The scent of aged timber lingered faintly in the air, mixing with a subtle trace of dust and old varnish. A small wooden room sat in eerie silence, its walls lined with roughly carved planks that groaned with the wind. At the center stood a single creaky bed, its surface bearing the slight indentation of a figure resting uneasily.
On that bed, a young man lay motionless, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. The rays of early morning filtered through the cracks in the wooden wall, casting thin lines of gold across his pale face.
After an indeterminate length of silence, his eyelids trembled before slowly lifting. He blinked against the dim light, confusion swimming in his eyes. With a sudden grimace, he clutched his head tightly with his right hand.
"Ugh… Fuck… What's wrong with my head…" he groaned, his voice hoarse and rough as though dragged from the depths of his chest.
Teeth clenched, his fingers dug into his scalp as if that could push away the pain. The headache clawed at his skull with relentless ferocity, forcing him to curl slightly on the bed. It continued for ten long minutes—each second stretching like an eternity until at last, the pressure receded.
He exhaled deeply, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Finally… I'm free from this hellish pain…"
Letting his hand drop to the side, he turned his head and glanced around. The surroundings were unfamiliar—an old, wooden room with nothing more than a bed and a simple door. No posters, no desk, no buzzing electronic lights.
A sense of unease crept up his spine.
"Am I… still dreaming?" he muttered to himself. "Why am I in this small wooden room instead of my hostel?"
But just as confusion began to swirl in his mind, a sudden surge of foreign memories surged into his consciousness, like a dam breaking open. His head reeled, dizziness overpowering him as he sat up abruptly and tried to steady himself with both hands bracing against the mattress.
Visions, thoughts, identities that weren't his flooded through him—
He was Evans Blake, the second son of the Blake family. His father held the noble title of viscount, and his elder brother was enrolled in the Royal Knight Academy. Evans himself had been selected during the Wizard Aptitude Test. He awakened with a first-class talent,the lowest among all tiers—and was taken across the seas by a wizard toward the enigmatic Wizard Continent.
During the voyage, tragedy struck. A duke's son, along with his entitled friends, had nearly beaten him to death,all for the attention of a girl.
These memories flowed relentlessly for nearly half an hour, etching themselves deeply into his mind. When they finally subsided, Evans opened his eyes with a sharp gasp, sweat beading along his forehead.
"Damn it…" he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping the bedsheets. "What kind of world is this…"
His thoughts swirled like a storm. "Knights here can fight against dozens of heavily armored cavalry alone… and the elite ones can go against hundreds,they're like one-man armies."
He shuddered at what came next. "And wizards… they're even more terrifying. Inhumane. Mysterious. My predecessor only knew one thing: never offend a wizard. Their methods are cruel, alien, and often... irreversible."
With trembling limbs, Evans attempted to rise from the bed. His feet touched the cold wooden floor, but the moment he tried to stand—
"Agh!!" he yelped and collapsed.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through his already battered body. He clenched the floorboards with both hands and growled, "Damn those bastards… How could a bunch of twelve-year-old brats be that cruel... all for a girl…"
But then his voice dropped. The rage faded from his face, replaced by a grim look of awareness.
"Forget it. I'm in a dangerous place… and a dangerous world. With my low talent, I don't have any value. Even the wizard who tested me looked at me with disdain, like I was nothing but a statistic… a quota to be filled."
He stared at the worn wooden ceiling, determination slowly hardening his gaze.
"I have to think of something… or I won't survive for long."
Just as that thought settled in his mind, a cold, mechanical voice rang directly in his ears, echoing without source or direction.
[The Wizards' Truth Simulation has been activated.]
Name: Evans.
Age: 12.
Strength: 0.9 (Normal adult male = 1)
Agility: 1.2
Physical constitution: 1
Health: 0.6
Spiritual Power: 1.2
Wizard Talent: First Class (Trash among trash. Probability of becoming a formal wizard: Less than 1 in 1000).
Meditation Technique: Dark Wood Beginner Technique
You have one free simulation. Do you want to use it?
A glowing panel appeared before his eyes, suspended in midair, its text etched in ethereal silver.
Evans flinched at first, startled, but quickly forced himself to calm down. His breathing slowed as his mind caught up.
"A… simulation?" he whispered. A glimmer of disbelief danced in his eyes, followed by a faint flicker of hope. "Seems like those novels I read weren't all nonsense after all…"
Straightening his back, he took a deep breath and nodded toward the glowing interface.
"Simulate."