Hey there, I'm Karen. Back in my old life, I had a different name, but since I bit the dust ages ago, there's no use crying over spilled milk. I made it to twenty-five in that life without too much hassle. But don't hold your breath thinking that experience helps much here. Life as an average Joe in the 21st century versus life in a medieval fantasy world? It's like comparing apples to oranges—or, more like Wi-Fi to smoke signals. Some might say I'm selling this era short, but for me, anything before the internet is the Dark Ages, plain and simple.
Here, instead of typical kid stuff, I've been busting my hump in the fields since I was six. Living the high life, let me tell you. Five stars for this riveting gameplay. Still, I've managed to hang in there until thirteen in this New Fantastic Life (NFL). That's no small potatoes—plenty of folks around here don't get that lucky.
My parents are salt-of-the-earth types, but they're dirt-poor. I haven't quite cracked whether kindness and poverty go hand in hand, but I'd bet my bottom dollar there's a fifty-fifty chance they do. Dad's a tough nut, though. When I was a kid and thought I'd pull the classic "reincarnated hero" move by swinging a wooden sword to become a hotshot knight, he gave me a swift kick in the pants and swapped my stick for a hoe. Mom's a sweetheart, gentle as a lamb, but she's often down in the dumps because she can't have another kid. Not enough hands to pitch in really puts a dent in our family piggy bank.
Our little trio lives in a podunk village near the estate of some local big cheese. We break our backs so this high-and-mighty parasite can live large. I racked my brain for ages, trying to figure out how to use my future-know-how to take the edge off this life. But reality gave me the cold shoulder—my coding chops and beating every Dark Souls game? Worth about as much as a hill of beans here.
Everything changed when some city slickers rolled into town. I was eleven NFL at the time. They rounded up all the village kids, and one by one, we got the once-over from this old codger. He was long past his prime but took his job like it was his life's calling. A lot of kids, especially the girls, came out of his tent crying their eyes out. When my turn came, the geezer flashed a grin that made my stomach turn. But when he spoke, my nerves settled, and I got a bit of a kick out of it.
"I sense mana in this one," he said. "Not a ton, but it's better than nothing."
"Slim pickings," grumbled the guy in armor next to him. "One kid from two villages."
What was he expecting? He'd said earlier that only about one in a hundred people has any magical juice. And guess who hit the jackpot? Me. Not exactly a shocker for a reincarnated guy, right? No magic would've been the real curveball.
"It's a weak spark, but it'll do," the old man went on. "Let's check your affinity. Give me your hand."
I did as he said. He grabbed my hand with his gnarled paw, shut his eyes, and started muttering like he was casting a spell. Suddenly, a weird feeling washed over me, like something was stirring inside. Goosebumps prickled my palms, and then—zap—a few blue sparks flew. Thin, bright threads of electricity wove between my fingers like delicate lace.
"Whoa… Lightning affinity. That's rare as hen's teeth," the old man said, clearly chuffed.
"Nice," said the armored guy (still don't get why he's dressed like he's ready to storm a castle, but whatever). "How old are you, kid?"
"Eleven," I said, nearly slipping in "NFL."
"Eleven… Too young for the academy. They start at thirteen. But we'll find a spot for you until then. What's your name?"
"Karen Hill."
"Alright. I'll have a word with the baron. He'll set you up in an orphanage or something. You're off to school, kid."
Jackpot! The day had finally come! No more calloused hands or backbreaking labor. So long, blisters! I'd finally get to do what I'm good at—hit the books and learn something useful. I once tried preaching the gospel of education to my parents, but Dad got the wrong end of the stick and taught me how to plow a field instead. Now, things were about to turn around! I'd become… uh… hold on, what exactly was I gonna become?
"Uh, excuse me, sir…" I put on my best clueless-kid act (didn't have to stretch too far). "What's this 'academy' thing?"
"Military academy," he said. "They'll mold you into a true-blue defender of the realm. You'll learn swordplay, spears, archery… and, of course, sharpen your magical skills."
Military academy. Crap. In my old life, I made one boneheaded mistake—almost worse than hopping in a car with a plastered buddy on my twenty-sixth year of Old Lousy Life (OLL). I didn't dodge the draft. If I'd known where that'd lead, I'd have hightailed it to the woods and lived like a hermit. But what's done is done. Gotta roll with the punches.
A week later, I was settled in a small orphanage-school for kids like me and some richer brats lucky enough to get an education. It was near the baron's estate. His mansion was something to write home about, but it was a bit run-down, hinting his wallet wasn't exactly bursting. The baron himself, who I only saw a couple of times, came off as thick as a brick. Don't ask me why—it's just the vibe he gave off, like his brain screamed "dimwit." He's got a son my age who's even denser. Good thing we didn't cross paths much.
Life at the orphanage wasn't half bad. The grub was leagues better than back home—sometimes we even got a scrap of meat. In the village, most folks were vegetarians whether they liked it or not. Chores were light, like a walk in the park. There were twelve of us kids, and the workload was split fair and square, which was almost too good to be true. The catch? Classes were a snooze. We had to slog through religious hogwash and mystical mumbo-jumbo. One time, I tried to school these medieval yokels with my modern know-how.
"The Earth's actually round like a ball," I declared, puffing out my chest. "And I can prove it."
Big mistake. The whole class, teacher included, laughed their heads off. The teacher said it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard and told me to stick to holy scriptures instead of spinning tall tales. I realized I'd stuck my foot in it. Mouthing off about science in the Middle Ages? That's a one-way ticket to the chopping block. I'd be lucky to just get the boot. Lesson learned: keep my trap shut. Praise the Great… uh… God of Life and Death, or whatever! Your humble servant bows before your greatness! You catch my drift.
Still, I picked up some useful tidbits over the next two years. Like the lay of the land, geopolitically speaking. Our proud kingdom's half the size of the neighboring mage kingdom and a third the size of the elf kingdom next door. We haven't been steamrolled yet because those guys are too busy duking it out with each other to give us the time of day. Our fighting force? Brave but mostly useless knights, healing priests, and "magic swordsmen" who mix swordplay with their half-baked magical skills. The mage kingdom's got ten times more mages per head, so they're the big dogs. Elves? They're faster, stronger, live longer, and don't mind slinging spells either. There are other countries out there, but we only border these two, so that's all I care about for now. Back when I asked Dad about the outside world, he made it crystal clear my world ended at the edge of our plowed fields.
I also got the lowdown on magic basics. That's where I decided to pour all my gusto. If I graduate from the academy, I'll be shipped off to fight some stupidly overpowered monsters. So, mastering magic is my ticket to staying in one piece. Magic here's got two parts: creation and control. You can turn your mana into matter or energy based on your element, and you can wrangle existing matter of the same type. Spells are usually part of the deal, but I don't get how it all works. Thanks to my high school physics, though, I figured out how to cast without all the chanting. Problem is, my mana pool's smaller than a gnat's kneecap. Barely enough to spark electricity between my hands at arm's length. One night, I rolled the dice and tested my skills on a chicken. It lived and squawked loud enough to wake the dead.
My teacher said you can make up for low mana by training your body. So, the academy means backbreaking daily workouts until I'm seeing stars. Can't wait. Knowing the education system here, I bet nine out of ten of those workouts are a waste of time. I once knew a bodybuilder who said you only need one solid workout a week per muscle group to see real gains, done right. No point arguing that here, so I got a head start. I wracked my brain to recall the one time I set foot in a gym. I mixed heavy lifting with running and rest, slowly building up. No clue if I did it right, but it worked—I got stronger. My mana bumped up too, but not as much as I'd hoped. Still couldn't take out that blasted chicken.
So, I switched gears: focus on control. My theory? Training the noggin would boost both my magic control and mana capacity. I "borrowed" that stubborn chicken and got the local blacksmith to whip up some copper wire. I started making simple circuits and directing electric currents through them. Sounds like a piece of cake, but it was tough as nails—electricity moves at the speed of light, so guiding it through a T-shaped circuit took laser focus. I had to map out the current's path ahead of time. It was exhausting; every time I ran out of mana, I felt like I'd been working the fields all day. I also trained my brain with mental math. Within a month, I could handle a circuit with three splits. My focus was getting sharper. Another month, and I was up to six splits. My mana grew too—I was halfway to becoming a wizard straight out of a comic book. I even managed to stun a new test chicken, though I nearly got caught red-handed. Decided to put my poultry-zapping days on hold and focus on training.
But two years later, I proved my method was the real deal. I caused some serious damage to the local livestock. Fleeing the barn, I nearly choked on my own spit at the thought of fresh veal for dinner. My first confirmed kill—proof I could take down a human if push came to shove.
I kept pushing my brain, crunching numbers until it felt like a pocket calculator. Maybe magic training supercharged my smarts? Or maybe I was tapping into my lightning element—thinking's just electric zaps bouncing around your brain, right? Whatever the reason, I could now tackle six-digit math in my head like it was nothing.
I also memorized that ridiculous holy scripture from cover to cover. My teacher was over the moon. My progress didn't fly under the radar. One day, they hauled me to the baron's mansion to meet his lordship. His smug, double-chinned face sized me up like I was a prize hog. It was almost comical, but I kept my cool—better safe than sorry.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Karen Hill," I mumbled nervously.
"How old?"
"Thirteen."
The big moment was coming—I'd soon ship out to the academy. My carefree days were on their last legs. I'd toughened up as much as I could and was ready to face the music. Later, I learned not everyone makes it through the academy. Dropouts usually turn into adventurers, risking their necks for pocket change—guarding merchants, hunting monsters, that kind of thing. Honestly, I'm not sure which is worse. The army's got discipline that makes my skin crawl, but at least you won't starve. Adventuring's freer, but the pay's chump change and the risks are sky-high. There's a third option—good old-fashioned banditry—but my 21st-century morals keep me from going down that road.
"Do you have magic?" the baron pressed.
"A bit…"
"Show me."
I raised my hands and sent a spark between them. I could keep it going for about a minute now but stuck to ten seconds for the show.
"No spells? Not bad," the baron said. He paused, mulling something over, then added, "Recite the third chapter of the holy scripture."
Seriously? The scripture? What's your deal, you overstuffed turkey? Am I supposed to join a monastery? Will the world fall apart without holy zeal? I wondered if playing the star pupil was shooting myself in the foot. It might make things worse. I still couldn't figure out his angle. His face screamed "dope," but was it? His motives were clear as mud. I froze for a second but figured I was out of options. Fine, have it your way.
I started rattling off the chapter like a pro, but after a few lines, he cut me off.
"That's enough. Now, take off your clothes."
Oh, hell no. I knew something was fishy. My gut was screaming trouble. Medieval times and shady nobles? Two peas in a pod. Does he only get his kicks from brainy kids? Though my current looks might beg to differ—I lucked out with a decent mug this time around. I glanced around, sweating bullets. Two beefy guards stood by the door. More were outside. Even if I bolted, where'd I go? Starve in the sticks or keep my… dignity?
"Hurry it up!" my teacher snapped, standing nearby.
You too, huh? Want a piece of Karen's hide? Or maybe he knows I zapped that cow last week and wants to settle the score?
"Come on, don't chicken out," he added.
My heart was in my throat.
I slowly peeled off my tattered shirt, sweat pouring like Niagara Falls. I kept my pants on, praying I was reading this wrong. I stood there, shirtless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The baron just sat there.
"Turn around."
No way! Don't you dare finish that line!
"Alright, you look sturdy enough. You're done."
That's it? Really? Thank the stars! Thank the local gods! Thank the child welfare folks! I'd worked myself into a tizzy for nothing. The baron probably just wanted to see if I was tougher than his own kid.
Outside, I ran into Annie, a sweet girl my age from school. She's a merchant's daughter, and her attention feels like more than just buddy vibes. If I were really thirteen, I wouldn't have clocked it, but my old-man brain picks up the signals. She's always around, fussing over me, lending a hand. Problem is, we're thirteen, and I'm at a loss for what to do with her. Yeah, I know, medieval times—age isn't a big deal here. But for me? Hard pass. She's cute as a button and pretty for her age. There's a 60% chance I'll tie the knot with her someday. Back in my OLL, I was a nobody, stuck picking from the "bargain bin" of girls. Sure, smarts, personality, talent—they're the real deal. But let's be honest: looks are always the first hurdle. Landing someone like Annie would be like hitting the jackpot.
"So, what happened?" Annie asked, barely keeping her cool.
"Nothing to write home about. Showed the baron some magic, that's it." (No need to spill about my near panic attack.)
"That's all?"
"Yup."
"That's… odd," she said, her cute face scrunching up like she was solving a puzzle.
"Tell me about it. But who cares? What's the plan now?"
"Dunno. Weren't you gonna train today?"
"Yeah, but I'm shipping out soon, so why not hang out instead?"
"Don't remind me… I'll miss you," she said, her cheeks turning red. First time she's laid it on that thick.
"I'll swing by when I can. Don't get your knickers in a twist."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart." Her beaming smile outshone the sun for a second.
We kept strolling, shooting the breeze about nothing in particular, when I caught the baron's son staring. Well, staring at Annie, with a look hungry enough to eat her alive. Damn. That's trouble. In my old world, he wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell with her. But here? Whole different ballgame. Marriages here aren't about love—they're business deals. If Junior wants Annie and his dad sees dollar signs, she's his. It's all about the bottom line.
That thought soured my mood like bad milk. I like Annie, and since I'm technically thirteen, nobody can call me a creep. But Junior's existence slashed my marriage odds to 15%. Still, not zero. The baron's greedy as sin—he'll likely want a richer or fancier bride for his boy. His family's not exactly top-tier, so highborn folks might not bite. Marrying Annie could bring a small payday and bump her dad's status, but her father's not rolling in dough. Plus, if I ace the academy, my own status will shoot through the roof.
The next day, my teacher dragged me back to the mansion. Did I let my guard down too soon? This time, the baroness and her son were there too. Unless this was some horror-flick family, I might be in the clear. But the baroness's vibe matched her kin—creepy as all get-out.
"Boy," the baron said, "from today, I'm taking you in as my son. You'll carry the name Zorghertilahter."
What the hell? No thanks, I can't even read this. The adoption itself was a bombshell, but it lit a fire under the rest of the room. Their faces were practically spitting nails.
"You're family now. Your parents signed off." (Yeah, right…) "In a week, you're off to the military academy. You'd better be top of the class. Got it?"
"Uh… yes, sir."
My life just took a sharp left turn. I'm an aristocrat now? Even if it's a bottom-rung family, it's like catching a rocket to the stars. The cherry on top was Junior's fuming glare. Now he's got no leg up in the Annie chase. But his eyes were screaming, "Your odds of sipping poisoned water just spiked through the roof." Gotta keep my eyes peeled.
"If you flop," the baron added, "you and your folks will pay a steep price." (Real subtle…) "And as a Zorghertilahter, you'd better act like one." (What, start scarfing cakes by the ton now or later? I'm game.)
The deal, as I figured it, was that top academy grads bring glory to their families. With my rare lightning magic and general know-how, I'm a safe bet. The baron's kid? One look at his doughy frame, and you know he's toast at the academy.
And so began my wild ride as an aristocrat. That night, I stayed at the mansion. They showed me to my own room. My own room! Small, but all mine. A whole week of sleeping without someone's snoring jarring me awake. I flopped onto the soft bed—pure heaven. In my time here, I've got a top-ten list of humanity's best inventions, and mattresses are up there. Then a servant told me a hot bath was ready. Paradise. Sometimes, a warm bath beats… well, you know. The good times kept rolling. Dinner was next, and I ate solo—fine by me. The Zorghe... Uh... whatever. These gyus weren't ready for my company, and I couldn't care less. I went to town on the food, no holds barred. A tear rolled down my cheek. Best day of my new life.
I crashed into bed and sank into a deep, sweet sleep. Until a strong hand clamped over my mouth. I snapped my eyes open to see four shadowy figures in my room, their vibes screaming bad news. One pinned me down while two others tied my hands. In a panic, I zapped one with a lightning bolt. He dropped like a rock. As I geared up to burn my last bit of mana, a fist slammed into my gut. I nearly hurled my dinner. Another punch rattled my jaw, and a third to the head drove home one truth: fighting back was a losing game. They trussed me up like a turkey, gagged me with a rag, and dragged me off. Who were they? What did they want? Nothing good, that's for damn sure.
They dumped me in a big room, tossing me onto the floor like a sack of spuds. The baron loomed over me, sweating like a pig, looking like he'd seen a ghost. But he wasn't alone. In the center of a creepy circle scratched into the floor stood a shadowy figure in a pitch-black cloak, face hidden under a hood. A chilling, sinister aura rolled off him, making my skin crawl.
"Here! This is my son. As agreed," the baron stammered, his voice shaking like a leaf. "All the papers are here."
"Papers? What's that?" the cloaked figure asked, his quiet, eerie voice sending shivers down my spine.
"Proof he's my son," the baron babbled.
"Oh… Got it. Fine. I sense mana in him. Put him in the circle."
The two goons swapped puzzled looks, then glanced at the baron. He nodded silently. They shoved me to the figure's feet. I tried to crawl away, but he pinned me down with his foot. My eyes nearly popped out when I saw it—a hoof, not a foot. What in the actual hell?! A warm trickle ran down my leg.
"Now, the contract," the figure said, holding out a sheet of paper.
The baron, hands trembling like jelly, cut his finger and left a bloody smear on the page.
"That's it. We're done," the figure said.
"When will you do it?" the baron blurted, scared out of his wits.
"Soon…"
A dark mist swallowed me, and my head spun like a top. When I came to, the room was gone. I was in a scorched wasteland with lava geysers and a black sky choked with heavy clouds. Black smoke curled up from the ground, and the stench of sulfur stung my nose. Freaky red creatures with sharp teeth prowled around, their feral glares making me rattle off prayers I didn't know I had. The cloaked figure leaned closer, tossing back his hood to reveal a red-and-black demonic face with backward-curving horns. His mouth, packed with razor-sharp teeth, twisted into a wicked grin.
"Perfect… The master will be pleased."
He ripped the clothes from my chest and pressed a red-hot piece of metal to my skin. Searing pain swallowed my senses, and the faint whiff of burned flesh hit my nose. A spiral-shaped brand marked my chest. Then, a blue window popped up in front of my eyes, like a notification from a video game. My life was already a trainwreck, but what I read next took it to a whole new level of screwed.
/ Congratulations, you have received a class! /
/ Your class cannot be changed. /
/ Your class: Slave /
/ Class bonus: Experience gained reduced to 1% of normal. /
And that's how my short-lived stint as an aristocrat went up in smoke.