen. The former owner of the body—or rather, the me of this world—was the explanation for this.

**

Howard's life was a tapestry woven with threads of abandonment, resilience, and quiet triumph.

Born a Liberi, he entered the world under a shadow of misfortune, his parents vanishing into the ether of their own struggles, leaving him to the cold embrace of an orphanage.

The walls of that institution became both his prison and his sanctuary,

A place where he learned to navigate the world alone.

It was there, amidst the echoing halls and the muted laughter of other forsaken children, that Howard first discovered his peculiar gift.

A piercing clarity in his gaze, an uncanny ability to discern truth from lies with nothing more than a look.

It was as if the world had handed him a key, one that unlocked the hidden chambers of people's deceit.

As the years unfurled, Howard carved a path for himself in the sprawling city of Lungmen, a metropolis where shadows danced with neon lights and secrets lurked in every corner.

With his talent he walked the path of detective. 

Searching the answer to his existence.

His career was not marked by grand triumphs or dazzling accolades, but by a steady, unyielding pursuit of answers.

He was never invited joined the prestigious Lee Detective Agency, a name that carried weight in the underworld of investigations, yet he achieved more than many who did.

His work was a quiet testament to his skill.

As Harold muttered, the name "Lee" he was once reminded this was truly the world of Arknight.

He walked and stood by the window of his modest apartment, his eyes tracing the jagged silhouettes of futuristic skyscrapers that pierced the heavens.

"Let us begin the day. "