A hospital room in a small country
On the thirteenth-floor rooftop, a thin young man stood on the terrace, the wind tugging at his hospital gown. His face, gaunt and pale, carried an eerie calm.
"Is this my destiny?" he murmured.
Though his frail frame swayed dangerously, Lucien clenched the medical report in his trembling hand. His expression was calm, but the veins bulging beneath his skin betrayed the storm raging inside—anger, despair, and a deep unwillingness to accept the truth.
Cancer. Mid-stage.
For someone his age, it was almost absurd—like winning a cruel lottery drawn by fate itself.
"Cancer... at my age," he muttered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Guess even death likes surprises."
Life had never been kind to Lucien Graves. His parents had divorced long ago, each starting new families elsewhere, leaving him behind with distant relatives who barely tolerated his presence. He grew up beneath cold gazes and sharper words, a stray child living under another's roof.
Neglect and ridicule twisted his spirit. He fought often, smoked early, and drifted through life as a small-time delinquent scraping by on scraps and luck.
He'd scavenged in dumpsters, collected bottles, begged on streets, and fought in alleys. Survival was all he'd ever known.
Then came the fatigue, the pain that curled his insides until he couldn't breathe. The hospital confirmed what he already feared: his body was betraying him.
Mid-stage cancer.
A death sentence, plain and simple.
For once, Lucien couldn't laugh it off. His world—already so fragile—collapsed completely.
He hated his parents for abandoning him. He hated society for being beautiful only to those born lucky. And he hated himself for still wanting to live.
"Maybe it's better this way," he whispered, stepping closer to the rooftop's edge.
With a small, bitter smile, he took one final step. The report slipped from his hand, fluttering down like a white feather.
"Is this… death? My body's numb… do I have regrets?"
The last thing Lucien heard was the rush of air and the faint sound of someone screaming. Then, everything went dark.
---
When light returned, the world smelled of rot.
Lucien gasped, his eyes snapping open. He was lying in a heap of garbage—filthy, sour-smelling refuse piled high around him.
He bolted upright, heart pounding. "What the hell…?"
He looked down at himself—unharmed, not a single bone broken. But he should be dead. He remembered the fall, the pain, the end. Yet here he was.
"Where am i?"
All around stretched a vast landfill, dotted with makeshift shelters and broken debris. And beyond it, he saw walls—tall, immaculate city walls.
Goa Kingdom, the so-called "most beautiful country" in the East Blue.
He was at the Uncertainty Terminal, the massive dump outside Edge Town. The nobles of High Town lived in luxury while the poor, beggars, and thieves rotted outside the walls.
Lucien clenched his fists. "Did I transmigrate or some sort"
Before he could process it further, a translucent light screen appeared before his eyes.
It displayed a staircase of glowing tiles—like a board game—and beside it, a floating dice and a small model airplane resting on the first step.
A line of text scrolled across the screen:
[Rules:
You can roll the dice once per natural month.
Move forward the number of steps shown.
Each space may bring rewards—or take away something you possess.
First World Arrival Bonus: 4 Dice Rolls.
Ongoing Mission:
Hunt down Children of Destiny, Fated Villains, Transmigrators, Reincarnators, and Reborn individuals to gain +4 Dice Rolls and increased Luck.
Rewards will vary depending on target importance.]
Lucien blinked. "A… system?"
It wasn't intelligent like in most novels, but he understood the concept. A golden finger. A cheat.
Even as a delinquent, he'd read enough web novels and manga to know the setup. Yet, something about the simplicity of this system unsettled him.
He took a deep breath. "Four rolls, huh? Guess we'll see how lucky I am."
The dice began to spin wildly before slowing.
Three dots.
The small airplane moved three spaces forward before the light flared again. A description appeared.
[Reward: Type 92 Pistol – 9mm caliber, 10 bullets.
Reliable structure, good accuracy, lightweight. Easy to operate.]
Lucien smirked. "Well, at least I got something useful."
He focused on the word Take Out. A cold weight appeared in his hand—a black Type 92 pistol, gleaming under the dim light. He tucked it into his waistband after testing it briefly.
"Alright… next roll."
The dice spun again—five dots.
The airplane advanced five steps. The light blinked once more.
[Penalty: Mid-stage cancer → Late-stage cancer.]
Lucien froze. His breath hitched.
"You've got to be kidding me."
So it wasn't just rewards. It could punish him, too.
The brief excitement of his rebirth was instantly crushed.
"Two more," he muttered through gritted teeth, rolling again.
One dot.
The light flashed.
[Reward: 60ml Hyaluronic Acid (cosmetic).]
Lucien's expression darked. "Seriously?"
Suppressing the urge to curse, he rolled for the last time.
Six dots.
The airplane zoomed six steps forward before the light burst open with loud music and a woman's sultry voice.
["Someone's… dealing cards online…"]
An advertisement.
It played ten times.
Lucien's eyelids twitched as veins bulged across his forehead.
"A gun, cancer, lotion, and an ad…" He clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. "This thing's trolling me."
The so-called golden finger had proven itself more curse than gift.
Still, as he sat amid the stench and ruin of the Uncertainty Terminal, pistol at his waist and death in his veins, Lucien couldn't help but laugh—half despair, half defiance.
"Fine," he whispered. "If this is my fate, I'll roll with it."