Early morning sunlight streamed through the window and fell across the oversized bed, where a young man lay sprawled in every possible direction.
His brow furrowed slightly, clearly displeased by the intrusion.
In the end, even the wonderfully chaotic dream he had been enjoying could not withstand the glare.
He reluctantly opened his eyes, dragged himself upright, and spent several long seconds staring blankly into space before rubbing his face and yawning.
Once he took in the familiar American-style décor around him, he finally seemed to wake up properly.
He stretched, scratched his ass, and shuffled out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, planning to grab some water before beginning his usual morning session upon the porcelain throne.
Every lazy movement radiated the kind of easygoing confidence no overworked corporate drone could ever hope to possess.
The source of that confidence was obvious—the absurdly long string of numbers sitting comfortably in his bank account.
After clearing away the remnants of last night’s snacking and washing up, the young man studied his reflection.
The mirror showed a striking Eurasian face handsome enough for the big screen.
He nodded in satisfaction, brewed himself a cup of coffee, and carried it into the study.
With a casual wave of his hand, an enormous twenty-inch book nearly as thick as his fist appeared on the desk.
Neatly printed across its cover in English were the words: Alchemy: From Beginner to Buried That’s right.
The young man was a transmigrator.
In his previous life, he had been the very definition of an exploited office worker, grinding away from nine in the morning until nine at night, six days a week, while constantly wondering whether the next round of layoffs would leave him unemployed.
Despite being such an ordinary man, he had somehow joined the ranks of the dimensionally displaced one morning while sitting on the toilet, courtesy of a delivery truck that had apparently fallen from the heavens.
Even now, he could not understand how the damn thing had managed to crash into the bathroom of his third-floor apartment while blasting some inspirational anthem about everyone struggling to stay alive.
Fortunately, although the process had been ridiculous, the result had worked out rather well.
The former wage slave had awakened in the body of a young man named Sherlock.
His new parents were already dead, but the enormous insurance payout and the fortune they had left behind allowed him to achieve the financial freedom he had always dreamed of.
As for the enormous book on the desk, that was naturally Sherlock’s cheat ability.
Its contents covered virtually every form of alchemy imaginable, from the clap-your-hands-and-transmute-anything style found in Fullmetal Alchemist to the magical crafting methods used to create all manner of enchanted objects in the wizarding world.
Admittedly, it had been rather strange for the introductory chapter of an arcane tome to begin with a perfectly ordinary periodic table.
Still, after five years of dedicated study and experimentation, Sherlock could now confidently call himself an exceptional alchemist.
Studying the book had long since become part of his daily routine.
After all, few people could resist a learning process that rewarded every bit of effort with immediate, tangible results.
With this book, the phrase “knowledge is power” was not a metaphor—it was a literal fact.
“It’s honestly difficult to believe, Sherlock.
You woke up this early and voluntarily sat down to read.” A pleasant, almost ethereal female voice suddenly came from behind him.
Sherlock did not appear surprised in the slightest.
He calmly closed the grimoire, turned in his chair, and looked toward the smiling figure standing beside the cabinet.
“Ancient One, are Sorcerers Supreme really this bored?
This is already the third time you’ve appeared in my house without warning this month.” The Ancient One looked genuinely astonished by his complaint.
“I thought the sparks from my portal were bright enough that you would have noticed me immediately.” Sherlock stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words.
He could not even argue with that logic, so he settled for rolling his eyes.
As for how Sherlock had come to know the Ancient One—a problem most transmigrators would have preferred never to face—the explanation was simple.
She had appeared in front of him on his very first day in this world.
Contrary to his expectations, she had neither interrogated him nor attempted to expel him from reality.
Instead, she had simply smiled and asked him one question.
“Would you like to come to Kamar-Taj and eventually become the Sorcerer Supreme?” Sherlock’s answer had been immediate.
“Nah.” It might have sounded surprising, but Sherlock had never liked the idea of borrowing power from cosmic beings with his soul as collateral.
Besides, with the grimoire at his disposal, there was no reason to believe his future accomplishments would fall short of those mystical close-combat specialists.
Naturally, he had refused.
Even so, the Ancient One had not driven him away.
Instead, she frequently visited under the pretense of monitoring an outsider who did not belong in this universe, though she usually spent those visits observing his alchemy with open curiosity.
After five years of this, the two of them could more or less be considered friends.
Having long since grown accustomed to Sherlock’s terminal laziness, the Ancient One took no offense at his exasperated expression.
She merely smiled and asked the same familiar question once again.
“Are you certain you don’t want to come to Kamar-Taj and inherit my position?
We are talking about becoming the Sorcerer Supreme.” Sherlock’s expression grew even flatter.
With a wave of his hand, the enormous grimoire vanished from the desk.
“That makes five thousand, two hundred and thirty-six times you’ve asked me over the past five years.
My answer hasn’t changed.
Hell no!
I have no interest in spending eternity serving some cosmic monster after I die.” The Ancient One’s smile remained unchanged, as though they had repeated this conversation countless times—which, in truth, they had.
Her gaze drifted toward Sherlock’s right arm.
She studied it for several seconds before offering him a faintly enigmatic smile.
“And yet you devoted yourself to Truth.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again.
“Don’t tell me the mighty Sorcerer Supreme can’t see the difference between Truth and those things lurking out in the cosmos.” The Ancient One could only sigh.
With a casual sweep of her hand, a generous breakfast spread appeared across Sherlock’s desk.
He did not stand on ceremony and immediately began helping himself.
Between bites, he said, “You should already understand that my ‘Truth’ is closer to a fundamental law of the universe.
It has no agenda and no desires.
It simply follows the rules.
That humanoid figure you saw was nothing more than an abstract concept adopting a form your mind could comprehend.” “So you attempted the forbidden art of human transmutation, sacrificed an arm and an eye, and crossed the Gate of Truth…” The Ancient One paused, her expression turning almost amused.
“All so you could create yourself a pet?” The moment she finished speaking, a tiny portal opened beside them.
A small pink-haired figure came racing through from the other side in a bizarre, flailing sprint before launching itself straight into Sherlock’s arms.