Before the village boy could even take his first step toward the horizon, his soul was consumed and merged with that of the transmigrator, Roland.
While the boy was technically the original owner of this physical vessel, the "Roland" from modern society carried a tidal wave of knowledge and information that easily overwhelmed the youth's nascent consciousness. The merge was less a meeting of minds and more an intellectual takeover.
Now, Roland—the composite being—lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and muttering to himself in a mix of anxiety and disbelief.
"He only practiced basic swordsmanship for two months? No survival training? No monster lore? And he was just going to wing it as an Adventurer?" Roland ran a hand through his hair, exasperation clear in his voice. "This kid wasn't brave; he was suicidal."
Sure, becoming an Adventurer was the only way to climb the social ladder in this medieval fantasy world, but the mortality rate for rookies had to be astronomical. How many farm boys ended up as fertilizer in some nameless ditch every year? Hundreds? Thousands?
With his current "build"—or lack thereof—stepping into the wilderness was essentially volunteering to be a high-protein snack for the first monster he encountered.
Roland clasped his hands behind his head, staring into the dark. As a transmigrator, wasn't there supposed to be a standard-issue "Golden Finger"? A system? A cheat code? A hidden grandfather in a ring?
If he really had to do this on "Hardcore Mode" without a single perk, his second life was going to be remarkably short.
Suddenly, as if answering his silent plea, a translucent, slate-gray window flickered into existence before his eyes. Roland bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Status Window
* Name: Roland
* Race: Human
* Class: Farmer (Novice)
* Level: Unranked (Ninth Tier)
Core Attributes
| Attribute | Score | Description |
|---|---|---|
| Strength | 5 | Physical explosiveness, lifting power, environmental resistance. |
| Agility | 5 | Reaction speed, balance, and dexterity. |
| Constitution | 5 | Stamina, metabolic health, and vitality. |
| Intelligence | 7 | Memory, processing speed, and logical deduction. |
| Perception | 6 | Insight, sensory acuity, and environmental awareness. |
| Willpower | 7 | Cognitive focus, mental fortitude, and self-control. |
> Note: 5 is the average score for a healthy adult male.
>
Abilities & Skills
* Heart (Unique Skill): [Data Locked]
* Gaze (Unique Skill): [Data Locked]
* (Note: Unique Skills do not display proficiency levels.)
Mental Realm (The Training Ground)
* Operational Cost: 3 Enkephalin / 1 Hour
* Description: Enter a simulated subconscious space to accelerate combat experience and skill mastery.
Talent: Cogito (I Think, Therefore I Am)
* Lore: The fusion of two souls has excavated a deep well into the Primordial Ocean. This sea contains the collective unconscious of humanity—past, present, and future. It is both the abyss that swallows and the ladder that ascends.
* Effect 1 (Extraction): You can manifest "Abnormalities" from the collective unconscious and convert them into E.G.O. Equipment/Abilities.
* Warning: Using E.G.O. requires "Resonance." Overuse leads to "Erosion." Total erosion results in "Distortion."
* Effect 2 (Materialization): Grant the user the power of mental manifestation, allowing them to forge their own personal E.G.O. (Divine Armament) from their soul.
* Warning: Those with wavering faith will be consumed by their own desires.
* Effect 3 (Harvest): Absorb the souls or lingering emotions of the deceased nearby and convert them into Enkephalin.
* Use: Enkephalin can be used to fuel the Training Ground, heal mental trauma, or increase Resonance with Abnormalities to stave off Distortion.
* Current Enkephalin: 30
* Trait: The Stranger
* Description: You are a bird without a nest, a traveler in a land that does not know your name. You can only grow in solitude.
* Effect: Learning/Adaptation +40%; Mental/Willpower Resistance +50%.
* Countdown to Trial: 50 Days
"This... this is it!" Roland breathed, his eyes wide. "It's not just a system—it's the Lobotomy Corporation system!"
The shock was quickly replaced by a manic surge of adrenaline. If he could extract Abnormalities, he wasn't just a peasant with a rusty sword. He was a walking containment facility. He could wield the powers of urban legends and cosmic horrors.
"Doesn't this mean I can just steamroll this world?" he wondered aloud.
But as the initial high faded, the pragmatist in him took over. He only knew this world through the fragmented memories of a farmhand who had never ventured ten miles past the village gates. He was effectively blind.
"Maybe I should stay here," he mused. "Hunker down in the village, farm some Enkephalin from slaughtered livestock, and build my strength in the Mental Realm until I'm actually a threat."
It was a safe, logical plan. It was the "White-Collar" way to play. But then his eyes drifted to the very bottom of the screen.
Countdown to Trial: 50 Days.
As he focused on the text, a detailed sub-menu expanded, sending a chill down his spine.
> Trial Protocol:
> When the timer hits zero, you will undergo the Six-Color Trial.
> * Success: Massive power growth and rewards.
> * Failure: Severe permanent debuffs or instant termination of the host.
> Intensity Tiers: Dawn, Noon, Dusk, Midnight.
> Ordeals: Green (Machine), Amber (Food), Violet (God), Crimson (Life), Indigo (Sweeper), Pale White (Fixer).
>
"Holy crap," Roland hissed. "It's not a countdown. It's a death clock."
He knew these trials from the game. They weren't "challenges"; they were cleanup crews designed to wipe out everything in their path. At his current level, if a Green Dawn or an Amber Noon manifested in this tiny village, there wouldn't even be ashes left of him.
"Staying here is a death sentence. I can't grind Enkephalin fast enough on chickens and cows to survive a Midnight Ordeal in fifty days."
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He had to move. He had to find higher-density sources of Enkephalin—monsters, battlefields, ancient ruins. He had to grow, and he had to do it at a breakneck pace.
The next morning, Roland didn't look back.
After a stiff, somewhat awkward goodbye to his "parents"—who were essentially strangers to his modern mind, though his body felt a lingering ache of guilt—he packed his meager belongings. He tossed his bag into the back of a merchant's carriage, a space usually reserved for crates and barrels.
As the carriage rumbled along the uneven dirt path toward the nearest trade hub in Bavaria, Roland sat huddled in the corner. He clutched the hilt of the two-handed sword, his knuckles white. The cold iron was the only thing that felt real in this surreal transition.
He spent the first hour staring at the attribute panel, trying to find a "Beginner's Gift" or a hidden tutorial button.
"Maybe I just need to think 'Open'?" he whispered. Nothing. "Resonate? Extract?"
After another hour of fruitless mental poking, he slumped against the wooden slats of the carriage wall. "Maybe I'm just hallucinating. Maybe the electric shock just fried my brain and I'm currently dying in a hospital bed in Berlin while my brain invents a fantasy world to cope."
JOLT.
The carriage hit a massive rut in the road. Roland, who had been lost in thought, was tossed forward like a ragdoll. He slammed into the floorboards with a dull thud.
"Damn it!" he barked, his backside throbbing. "Does the concept of a suspension system just not exist here? My spine is going to be shorter by two inches by the time we arrive!"
He scrambled back onto his seat, rubbing his bruised hip. Being a "hitchhiker" meant he had no right to complain to the driver, but the primitive technology was already grating on his modern nerves.
Just as he was about to settle back in, a high-pitched, blood-curdling shriek pierced the air from the front of the convoy.
The carriage slammed to a violent halt.
Roland froze. Even without seeing outside, his heightened Perception picked up the shift in the atmosphere. The forest, which had been filled with the chirping of birds, went deathly silent for a heartbeat before exploding into chaos.
Shouts of "Ambush!" and "To arms!" echoed down the line. Footsteps pounded on the dirt—heavy, frantic, and numerous.
Roland's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached down and slowly, shakily, drew the two-handed sword. The steel scraped against the scabbard with a sound that felt far too loud.
He'd never been in a fight. Not a real one. In Berlin, the most "combat" he'd seen was a heated argument over a parking spot. But his body, fueled by the "Roland" who had trained with the militiaman, moved on instinct. He lowered his center of gravity, gripping the hilt with both hands, his eyes fixed on the canvas flap at the rear of the carriage.
Then, the sunlight was blocked out.
A dark, lithe silhouette tore through the jungle brush and leaped onto the back of the carriage, its claws digging into the wood. Roland stared into the yellow, slit-pupil eyes of something that definitely wasn't human.