The Archmage Transmigrates into a Fraudulent State Preceptor

I woke up in the body of Aldric Vane — a fraud who had bluffed his way to the title of Grand Archmage of Calderis. Three years of fake prophecies, trinket spells, and staged miracles had made him a legend. But when the kingdom's north tower began to ring on its own, and a faceless figure appeared at its peak, his lies were about to catch up with him.

The real Archmage — me — had just arrived.

And I had no intention of playing his game.

Chapter 1

When I woke up, I smelled incense.

Too much laurel powder, too little ebony dust, and a pinch of wormwood mixed in. This formula wouldn't nourish the spirit — it would only draw wandering spirits to the bedside.

I opened my eyes.

Wine-red velvet hung from the canopy, silver-thread embroidered crowns glinting coldly in the candlelight. Dark oak walls on all sides. The fireplace blazed bright, but the air was as cold as a cellar.

On the wall hung a large star-chart.

I stared at it for three seconds, then sat up.

The North Star was marked in the south. The constellations of Gemini and Canes Venatici were completely reversed. At each of the four corners of the frame, a spirit-gathering crystal was embedded, their points all aimed at the bed.

This wasn't decoration.

This was an array.

An inverted spirit-gathering array.

I got out of bed, walked over, and reached out to touch the nearest crystal.

The crystal shuddered sharply.

A faint hiss came from behind the oak wall. A thread of black light crept along the crack — as if something inside the wall had opened its eyes.

I reached up and ripped the star-chart down.

Behind it, sure enough, a spirit-summoning seal was carved into the wall.

The mark was fresh.

I stared at that seal, and a flood of foreign memories surged into my mind — not mine.

Aldric Vane.

Grand Archmage of the Kingdom of Calderis.

Royal Arcane Advisor, honorary head of the Mystic Arcanists' Association, handler of all strange matters the Church couldn't be bothered with.

Three years ago, he'd "prophesied a storm" and saved the royal farms, earning the King's appointment as Grand Archmage.

In truth, he'd simply eavesdropped on the Astral Hall's weather forecast, lit a fire outside the palace the night before, and recited a few lines cribbed from a street magician's pamphlet.

When the rain fell, he became a miracle himself.

After that, he coasted on fake incantations, shoddy artifacts, and grand enough ceremonies — right up until I woke up.

A flurry of footsteps sounded outside the door.

"Archmage Vane! Your Excellency!"

The door burst open. A young man in grey-blue uniform stumbled in, clutching a roll of parchment to his chest.

He looked under twenty-five, pale-faced, forehead drenched in sweat.

"Something's happened at the palace," he said.

"What?"

"The north tower's spirit-summoning bell rang."

"Who rang it?"

"No one."

I looked at him.

He swallowed. His voice dropped lower.

"The tower-keeper said he saw a person standing at the top. No face."

"Does the tower have windows?"

"No."

"The bell rope?"

"Removed long ago."

"The tower door?"

"Locked from the inside."

I walked over to the desk.

On it lay everything Aldric had left behind: a cracked crystal ball, three bottles of murky alchemical potions, a silver chain carved with false runes, and a wooden staff set with cheap glass.

I picked up the staff.

There was something inside it.

When channeling magic, the power would flow back along the cracks — at best burning the hand, at worst knocking the caster unconscious.

I snapped it over my knee.

The young man gasped.

"Archmage... since when could you break a staff with your bare hands?"

"Just now."

He stared blankly.

I searched the memories and found his name: Thomas Reid, Aldric's personal attendant. For three years, he'd collected payments, covered lies, and explained away countless failed rituals.

Thomas stared at me like he'd seen a ghost.

"You never used to inspect artifacts."

"The previous version had poor taste."

"Who do you mean?"

"Me."

I pulled open the cabinet.

It was stuffed with salt packets, candles, copper nails, and a leather pouch labeled "Moon Dust." I opened it — flour.

At the very bottom, though, lay a length of black iron.

Decent material.

I set the iron on the desk, pinched some silver powder, and scratched three spell-runes into its surface with my fingernail.

First: strengthen will.

Second: channel power.

Third: block backlash.

The instant I finished the last stroke, all three crystals in the room lit up at once.

The black light behind the wall died.

The color drained from Thomas's face right along with it.

"What was that?"

"A thing that actually works."

In the distance, a bell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Thomas jerked his head up.

"The Mystic Arcanists' warning bell."

"Meaning that thing in the north tower is real."

A fourth tone came from the palace direction.

Low. Long. The window frame trembled with it.

That was the spirit-summoning bell.

No one had touched it. It had rung on its own.

I tucked the black iron artifact into my sleeve, threw on a dark grey robe, and headed for the door.

Thomas hurriedly asked: "Should I bring salt?"

"No."

"Silver powder?"

"Bring it."

"Holy water?"

"Unnecessary."

He hesitated, then asked carefully: "And the old staff?"

"Burn it."

I pushed open the door.

Beyond the window at the end of the corridor, the north tower was shrouded in a pallid white light.

A blurred figure stood in the center of that light.

No face.

On the stone ground at the base of the tower, a pitch-black seal had appeared.

The ink was still wet.

Someone had drawn it — just before I woke up.