"Now get out.
I have a theory about infusing a captured demon's soul with anti-gravity runes and I need to concentrate. Don't bother me unless you've broken something truly expensive or discovered a fundamental flaw in the laws of reality."
Alvian turned, left the chaotic laboratory, the heavy iron door closing silently behind him. He stood alone in the shadow of the grim tower, the modified ID clutched in his hand. His path at Overlords Academy was set, a road completely divergent from every other student. He wasn't here to learn. He was here to conquer. His eccentric, insane new mentor had just given him the map to all the best treasures.
The iron door of Professor Rogge's laboratory sealed shut behind Alvian, the silence of the corridor a stark contrast to the manic energy within. He stood for a moment, the black, modified student ID a cool, heavy weight in his palm. It was more than a key; it was a declaration of his unique status, a license for the chaos Rogge so eagerly anticipated. He had no intention of disappointing his new, eccentric patron.
His focus was now singular: the Temporal Simulation. Rogge's description of it as a "puzzle box full of bugs" was a siren's call to a man whose greatest weapon was his knowledge of the system's flaws. A test of pure intellect with his skills sealed was not a handicap; it was an arena perfectly suited to his strengths.
Navigating the academy was effortless with the modified ID. Instead of public light bridges and crowded plazas, the device projected a faint, ethereal line onto his vision. Private route through service corridors. Restricted zones. He walked through shimmering arcane barriers that would have vaporized a normal student. Past golem sentries that stood down at his approach, their glowing optical sensors dimming in deference. A ghost moving through the academy's secure nervous system. Completely unseen.
The path led him to one of the most technologically advanced islands. Gleaming chrome. Silent, automated systems. He arrived at a vast, sterile white hall, the air humming with the low thrum of immense power. Dozens of sleek, egg-shaped pods arranged in perfect rows—each one a gateway to a different simulated reality.
A prim, professional-looking attendant in a crisp white uniform approached him. Her eyes widened slightly as they fell on the black ID in his hand. Her polite smile became rigid, laced with a hint of nervous awe.
"Special Entrant Alvian," she said. Voice a pitch higher than she likely intended. She consulted her data slate, fingers flying across its surface. "Professor Rogge has already authorized your session. The Temporal Simulation for top-ranked freshmen... a solo run. This is highly irregular."
"I'm aware."
"Of course, sir," the attendant stammered, quickly recovering her composure. "Pod 07 is prepared for you. The parameters are set for historical scenario 73-B: The Howling Death of Silverpeak Pass. Your objective is to ensure the survival of a designated civilian asset. As per the rules of this particular simulation, all of your personal skills, attributes, and equipment will be sealed upon entry. You will be provided with a standard-issue cold-weather survival kit. The system will monitor your biometrics and problem-solving efficiency to calculate your final score."
She led him to a pristine white pod, its surface seamless and cool to the touch. The hatch hissed open. A plush, reclining chair surrounded by a myriad of faintly glowing sensors.
"Please lie down and secure the neural-link helmet. The simulation will commence in ninety seconds," she said, bowing slightly before retreating to a monitoring station.
Alvian settled into the chair. The cushioning molded to his form. He fitted the sleek helmet over his head—familiar sensation that felt like coming home. The world outside began to fade. Replaced by a series of system prompts that flashed across his vision.
[Connecting to Temporal Simulation Server…]
[Authentication Successful. Welcome, Special Entrant Alvian.]
[Loading Scenario: 73-B - The Howling Death of Silverpeak Pass.]
[System Integrity Check: Commencing parameter seal.]
A sudden, profound feeling of weakness washed over him. Phantom sensation. A digital stripping of his power. He felt his enhanced Strength and Speed drain away, replaced by the baseline frailty of a normal human. The link to his skills—most critically, to the comforting, omnipotent presence of [Shadow Weave +2]—was severed. The icon in his interface greyed out. Inert and unresponsive.
It was deeply unsettling. Like having a limb amputated. For the first time since his rebirth, he was truly powerless. He had no SSS-Rank talent to rely on. No legendary skills to carry him. All he had was what was inside his head: memories of a harsh, unforgiving world and the cold, analytical mind that had been forged within it.
[Skill Seal: COMPLETE.]
[Attribute Seal: COMPLETE.]
[Equipment Seal: COMPLETE.]
[Assigning Standardized Human Baseline Stats.]
[Injecting Scenario…]
**BOOM!**
His mind went blank as the sterile white void of the pre-simulation lobby was violently shattered. The world reformed around him not as a gentle fade-in. A sensory explosion. A savage, shrieking wind tore at him—driving needle-sharp particles of ice into his exposed skin. The temperature was a physical blow, soul-deep cold that instantly leeched the warmth from his body. His vision was a swirling, blinding vortex of white.
He was standing on a narrow, treacherous mountain path. Sheer cliff face on one side. A thousand-foot drop into a swirling abyss of snow on the other. He wore simple, thick winter clothing. A small, worn leather pack slung over his shoulder—the survival kit.
A series of notifications, colored a dangerous crimson, appeared in his vision. Text flickering against the storm.
[WARNING! You are suffering from the [Frigid Gale] status effect. Body temperature is dropping rapidly.]
[WARNING! You are accumulating stacks of the [Frostbite] debuff. Dexterity and movement speed are reduced by 15%.]
[Objective Updated: Locate the civilian asset, Anna, and ensure her survival until the blizzard subsides.]
[Time until critical hypothermia: 30 minutes.]
The world was a howling, white hell. The clock was already ticking. The simulation had begun. Alvian pulled the fur-lined hood of his parka tighter, his face a mask of grim determination. His game-breaking skills were gone, but the veteran survivor who had clawed his way through a real apocalypse?