I woke up the rude way—by cracking my head against the wooden wall of a violently shaking carriage. The thud reverberated through my skull like a drumstick against a cracked cymbal. My scalp stung, and for a moment all I could do was wince and groan.
Then the memories came back, flooding in like a dam giving way: cultists chanting, the smell of blood and burnt iron, the knight's snarl, the flash of steel, and that disembodied voice promising "system initialization." And then—darkness.
Panic surged.
I tried to sit up, but the clinking of metal stopped me cold. Chains. Thick iron restraints, heavy as grudges, locked around my wrists and ankles. They didn't just restrain me—they clung with the possessive grip of an obsessed ex.
I looked down. A rough-spun tunic clung loosely to this borrowed porcelain body, its coarse fabric scratching against my skin. It was the kind of thing you threw on livestock, not people. One more tilt of the head, one more blank stare, and I'd look like a slave fresh off the auction block.
"Quit your useless struggling, witch."
The voice snapped from my left—sharp, female, and dripping with the kind of disdain usually reserved for chewing gum stuck to shoes.
I froze. Right. I wasn't alone.
Blinking through the haze of motion, I turned and saw my fellow prisoner—or perhaps my warden. She couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, but her presence pressed against me like a weight. Dark robes framed her slender figure, the fabric stitched with silver thread that caught the stray beams of light filtering through the carriage slats. Her black hair wasn't just dark—it swallowed the sunlight whole. And her eyes—violet, burning amethyst—locked onto me as though I'd tracked mud across her altar.
She didn't look like the armored knights who had knocked me out. No, she looked like the one who gave them their orders.
"Where… where are we?" I rasped, my voice cracking like brittle parchment. "Where are we headed?"
I expected silence. Or mockery. But to my surprise, she answered without hesitation, her tone clipped and cold.
"To the Church. The captain said you're to be questioned. You don't match the heretics found at the ritual site."
That was somehow worse. Being "questioned by the Church" after being called a devil didn't exactly inspire confidence. Images of torches, whips, and confessions squeezed out like juice from rotten fruit danced in my head.
Still, I forced myself upright despite the chains, bracing against the carriage wall as it jolted along. Through the cracks in the wood, I caught glimpses of sunlight glinting off armor. Riders flanked us in formation, their horses' hooves pounding the dirt with military rhythm. The knights sat rigid, their weapons polished, their red cloaks snapping in the wind.
We weren't just prisoners. We were a display. A cursed parade.
And I was the prize.
"Be quiet," the girl snapped suddenly, her voice low and cutting, like a blade pressed against the skin of my neck. "Speak again and I'll burn your tongue out myself."
Dramatic much? I bit down on the sarcastic reply clawing its way up my throat. Her eyes made it clear she wouldn't hesitate to follow through.
I turned away, forcing myself to focus on the world outside instead of her venomous stare. Sunlight flickered between the wooden slats, momentary bursts of gold across my pale hands. Each flash was a reminder of a world moving on while I was dragged like a chained dog.
But something gnawed at me.
That voice. The one that had spoken inside my head in the ritual chamber. The System. Where was it now? Could I call it?
I hesitated, then whispered, barely audible above the rattle of wheels: "Status."
Chime.
The sound was soft, crystalline, almost musical. A translucent screen shimmered into being before me, glowing faintly in the cramped carriage air like a phantom tablet.
[Welcome, Host.]
User Status:
Name: ???
Age: 16
Class: ???
Attributes:
Strength: 8
Intelligence: 15
Agility: 7
Endurance: 18
Health: 90 / 100
Level: 5
EXP: 0 / 1500
Alignment: Random
Protocol: Scholar's Mate – Active
I stared.
"…Why do I look like a masochist on paper?" I muttered, half to myself.
Most of the numbers were garbage-tier. I couldn't see the knights' stats, but from the way their presence radiated raw competence, I'd bet twenty was the baseline for a healthy, non-magical adult. By comparison, I was running on discount batteries. Except for Endurance. That number was unsettlingly high, like I'd been built to survive beatings rather than win fights.
And then there was "Random." What the hell did that even mean?
"You're observant for someone with a subpar brain-to-mouth filter," the same synthetic female voice purred from nowhere, dripping with faint amusement.
I jolted so hard I nearly slammed my head into the carriage wall again. "You again?!"
"The Status reflects your natural abilities," the voice said smoothly. "Though…" A pause. Her tone shifted, almost unreadable. "Your Intelligence stat seems unusually high for someone like you."
"…Hey! Maybe start with a name and a proper introduction before you start roasting me!" I snapped under my breath, aware of violet eyes boring into me. "Who even are you? Where am I? And what does Random mean?!"
No answer.
Of course not.
The glowing screen blinked once, then dissolved like mist, leaving me chained, bruised, and ignored in a carriage rattling toward the unknown.
The girl's gaze lingered on me as if she could smell the secret. I turned my head away, pressing my forehead against the rough wood, listening to the parade of hooves outside. Each strike was a drumbeat for my own execution march.
A prisoner's parade. And I was its star attraction.