Pain. That was the first thing he felt.
Not a dull ache, not a mild sting — but the full-bodied scream of muscle, nerves, and bones protesting all at once.
Michael groaned and opened his eyes.
Or rather, Kang Joon-Seo, retired black-ops agent turned transmigrator into a cannon-fodder background noble — now forcibly rebranded as Michael Lancaster — woke up for the second time in this fantasy world.
He blinked at the golden canopy above him. The bed was too soft. Again.
"…Damn it."
He sat up slowly, body screaming with familiar pain. Except… this time, something felt off.
He looked down at his arms. Veins, defined muscle, old healed cuts across his knuckles. Calloused fingertips. There were scars—he knew them. The long gash under his left shoulder blade. Knife wound from a raid. The faded bullet scar under his ribs.
This… this was his body.
Not the soft, unused body of a sheltered noble heir.
He scrambled to the full-length mirror at the side of the room and stared.
He was still Michael. The face, the hair, the eyes — all matched the boy he saw before. But now, Michael looked… older, sharper, taller. He had the body he had during his prime, around thirty. The system had said something about "synchronization," but he didn't expect this.
"Shit," he muttered. "How the hell am I going to explain this?"
Michael Lancaster, in the original novel, was seventeen. A noble child, weak in constitution, gentle and often sick. Joon-Seo… had the body of a hardened soldier. The broad shoulders, the muscle, the scars — nothing could pass for delicate nobility now.
He pulled on his sleeves to hide his arms, then grabbed a pair of black gloves from the wardrobe, fingers trembling slightly. He needed to cover as much of himself as possible.
No one can see this.
Not the maids, not the butler, especially not Allen.
Allen Lancaster. The true protagonist.
Joon-Seo rubbed his face and sighed. Two days in, and he was already tired.
He hadn't seen Kain — the assassin-butler — again since that creepy morning. Thankfully. The man had said the Duke ordered him to check in on Michael, but didn't linger after that. The rest of the house ignored him, which was… normal. Everyone acted like Michael didn't exist.
Honestly, Joon-Seo didn't mind.
Being invisible was better than being dragged into a plotline.
But today was different. Today was the academy entrance ceremony.
All nobles of eligible age would be enrolling into the prestigious royal academy — including Allen. And unfortunately, Michael too.
Damn it.
He had considered pretending to be sick, faking a fever or vomiting blood. But the system flashed a message:
["Mandatory plot event: Academy Entrance. Skipping not allowed."]
Stupid novel logic.
So now, here he was, dressed in uncomfortable formal clothes, hair slicked back, gloves hiding his hands, sitting stiffly in the car parked in the Duke's mansion courtyard.
Allen slid into the backseat next to him, neat in his uniform, posture perfect.
The boy glanced at Michael, hesitated… but said nothing.
Michael didn't say anything either. He calmly opened the passenger door and sat next to the driver.
The Duke followed not long after. The moment he saw Michael, he frowned. Then, just… looked away.
As expected, the man didn't acknowledge him. Not a word. Not a glance. Only Allen received a curt nod.
Michael leaned his head back against the window as the car began to move, eyes half-closed.
It was almost nostalgic.
Not the nobles or the car or the magic-fueled carriage engines — but the silence.
No one talked. Everyone was pretending. Just like before.
He remembered taking his SATs. No one drove him. No one wished him luck. He had walked in silence, chewing on burnt toast, wearing borrowed sneakers.
Now, he was sitting in a car lined with gold, being taken to the country's best school, with magic scribbled across his wrist and a literal cheat system in his brain.
He smiled faintly.
"Full circle, huh?" he murmured.
When they arrived, the academy grounds looked like a mix of a medieval palace and a futuristic compound. Massive marble towers surrounded the main plaza, where thousands of students were already gathering.
Parents and nobles stood under silk canopies, watching their children.
Michael stepped out alone.
No one waited for him. No one fussed.
He was used to it.
He walked calmly into the admissions hall. The place was enormous — circular dome ceiling, glowing symbols etched into the floor. Students lined up to take their exams.
First up: Written Test.
He took a deep breath, sat down, and flipped open the booklet.
Six classes total, the rules said: S, A, B, C, D, E.
S was elite. Allen was going there. Everyone knew that.
C was average. Quiet. Low pressure.
Michael circled it mentally.
Target: Class C.
He didn't need to stand out. He just needed to pass.
The exam questions were… nonsense. A mix of magical theory, sigil logic, elemental resonance, historical demonology… whatever the hell that was. One question asked about curse conversion ratios. Another about mana core alignment patterns.
He stared at the symbols blankly.
Then the system buzzed.
["Standard answers uploaded. Estimated success rate: 100%."]
Perfect.
He copied the correct answers, filling in the blanks smoothly.
But halfway through, he paused.
"…Wait a damn minute."
If he got everything right, he'd be in Class S. That's Allen's spotlight. The "harem protagonist," the child blessed by fate, meant to shine. Everyone else was a stepping stone.
Michael Lancaster was not supposed to shine.
He sighed, scratched out a few answers, and deliberately wrote the wrong spell formula on two pages. He miswrote a runic symbol and purposely gave a vague explanation for a mana theory question.
He wasn't dumb. He knew where the line was.
Passing score: 40/100.
He'd aim for 50. Enough to pass. Enough to be forgotten.
He handed in his paper early and walked out.
Outside, students buzzed with nervous energy. Some parents wept. Others yelled at their children.
Michael just found a shady bench and sat down. Eyes closed. Arms crossed. Letting the wind blow gently against his face.
He wasn't used to the calm. Not really.
In his past life, a place this quiet usually meant snipers were ready.
Now?
It meant lunch break.
He thought back to the novel.
Allen Lancaster. The real hero. Born three months after Michael, yet chosen by fate. Talented, loved, brilliant.
Michael… was forgotten.
A shadow.
In the original story, Michael snapped midway through the second arc. Poisoned the duchess — Allen's mother — while possessed by a demon. Allen killed him in a tragic twist. Readers cried. Forums exploded.
"Michael deserved better," someone had written once.
Joon-Seo remembered it. His vice squad leader, the one who wrote the novel, had marked that comment.
Michael wasn't evil. He was lonely. Starved for warmth. Trained to be quiet. Until quiet broke him.
Now Joon-Seo was him.
What irony.
A man who spent 20 years carrying a gun now holding a pen and cheating on magic exams.
He ran his fingers down his gloved palm. The scars beneath still itched.
Suddenly, the system pinged again.
["Synchronization Level 98%. Full adjustment to host combat traits complete."]
"No shit," Michael muttered.
If anyone found out he had enhanced strength, combat instincts, or a lifetime of war experience, they'd drag him into some faction war instantly.
He wasn't here to fight. He was here to retire.
Michael Lancaster wasn't supposed to matter.
That was the plan.
He opened his eyes as a group of students walked past — Allen among them.
Allen glanced his way. For a brief second, his expression softened.
Then he looked away and joined his friends.
Michael didn't react.
He didn't need Allen to forgive him. He didn't need anyone to understand.
He just needed to survive. To keep his head down. Graduate. Get a boring civil servant job. Retire quietly. Eat good food. Sleep in.
Maybe… write a book, one day.
His vice squad leader would've liked that.
*****
The sunlight slanted through the tall stained-glass windows of the Imperial Academy's staff room, coloring the wooden floors with swirls of red and gold. Several professors sat around a long, polished table, a mountain of exam papers in front of them. The air smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and the bitter brew of over-steeped tea.
Professor Helwin, the oldest among them, adjusted his spectacles as he leaned forward. He was marking the Theology papers—his specialty. Beside him, Professor Garren from Military Strategy had already stacked up a few promising names, among them the golden boy: Allen Lancaster.
"Well, I dare say," Helwin murmured as he circled another correct answer, "Allen Lancaster has the makings of a saint and a scholar. Ninety-two in Theology. His argument on the symbolic foundation of holy barriers is nearly flawless."
"Military Strategy," Garren grunted, flipping through pages with thick fingers. "Eighty-five. Not bad for a first-year. Though he gets idealistic when it comes to supply chains."
"Theory of Mana Application," another younger professor added. "Eighty-nine. This year's going to be interesting."
They nodded in mutual agreement. Talent had clustered in this year's batch. Nobles from old houses, heirs of famed magicians, even a few commoners with extraordinary gifts had registered.
Then came a pause. One of the more junior instructors, a slim man with sharp eyebrows named Professor Ricen, peered at a name in his marking pile.
"Michael Lancaster," he read aloud with an indifferent voice. "Older brother, is he not?"
Garren raised a brow. "Barely older. Same birth year. Different mothers. The usual noble politics."
"There was talk he was… slow. Fragile constitution or something," Ricen muttered, already flipping lazily through the paper. "Guess it can't be helped. Not every noble can be—"
He stopped.
The others noticed the silence.
Professor Ricen leaned forward, eyebrows narrowing. "History of Empire... fifty. Directly. Exactly fifty."
Professor Helwin chuckled. "That's passing by a hair."
Ricen nodded. "Same for Theory. Exactly fifty. Military Tactics... fifty. Theology…"
He blinked again. "Fifty."
There was a beat of silence.
"Wait," Professor Garren leaned forward. "Let me see those."
Ricen passed them over. The professors gathered, curiosity now piqued. They weren't supposed to care much for students who barely passed. But there was something uncanny here.
"Look at the way these are answered," Garren muttered. "He got the first few wrong. And the last few... also wrong. But the middle section—"
"Those were the hard questions," Helwin said, narrowing his eyes. "The ones we put in for differentiation. Trick wording, layered concepts. We don't expect more than five percent of students to even attempt them."
"He got all of them correct," Ricen muttered, voice slowly shifting from amused to unsettled.
The handwriting was messy. It zig-zagged, curved where it shouldn't, slanted differently depending on the paragraph. But it was unmistakably sharp in understanding. Each correct answer wasn't regurgitated. They were solved with logic—clean reasoning that would've come from someone who had studied war theory, theology, and imperial history in the field.
"This…" Garren whispered, now staring at the papers with something between admiration and dread. "This is not how a noble's child writes. This is how a war veteran thinks."
"Perhaps it's a fluke," Ricen said.
"Four different subjects, and he fluked them all? Exactly at fifty?"
Professor Helwin chuckled darkly. "Perhaps he didn't want to stand out."
At that, everyone grew quiet again.
Meanwhile, outside under the warm spring sun, Michael Lancaster—previously Kang Joon-Seo—lounged on a shaded bench by the academy's main plaza.
The ceremony had ended. Families were saying goodbye. Allen, radiant and proud, walked beside the Duke, who had one hand placed gently on the boy's shoulder. They exchanged words too quiet to hear, but Michael could tell by the way Allen nodded and the Duke smiled that everything was going just like the novel had described.
He watched them quietly, head tilted slightly against the wooden bench.
"So that's what it looks like," Michael murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
The sky was high and blue. Birds fluttered from rooftop to rooftop. Students in crisp new uniforms milled about with their parents, laughter and excited chatter filling the air.
Michael, on the other hand, was alone. Just like always.
He had arrived quietly that morning, slipping into the front seat of the Duke's carriage. No one questioned it. No one greeted him.
Allen hadn't looked at him. The Duke didn't even acknowledge his presence.
That suited Michael just fine.
He was used to this—being the shadow in the room. The forgotten one.
He had lived it once, as Kang Joon-Seo. It was oddly familiar now.
His thoughts drifted back to the exam. The system had provided him with the correct answers, but he knew better than to aim too high. His goal was the C-Class. A background student in a background life. That's all he wanted.
Still, a faint smirk touched his lips.
"Should've messed up the middle a bit more," he muttered.
He sighed, stretching his long legs. His body still felt strange—like wearing a younger version of himself. The scars on his back itched under the academy uniform. The gloves he wore were too hot, but he didn't want anyone asking about his hands.
Gloves were considered an eccentricity, but it was better than explaining away knife callouses or gunpowder burns.
His stomach growled.
Of course. He skipped breakfast.
As if summoned by hunger, the academy bell rang. Students were being directed to their assigned dormitories.
Michael stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing one last time at the crowd.
Allen was surrounded by people—faculty, students, some noble families who already recognized him. Their laughter echoed over the courtyard.
Michael turned and walked the other way.
Quietly. As always.