Finally, on the third day, the Peasants' Awakening Ceremony had come to an end.
Out of the thousands who had shown up, half were gone — either rejected, hurt, or humiliated beyond belief. The weak had been discarded. The ceremony was over.
In the royal palace, the King of Velomra sat on his high golden throne, a sly smile on his lips.
> "This is how it was supposed to be,"
he whispered, satisfied.
This was order.
This was control.
The commoners knew their place — at the bottom.
---
Far in the northern region of Velomra, not too far from Quad Academy, the air was colder, and the sky above was painted in shades of late afternoon.
On a cobbled street, outside the academy's massive golden gate, stood a young man — tall, lean, calm-faced, but with eyes burning like wildfire.
Clinton.
Known in his past life as Takeshi, a man reborn into a royal family.
Today, he was the Second Prince of Velomra.
But none of that mattered right now.
In front of him, two peasants — weak, hungry, and exhausted — were being kicked and beaten by a fat noble, clearly drunk and laughing like a maniac in broad daylight.
Every blow was loud.
Every scream from the peasants was ignored by the crowd.
No one dared to interfere.
Clinton clenched his fists. His knuckles went white.
> "Less than two weeks," he muttered, "and I already understand this world."
There was a system here.
A cruel, twisted hierarchy.
At the top: Royals. People like him.
Then came Nobles with strong powers — untouchable elites.
Below them were Nobles with weak powers — still privileged.
Then came Peasants with power — those who could serve the nobles as tools.
And at the very bottom:
Peasants without power.
The trash. The dirt.
Beaten in public, with no justice.
It reminded him of his past life — where money created gods and poverty created ghosts.
But this… this was worse.
He looked at the scene again. The noble was still kicking. The peasants barely moved.
Something in Clinton snapped.
Ice gathered in his palm — a sharp, glowing arrow of pure magic formed without warning. He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate.
He fired.
The ice arrow cut through the air like a streak of blue lightning.
CRACK!
It slammed into the fat noble's forehead — and pierced straight through his skull.
He collapsed with a loud, wet thud.
Dead.
For a few seconds, there was only silence.
Then—
Screams.
Panic.
People gasped and backed away in horror.
The noble's wife, who had been just a few steps away, saw her husband's lifeless body. She screamed in rage and despair, collapsing to her knees.
The guards were frozen in place.
They had seen everything.
They knew who had done it.
But they couldn't move.
Clinton was royalty.
Royal blood.
Second in line to the throne.
No one could touch him. Not even the Academy guards.
They didn't dare.
Then suddenly—
THUMP.
Clinton dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Gasps echoed again. Everyone turned to look.
The noblewoman was still screaming, but the focus shifted to the prince's body lying still in the dirt.
"What happened?!" someone yelled.
"Did she attack him?!"
The guards snapped out of their hesitation. They surrounded the woman at once, weapons drawn, unsure of what to do.
Some ran toward Clinton. Others called for medics from the Academy.
People whispered, confused, terrified.
> "The prince just killed a noble..." "Then he fainted..." "Was it poison?" "A spell?!"
The air was thick with tension.
Clinton stood in a vast, lifeless desert — endless brown sand stretched in every direction.
There was no sun, no sky, no shadows, no horizon.
Just nothingness.
And in that eerie emptiness, a screen floated mid-air, right in front of him.
It showed the scene of the ice arrow piercing the fat noble's skull.
Over and over and over.
On repeat.
Like a punishment.
Clinton stared at it, eyes wide, mind frozen.
> "Did I really… kill someone?"
It didn't matter how many times he blinked.
Or how hard he tried to look away.
The screen stayed. The scene kept playing.
He gritted his teeth. His breathing became shallow.
> "Yes, what happened was wrong. But... was this the answer?"
"I'm not like this. I've never been like this."
But deep down, a part of him knew:
Something inside him had changed that day.
---
Suddenly, the wind began to rise — but it wasn't normal wind. It carried a pressure, like something ancient was waking up.
The sand in front of him exploded upward, swirling like a vortex — and from the storm came a creature.
He looked almost human.
Blue skin, glowing eyes, no legs — only a tail of mist where his feet should've been.
He floated mid-air like a ghost.
Then he started laughing.
> "Hehehheheheheheh..."
He zipped around Clinton like a buzzing fly with too much caffeine. His laughter echoed weirdly in the silence.
Then he stopped. Right in front of him.
Clinton stepped back, startled.
> "Who are you?!
Where am I?! What is this place?!"
The creature's voice changed — deep, ancient, almost royal:
> "I am... a Jin.
On 15th March, 2025, you were about to die in your world.
Before that happened… I brought your soul here.
Into a new world. A new body. A new destiny."
He grinned, then switched into a childish sing-song tone:
"Now now now, listen up dumb dumb, I don't have all day~!"
Clinton's jaw dropped.
His mind? A complete mess.
What he was hearing made zero sense.
> "What...? A Jin?! Soul transfer?! Wait what's happening?!"
The Jin clapped his hands and rolled his glowing eyes.
> "You get one wish. Just one.
Anything you want.
After that, you wake up and continue your isekai adventure or whatever.
But in return…"
His voice darkened again.
"You must destroy the nobility-commoner system of this world.
You don't have to do it today. Take your time.
But that's the price of your transfer."
Clinton blinked.
He stood in silence, confused, overwhelmed, mentally lagging like a broken computer.
The Jin sighed.
> "Hurry up, moron. Say your wish. I got other places to visit."
Clinton looked at the Jin with an unsure voice:
> "I… I don't know… Uh… okay, fine.
I wish to never feel pain. Ever again.I don't want to feel it."
The Jin blinked.
And for the first time, his smug face twitched.
> "...That's your wish?"
"You serious?"
"No power? No skill tree? Not even invincibility?"
"Kid… you're gonna die dumb."
But a wish was a wish.
The Jin sighed and waved his hand.
> "So be it. From now on, you will never feel physical pain.
Not heat. Not stabs. Not bone breaks. Not poison."
"Bye~! Have fun dying and not noticing."
He began to fade, the desert wind pulling him back into the sandstorm.
But just before he vanished completely, his glowing face reappeared — now sinister.
> "Oh yeah... one last thing."
He whispered with a grin:
"You'll be consumed by the Wrath."
> "Wait—WHAT?!" Clinton shouted, but it was too late.
---
WHOOOSH!
He jolted awake.
Clinton gasped, sitting up in a bed. A soft bed. The air was cool.
He looked around — a white room, faint magic glowing from the walls.
The infirmary at Quad Academy.
He was... back?
But was it real?
Was that a dream?
Or a prophecy?
To test it, he reached into the drawer beside him, took out a medical scalpel, and pressed it to his palm.
He sliced it.
Clean. Deep.
Blood began to flow.
But he felt... nothing.
No sting.
No burn.
Not even the pressure of the cut.
> "...It's real," he whispered.
And then he remembered the last thing the Jin said:
> "You'll be consumed... by the Wrath."