Chapter 1: The Awakening

Chirp~ Chirp~

The sound of birds chirping reached his ears before his eyes fluttered open. A soft breeze from an open window ruffled his hair, and the distinct scent of earth and wood filled his nostrils. As his senses slowly returned, his eyelids creaked open, but the sight before him was unfamiliar.

He lay in a small bed, nestled under thick blankets, his body warm and oddly comfortable. The room around him was not his room—this was unmistakable.

His room was a small, stuffy apartment in the city with grey walls and framed posters of old video games he had grown up loving. This room…this room was different. The walls were made entirely of wood, rough-hewn and natural, with beams that curved and intertwined like the boughs of ancient trees. The ceiling arched above him in gentle slopes, and through the window, he could see the golden light of dawn filtering in over a half-ploughed field.

"Huh? Where am I?" The thought came to him, sharp and cold, cutting through the fog of sleep.

His heart quickened as he sat up suddenly, pushing the blankets away. His body felt strange, lighter somehow, and his limbs moved with an ease he wasn't used to. He looked down at his hands and froze. These hands were not his hands—his real hands were rougher, more calloused from years of hard work at the factory, with small scars scattered across them from various accidents. These hands were smooth, unblemished, and younger.

"W-what the hell…?"

Panic surged in his chest as he stood up, his feet touching the cool wooden floor. His eyes darted around the room for clues. There was a chair near the bed, a table with a simple metal basin, a large wooden wardrobe, and various pieces of clothing draped over it.

Everything looked rustic, almost medieval. But it wasn't just the furniture; the room itself felt old, as though it had existed long before he had. The air was fresh, yet thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the sunlight that poured through the open window was softer than the harsh urban light he was accustomed to.

"This isn't real. It can't be real. Did I drink last night? I-I don't think I did, I never drink on a night before work. So what the fuck is going on???"

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of confusion and fear. He had gone to bed in his small apartment just last night—he was sure of it. He remembered it clearly. He had brushed his teeth, set his alarm for work, climbed into his creaky old bed, and drifted off to sleep as usual. But this…this was not his apartment.

His fingers tightened into fists as he took a few shaky steps toward the window. His reflection caught his eye in the water basin by the window, and he froze again.

The face staring back at him was not his face. This body also was not his 6'2 feet high, but more like a 5'4 feet or so.

He blinked rapidly, as though that might somehow change what he was seeing. But the reflection stayed the same. This face was younger—much younger than his twenty-six years. The hair was a dark brown, tousled as though he had just woken up (which, in fairness, he had), but it was longer, brushing against the nape of his neck. His eyes were a deep blue, clearer and sharper than his own tired eyes had ever been. The skin was smooth, unmarred by the stress of sleepless nights or years of hard labor.

"Wh-what…? How is this possible?" he whispered to himself, his voice catching in his throat.

His heart thudded heavily in his chest, a mix of disbelief and fear coursing through him. He had heard of dreams that felt lucid before, but this? This was too vivid, too detailed, too consistent to be a dream. But if it wasn't a dream, then what the hell was going on?

Just as he began to spiral further into panic, a voice—soft and calm, yet somehow commanding—resonated inside his head.

'Do not be afraid'

He froze again. The voice was soothing, gentle, and yet filled with authority. It wasn't a voice he recognized, but it wasn't menacing either. It was simply…there.

'You have many questions, and I will answer them in time,' the voice continued. 'But first, you must understand what has happened to you.'

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Where…where am I? What is this? Who are you?"

'You are not where you once were. The life you knew is over. You died peacefully in your sleep, your heart simply giving way to rest. After your death, your life work was judged, and it was determined that you were deserving of more than the afterlife you imagined.'

His breath caught in his throat. Dead? No, that couldn't be right. He wasn't dead. He was here, standing in this strange room, breathing, moving— definitely alive. He felt alive.

'Your concept of heaven may not be what it seems,' the voice explained patiently, as though it could sense his disbelief. 'For each soul, heaven is different. Some find peace in realms of light and love. But for you, heaven has taken the form of something else. Something you have always wished for. You have been given a new life, a new identity, in a world familiar to you.'

His mind spun as he tried to make sense of the words. New life? New identity? What did that even mean? Did he get reincarnated???

'Yes, you have been reincarnated into the body of a character from a story you once knew. A story you loved. This is your heaven. To live in the world you cherished and to live this life as you see fit. You are now Eragon, son of Brom, a farm boy destined for a great and perilous journey.'

The words hit him like a wave, crashing over his already unsteady thoughts. Eragon? Wait a second, the Eragon??? He knew that name. Of course, he knew that name. He had read 'The Inheritance Cycle' as a teenager several times, devouring every word of the fantasy series. Eragon was the hero—the Dragon Rider who would rise to fight against tyranny, to save Alagaësia from the evil king, Galbatorix.

But this wasn't possible. It was fiction. Just a book—a series of books. Not real. Not something you could actually live in.

And yet here he was.

"This is insane," he said, his breathing growing rapid again. "This can't be real. This can't be happening."

'It is real,' the voice said, responding as though it could hear his very thoughts. 'And you are now the one to live this life. You have been given what some would call a golden finger—a gift that will aid you on your journey. This world is yours to do as you wish, nothing you do here will have any result negatively or positively on your "heaven" since this is just your reward. Your karma has earned you this chance. However remember, once you die again it will be game over and your soul will be erased'

The voice paused, allowing the weight of its words to sink in.

God's voice echoed then once more in his mind 'Two last things. Know that your memories of your past life, along with any thoughts concerning your golden finger, are protected. They will remain hidden, inaccessible to any who might try to pry into your mind. No magic, no power in this world will be able to read or observe them. These thoughts are yours alone, shielded from any form of intrusion. Including if you ever choose to be a Dragon Rider. Secondly, there is no such thing as a "true name" to the Ancient Language. So you can take your time to enjoy this life and not be in a hurry, fearing Galbatorix will someday discover the true name of the Ancient Language and come hunt you down.'

'I've said everything that is needed to be said. From now on we will not speak again. Good luck.'

And just like that, the voice was gone, leaving him alone once more.

"I... died in my sleep...? I got reincarnated??" He stood there, frozen by the window, trying to process everything he had just heard. His thoughts raced wildly, memories of his previous life and this new information clashing together in a chaotic storm. He is now 'Eragon'? How? Why? What did it mean to have died in his sleep and been reincarnated?

A sinking realization settled in his chest as he thought about his old life. He was…dead. Truly dead. He thought of his family—his mother and father, who had raised him with so much care, who had struggled but always made sure he was fed and clothed. His younger sister, the bright and bubbly presence in his life, always annoying but always full of love.

His coworkers at the factory, where he had worked long hours, day after day. His friends, who he saw far too infrequently but shared good memories with nonetheless. And yet…he had never been married. He had dated here and there, sure, but nothing had ever lasted long enough to mean anything. He had always thought there would be more time.

And now…now there was no time at all. That life was.... gone.

"What am I gonna do..?"

He stood in front of the window, his hands resting on the rough wooden sill, staring out at the horizon. The rising sun bathed the landscape in warm golden light, casting long shadows over the rolling hills and distant mountains. It was beautiful, serene in a way that the city never was.

The sky, tinged with soft hues of pink and orange, stretched endlessly above him, untainted by the clutter of urban life. The air was clean, fresh with the scent of pine, and each breath seemed to invigorate his body, filling him with an unfamiliar sense of calm.

As he watched the sun creep higher over the peaks, he found that his thoughts of his old life were slowly fading—not with sorrow or regret, but with a strange sense of detachment. Yes, he had died. That much was true. His heart had simply stopped in his sleep, and his life had ended without warning.

But as he stood there, watching this new world come alive with the dawn, he couldn't bring himself to feel all that heartbroken about it.

What would his life have amounted to, anyway? He had been twenty-six, working a job that barely paid the bills, living in a cramped apartment that always felt too small. He wasn't married, and although he had family and friends, the connections weren't as strong, friends come and go as they say.

And sure, maybe if he had stuck it out, he might have gotten lucky. He might have won the lottery or landed a better job. Maybe he would have married some beautiful woman, started a family, and lived out the rest of his days in relative contentment. But even then, it would have all ended eventually. In sixty or seventy years, his life would have been over, just like everyone else's.

But this…this was different.

'No, here in this world made for me, I get to live out my teenager fantasy. What I've always day dreamed while still in class, listening to those boring teachers. Here I can get to be a hero, to be admired by millions of people and looked up to while having power and immortality!'

The more he thought about it, the more fired up he became. His heart began to race, but not out of fear or anxiety this time. No, this was excitement—pure, unfiltered excitement. He had been given a chance that no one else could even dream of. He had been reincarnated as the main character in one of his favorite fictional worlds, with the promise of a "golden finger" to boot. He didn't know exactly what that meant yet, but the possibilities were endless.

"Hell, this is much better!" he said aloud, his voice filled with a growing sense of determination. His eyes gleamed with a fire that hadn't been there moments before. "I'm going to take this opportunity with both hands and live my life to the fullest. No more playing it safe, no more settling for less. This is my life now, and I'm going to make the most of it."

His grip on the windowsill tightened as his mind began to race with ideas and plans. He had always loved 'The Inheritance Cycle' world and plot—the story of Eragon's rise from a humble farm boy to a legendary Dragon Rider had captivated him as a teenager. But if he was being honest with himself, there were things about the story that had always left him unsatisfied.

For one, Eragon had always been a bit too meek for his liking. Sure, the kid had grown into his own by the end of the series, but there had been so many moments where he had let people push him around, where he had hesitated to make the hard choices.

And Arya…Arya had always been a sticking point. She was beautiful, powerful, and mysterious—everything he had ever wanted in a female lead. But Eragon had let her slip away. He had never fought for her the way he should have, always believing his duty as a Dragon Rider came first above his own desires. And that had always bothered him.

"Well, not this time," he muttered to himself, a determined smile spreading across his face. "I'm not going to make those mistakes. I'll be better. Stronger. And although I don't know if I would end up with Arya, I would definitely choose a beautiful wife that would shame any model from Earth! With my golden finger I will…" He trailed off, a thought suddenly striking him.

'Wait a minute. What is my golden finger?'

His excitement faltered for a moment as he realized he had no idea what this so-called golden finger even was. The voice had mentioned it, but it hadn't exactly given him any details. What kind of power had he been granted? Was it magic? Superhuman strength? Knowledge of the future?

Just as the question crossed his mind, a sudden rush of memories and information flooded his consciousness. It happened in an instant—so quickly and so seamlessly that he almost didn't notice it at first. It was as if the knowledge had always been there, buried deep within his mind, and had only now surfaced.

He blinked, his mind reeling from the sudden influx of information. But as quickly as the sensation had come, it passed, leaving him standing there with an entirely new understanding of his situation.

Not only had he been reincarnated into the world of 'The Inheritance Cycle', but he also now possessed the memories of the original Eragon. Every detail of the farm boy's life up to this point—hia childhood, his life with Garrow and Roran, everything from his 14 and a half years old life was now his to recall. And along with those memories came the knowledge of his golden finger.

A grin spread across his face as he processed it all. This was better than he could have ever imagined.