Alex never thought he'd die on a Tuesday.
It had already been a long morning. The city pulsed with a kind of grey indifference — its buildings soaked in drizzle, its people hidden behind umbrellas and headphones. His shoes were damp from stepping into a puddle he hadn't noticed, and the lukewarm coffee in his hand tasted like regret.
He had rehearsed for the interview all night, tightening each sentence like bolts on a ship he hoped would sail — but it had sunk before it left port. The recruiter hadn't smiled once. They'd asked him to "be more dynamic," and thanked him with the kind of politeness that felt like a closing door.
Now, he wandered with no destination, his hoodie plastered to his back, his fingers numb. Cars passed, indifferent. Shops blurred by. A flickering neon sign overhead buzzed like a dying insect.
At twenty-eight, Alex drifted through life like a ghost with no quest. A man untethered from purpose, quietly vanishing one calendar square at a time.
He paused at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. Rain pattered on the hood of his jacket, curled into his collar, soaked through his jeans. The sky above shifted — heavy, bruised with something unnatural. A low vibration stirred in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't hear the lightning.
He felt it.
A hum deep in his bones. The air thickening — heavier than anything he'd known. Then, a blinding white flash — pure, total. His heart stopped.
And the world disappeared.
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He woke up gasping — a breath ripped from his lungs like a drowning man breaking the surface. His chest heaved, erratic and raw, as though he were relearning how to be alive.
Above him, the ceiling sagged — crooked beams of rotting wood streaked with mold, fractured and bowed, barely holding together. Weak afternoon light filtered through a warped window frame, its glass cracked and clouded, draped in cobwebs. The walls were uneven stone, veined with moisture and age, crumbling at the edges. The floor was packed dirt — cold, bare, and marked by stains that didn't want to be named.
There was barely any furniture. Just a twisted cot, its straw mattress flattened and frayed, soaked with the scent of mildew and years of neglect. A broken chair slouched in the corner like a forgotten skeleton. The air was stale, tinged with the bitter trace of mold and soot. Silence clung to everything, broken only by the scratch of rats in the walls or the faint moan of wood contracting under old tension.
He tried to move — but his body didn't feel like his own. His limbs responded too quickly, too fluidly. Everything was… wrong. Slimmer. Lighter. Younger. His skin prickled with an echo of transformation, as though it had been rewoven from memory and error.
Across the room, a cracked mirror hung crookedly — its surface warped, spotted with grime. He turned his head slowly.
A boy stared back. Fifteen, perhaps. Black hair, pale skin stretched over sharpened features. Eyes too old for the face they lived in. It was a stranger's face. But somewhere, buried deep, he recognized it.
Then the pain arrived. Sudden and ruthless — lancing through his temples like jagged needles. He clutched his head, breath ragged, vision swimming.
And in that crumbling ruin of a room, something ancient began to stir.
[SYSTEM: INITIALIZING]
[Host Identity: Confirmed.]
[Caelum Velmire – Status: Active. ]
[Simulation Token: 1]
[Auto-launch in 3… 2… 1...]
"What the—"
The world collapsed.
[Life Simulation – Limit: 10 Projected Years]
[Manual choices disabled.][No magic detected. Technological level: low medieval.]
Year 1
Caelum is sent to serve as a page in the house of Baron Yllar. He's looked down on. A noble house with no land is just an empty name. He serves at the table, polishes boots, memorizes etiquette. He endures.
Year 2
He watches the combat training from a distance. Every sword swing, every stance. He imitates them in secret, in the stables. The other pages mock him. A quiet boy, wound tight as a bowstring. He starts learning how to take a hit.
Year 3
He dares to join a formal training session. The master-at-arms corrects him harshly but sees the determination. He lets him return. The bruises become familiar. His hands toughen. He no longer flinches.
Year 4
He joins an escort party. Cold, hunger, fear. He kills a man — a raider. It's not glorious. He doesn't sleep for three nights. Then he gets up and walks again. He understands: this world has no room for innocence.
Year 5
He requests to become a squire. The baron refuses. Too poor. No future. "You're useless on the board," he says. Caelum packs his things. No one stops him.
Year 6
He survives doing odd jobs, wandering through towns and markets. A broken arrow, a shortbow, and a stray dog he tames: Bran. He learns to read tracks, to listen to the forest.
Year 7
He lives on the edge of a woodland village. They call him "the mute." He speaks little, shoots well. Game rarely escapes him. He fits in without ever belonging.
Year 8
He kills a massive wolf that stalked the sheep pens. Breaks three ribs doing it. Gains respect. Declines dinner invitations. Returns to his shack. Solitude is safer.
Year 9
He spots a bandit group moving through the forest. Follows them in silence. Warns a nearby village just in time. They offer him coin — he takes arrows instead. Leaves without a word.
Year 10
He lives alone. The silence is a companion more loyal than any man. Bran sleeps by the fire. He hunts, survives. Sometimes dreams of fire and war — but always wakes to wind in the trees.
[Simulation Complete]
Maximum duration reached: 10 years simulated.Processing experience…Available rewards:— [Novice Tracker]— [Basic Archery]— [Survival Instinct]— [Mental Resilience]— [Trait: Self-Reliant]
Please select ONE reward to integrate into real life.
Caelum, gasping, found himself once again inside the feverish body of his fifteen-year-old self — chest soaked, trembling like a leaf in a storm. His wide eyes searched the room desperately for something familiar, for proof that it was either dream or reality. But everything around him felt too vivid to be an illusion, too foreign to belong to the world he knew. Memories flooded his mind — violent, countless — ten full years etched into his soul, and yet… never truly lived.
Each sensation pressed onto his youthful frame like a burden: the chill of forest nights, the bruises from relentless training, the blood on his hands from that first kill. Forgotten faces, villages passed, silent moments shared with Bran — all of it felt painfully real.
His breath quickened, struggling to keep pace with the chaos of his thoughts. Ten years… A lie so intricate it had made him forget who he was. But then — who was he, really? Alex? Caelum? Or merely a puppet crafted by simulation?
He read the list, blinking.
[Novice Tracker]
Basic Archery.
Survival Instinct.
Mental Resilience.
Self-Reliant.
Finally, he reached out toward the most useful, most immediate option.
Chosen Reward: [Basic Archery]
✔ Integrated.✔ Muscle coordination adjusted.✔ Reflex calibration complete.✔ Core memory fragments retained.
A wave of blinding pain tore through him before his body even hit the mattress. His muscles twisted, contracted, reshaped—like invisible hands molding him from the inside out. Every fiber burned. Every nerve screamed. He was nothing but raw matter convulsing into something new. And when he finally collapsed onto the hard mattress, it felt as if gravity had tripled its grip.
His heart was still pounding — but his right hand tingled. A sensation sharp and familiar. It knew. It knew how to grip a bowstring, adjust the arrow, draw until the wood creaked just slightly… then release. It was instinctive. It was him.
Images surged through his mind: the dark stables, the scent of worn leather, the whistle of a slicing arrow. A fabricated past, perhaps — but the reflexes were undeniably real.
He sat up slowly, the air around him thick with a strange solemnity. This life was not his. This world hadn't chosen him. But now he was here. With an invisible bow in his hand, and ten years of solitude etched into his soul.
And he intended to claim a place for himself.
True to his method: one arrow at a time.