"Hey, new guy—wake up!"
A rough shake yanked Shane out of his faint.
He realized he was sprawled on the ground; something hard dug into his back, and every bone felt like it had come apart.
"Hugh, his color's bad. Don't shake him like that."
Another voice—gentler—cut in.
Shane pried his eyes open. His vision stayed blurry for a while before it slowly pulled into focus. What he saw first was a cold, dark iron grate. A thin lance of torchlight speared through the gaps, painting the space in a dim, oppressive glow.
His throat was so dry he could barely make a sound. After a few rasping coughs, he managed a dazed, "Where… am I?"
A boy with a messy mop of chestnut hair squeezed in front of him, face bright with surprise. "Huh—he's awake!"
An older boy in prison garb gently drew the chestnut-haired kid back.
He had cropped blue hair and a striking tattoo under his right eye. He crouched and murmured to Shane, "This is the Tower of Heaven. The Black Magic Cult brought you here. Right now, we're all…"
He hesitated, then said quietly, "Slaves."
"Slaves?" Shane echoed, thinking he'd misheard.
Slaves? In this day and age? A Black Magic Cult? It sounded more like something out of an anime or a game…
He was about to crack a joke when he looked up and froze.
A ring of prisoners—some standing, some sitting—had gathered around to study him. Most were very young. Every one of them was thin, sallow, and hollow-eyed, the look of long hunger written across their faces.
A chill ran through Shane. He glanced down at himself on reflex.
"Why am I wearing the same outfit…?"
Worse, his limbs—his whole body—had shrunk. His wrists were skinny, his fingers small and soft—he looked like a kid who hadn't finished growing.
"I actually transmigrated?" he muttered, incredulous. If this wasn't a dream, that was the only explanation that made sense.
"You lot—what's with the noise over there?!"
Before Shane could untangle his thoughts, a harsh bellow came from beyond the bars, followed by the screech of an iron rod slamming into the grate.
The little crowd that had edged closer scattered at once, slipping back into the shadows along the wall with practiced ease, heads bowed as if they meant to melt into the stone.
Not looking for trouble, Shane dragged his heavy body over and sank down against the wall as well.
The cold stone against his back made him shiver.
From the moment he woke he'd felt this body was alarmingly weak—like it hadn't eaten for days. Even moving his head left him dizzy.
"Looks like the overseer's in a decent mood today."
The blue-haired, tattooed boy edged closer and spoke low into Shane's ear. "When he's in a foul mood, he'll drag someone out of a cell just to blow off steam."
"But don't worry," he added after a beat, voice even softer. "We're powerless slaves. No one cares about us. He'll make a couple of rounds and leave. Just don't draw attention and you'll be fine."
He fell quiet. In the sooty light, Shane could feel the boy's eyes on his face.
"My name is Jellal Fernandes," the boy said suddenly. "What about you?"
Shane blinked and turned his head, a little surprised.
Jellal's tone was calm; his face was lost in shadow, unreadable.
Even so, Shane had the odd feeling the boy was trying, in his own way, to steady a newcomer's nerves.
"Is he… worrying about me?"
After all, he'd just told everyone to keep quiet—and still risked coming over to talk. It didn't add up unless he was trying to help.
Shane scratched his head, unused to the kindness. Maybe shrinking into a kid came with kid-glove treatment.
Not that he minded.
"Shane," he said first in crisp English, then repeated it in the otherworldly language that, for some reason, rolled off his tongue like he'd spoken it all his life.
"No family name?," Jellal wondered silently. The first version had sounded like slang to him, which was confusing; when Shane switched to the common tongue, he relaxed.
If you can't communicate here, you tend to die the fastest.
But his worry felt unnecessary a moment later.
Most kids, once they realize what they're in for, fall apart. This newcomer, though, was almost unnervingly calm—no panic at all.
"Strong nerves," Jellal thought, surprised. Then the bitter truth crept back in.
So what if you stay calm?
The people running the Tower of Heaven use magic. The gap in power is a chasm. No matter how clear your head is, finding a way out is next to impossible.
With that thought, his interest drained away. He nodded once and let the conversation die.
Which suited Shane fine—this wasn't the time to chat.
He had things to verify.
Silence settled back over the cell. No voices, just the occasional sob from other blocks and the scrape of chains rasping through the dark.
Taking the chance, Shane fixed his gaze on the empty air in front of him. A plain, faintly luminous book hovered there, cover bare of ornament.
"Right. No one else can see this."
Even someone who rarely went online would put two and two together—this had to be the cheat that crossed over with him.
It was one of the reasons he could stay so composed. Personality aside, this was his confidence.
He knew exactly how bad his situation was.
"Slave," in this context, wasn't a cushy house servant from some old manor who got a monthly stipend. It was cheaper, lower—less than human.
You were either sold like a commodity or thrown into hard labor. Either way, there were no rights.
Sold off, life might be marginally better—owners cared about preserving their property.
But if you were sent to toil… that was the worst kind: a life valued as a consumable, misery not far from a suspended death sentence.
Brutal, repetitive labor for endless hours; rations barely enough to keep you breathing; the diseases that followed went untreated.
Rome's latifundia and Potosí's silver mines in the New World—those names were bywords for hell on earth.
Shane didn't know which fate awaited him, but it hardly mattered. It was the old "poop-flavored chocolate" versus "chocolate-flavored poop."
He had to get out.
At his thought, the book opened to the first page.
…
Name: Shane
Alignment: Neutral · Good · Human
Strength: E– (even lifting a moderately sized rock would be a struggle)
Endurance: E– (as fragile as hand-blown glass; survival prospects are dire)
Agility: E– (near-zero mobility; can't dodge on your own power)
Mana: E– (no contact with the "Mystic"; a normal with no mana)
Luck: EX (bearer of the Book of Heroic Spirits; beyond standard metrics; maximum resistance to "predestined fate")
Skills: None
…
It laid out his stats in stark print: everything a pitiful E–… except for one—Luck: EX.
Shane raised a hand and made a fist. The feebleness in his body confirmed the book's readout.
No surprise. This body was so weak that even his scrawny college-kid self from his previous life could probably deck two of him with one punch.
He didn't linger on the numbers. Labels mattered less than possibilities.
"With this book, maybe there's a way out."
Settling his breathing, he focused on the faint thread connecting him to the tome. Understanding bloomed: the book could track his condition in real time and, based on his situation, issue trials that fit a "Heroic Path."
Clear a trial, and he'd be rewarded.
"Let's see…" With a nudge of intent, the pages turned soundlessly.
[Heroic Path — Initiation]
[Even the greatest of heroes need, before their deeds, a corner to curl up in, a bite to fill the belly, and a companion to watch each other's back.]
[Complete: food, shelter, and a friend to unlock the first Summon!]
"So I just need those three?"
Maybe it was a newbie bonus, but the first trial was surprisingly simple.
Stranger still, "Shelter" and "Friend" both glowed—already complete.
Shelter made sense—even a jail had four walls and a roof. It kept out wind and rain; that counted.
But "Friend" being complete threw him.
It said, plain as day, "One acquired." Didn't take a genius to guess: Jellal.
The catch was, the condition required mutual acknowledgement. Jellal treating him as a friend wasn't enough; he had to feel the same.
"So I'm… easy to befriend?" Shane thought, speechless.
A few words, and his subconscious had already slotted the kid in as a friend? He tugged at the corner of his mouth, unsure what to think.
If he'd landed in some grimdark back-alley world, he'd probably be in serious trouble in minutes.
He shivered at the thought and warned himself: new world, stay vigilant.
He turned to the last condition—food.
He looked around. Black bars, damp floor, not even a crumb in sight.
Where was he supposed to get something to eat? He swallowed, stumped.
Almost as if the prompt had triggered it, his calorie-starved body seized on the problem. The hunger he'd been holding at bay surged up, savage and insistent.
His stomach twisted with a burning cramp; the gurgling in the quiet cell sounded deafening.
A wave of vertigo crashed over him. Darkness pricked his vision; his limbs went weak.
"Eat."
Just as he was about to black out from hunger, a voice spoke.
Half a piece of black bread slid into view from the side.
Shane's hand moved before he saw who'd offered it. He took the bread, mumbled a thanks, and bent to eat.
It was stone-cold and hard as a rock, almost tasteless.
He had to tear off tiny bites and let them soak in saliva before he could swallow.
Even starving, he couldn't pretend it was good. But every coarse mouthful that dropped into his stomach landed with real, heavy reassurance.
As if a mountain had appeared right in front of him—
A mountain?
Where would a mountain—
Shane jolted. In the blink of an eye a towering peak swelled in his vision, looming like it might crash down on him.
[Trial complete. Initiating Heroic Summon…]
At the same time the book flared to life in his mind, lines of flaming script blazing and searing themselves into his awareness.
The world warped. The dank cell dissolved without a sound, replaced by a boundless, desolate waste.
The mountain that had been a phantom now stood real and immovable before him—jagged ridgelines, a snow-white crown, timeless and austere.
Where the hell am I now?
Before he could make sense of it, the burning letters flowed again.
[Summons acknowledged]
[Heroic Spirit — True Name: ???]
[Assigned Class: Archer]
The text flashed and vanished. The barren scene shattered like a mirage. Mountain, plain, sky—all of it washed out and peeled away.
Dim torchlight returned. The moldy smell crept back into his nose. It was as if nothing had happened.
Shane touched his brow. Nothing on the outside—but deep in his mind, something new had settled.
He reached inward and found it: a dark-gold card hovering at the center of his consciousness.
On its face, a lone figure drew a bow toward the heavens, stance unwavering.