Morning came too soon.
The village buzzed with excitement, as if my departure were something to celebrate. The truth was, most of them probably just wanted me gone. I wasn't exactly the promising son of the village. My so-called "magic aptitude" was pitiful. The only reason I'd been recommended to the Academy was because someone in the capital must have been drunk when they looked at my application.
I stood before the cracked mirror in my room, adjusting the secondhand tunic the elder had left for me.
Black hair, messy as always. Lanky frame that made me look underfed, even though I wasn't. And eyes—red as burning coals.
The game had never described this identity's appearance in detail, but I was pretty sure this was the kind of look that made people whisper "cursed bloodline" or "demon spawn" behind your back.
I groaned. Perfect. Just perfect. The one thing I needed was to be forgettable, and instead I look like the suspicious loner who probably kicks puppies in his free time.
On the way to the square, I muttered to myself, practicing what I'd tell the other villagers. But my thoughts kept circling back to the same problem: the Academy.
It wasn't just bad. It was suicidal.
"Why is it bad?" I whispered under my breath, listing it off as if rehearsing for a lecture.
"One: The Academy is where the Hero's story begins. And if you're anywhere near the Hero, you get pulled into battles you're not ready for, events you don't want, and friendships that are basically death contracts.
Two: The Academy is a gathering ground for prodigies. Noble brats with bloodlines dripping power, heirs to magical legacies, and so-called geniuses who sneeze and conjure lightning. Me? I can barely light a candle. I'll stand out for all the wrong reasons.
Three: The faculty. Half of them are secretly corrupt, the other half are testing horrifying experimental magic on their students, and all of them expect you to either rise to greatness or get crushed trying.
Four: Social hierarchy. Orphan with no background? Low aptitude? Red eyes that scream 'sketchy'? I'll be the target of bullying before I can even unpack my bag.
And five—the most important—Academy life is the exact opposite of the quiet, profitable, low-drama life I wanted."
I rubbed my temples. I could have been running trading schemes by now. I could have been farming rare herbs for stupidly high resale prices. Instead, I'm about to be shoved into classrooms and monster hunts with idiots who think danger is fun.
My reflection in the well water frowned back at me. "In conclusion: the Academy is bad."
The villagers didn't care about my doom-and-gloom lecture. They smiled, clapped me on the back, and handed me small gifts for the road. A bit of dried meat. A charm of good luck. A patched satchel.
All the while, the elder beamed with pride. "You'll do well, Rowan. Don't waste this chance."
Chance? Ha. This wasn't a chance. This was a death sentence wrapped in ribbon.
Still, I accepted the gifts with forced gratitude. Playing along was safer. Nobody needed to know I was planning to exploit every secret this world hid, not to be some hero, but to survive on my own terms.
That night, on the edge of the village, I finally attempted my first step toward that plan.
The villagers thought I was sleeping, but instead I sat cross-legged beneath an old oak tree, eyes closed, breathing slowly.
Normal cultivation techniques taught in the Academy were… pathetic. A slow drip-feed of mana control, carefully doled out to prevent accidents. But in the game, I'd discovered an obscure method buried in an event chain only hardcore players ever found.
It was called The Serpent Coil Breathing Technique—a way to circulate mana faster by compressing it in the lungs and forcing it through the body like venom. Risky. Painful. But powerful.
I inhaled slowly, letting the night air fill me, then pushed it downward into the pit of my stomach. I imagined it spiraling, coiling tighter and tighter until my chest ached.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then—A spark.
A faint burn spread through my veins, racing from my core to my fingertips. My body trembled, teeth clenched, every nerve alight. Sweat drenched me. It felt like swallowing fire and forcing it to crawl beneath my skin.
But I held on. Gritting my teeth, I guided it through the pathways I remembered from the game's diagrams. Again and again, until at last the fire dimmed and a faint hum lingered inside me.
Mana. Weak, unstable, but mine.
I exhaled shakily. My body felt wrung out, but also… alive.
A grin tugged at my lips. "It works."
This was my key. Even if the Academy called me talentless, even if my aptitude was a joke, I had methods no one else knew.
The next morning, I left the village.
The elder, the children, even the farmer's dog came to see me off. Their cheers were loud, their hopes obvious.
I waved back, smiling as best I could, but inside, I was repeating one mantra over and over:
Don't get noticed. Don't get dragged in. Survive quietly, and leave the heroics to the idiots who want them.
As the cart carried me toward the capital, I leaned back, eyes half-closed.
Above the creak of the wheels, I thought I heard a faint laugh echo across the wind.
That bastard god again.
I scowled. "Laugh all you want. I'll beat your stupid world my way."