Chapter 1: A Labyrinth of Shadows
The dorm room was a crypt of gloom, its air heavy with the scent of old dust and a faint, metallic tang that prickled Oliver Smoak's nostrils. Rain pattered against the warped window, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the pounding in his chest. The walls, clad in peeling wallpaper, seemed to pulse with secrets, their faded floral patterns curling like skeletal fingers in the dim light of a flickering gas lamp. Oliver sat on the edge of a creaking bed, his lanky frame hunched, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the worn quilt. A nervous energy hummed beneath his skin, the kind that came before a final exam or a car crash.
Where am I?
His hazel eyes darted around, catching fragments of a life that wasn't his—textbooks with strange symbols, a cracked mirror, a tie draped over a chair like a noose. His mind was a storm of disjointed memories: a city skyline, a car's screech, then darkness. It was like his past had been a movie reel, and someone had cut the film, splicing him into a new, terrifying production.
This isn't home. This can't be.
His hands shook, his breath shallow, as he tried to anchor himself in the unfamiliar. The metallic scent in the air was overwhelming, like the aftertaste of a spell gone wrong, or the cold, sterile smell of a hospital after a disaster.
A sharp, cold voice sliced through his thoughts, not from the room but from within. It was a presence, an intruder that burrowed into his mind, its tone devoid of empathy.
The words were a probe, invasive, like ice water poured into his skull. Oliver flinched, his fingers clutching the quilt, the fabric's coarse weave grounding him against the System's chill. The voice felt alive, sarcastic, almost cruel—not a guide but a challenger. It was testing him, waiting for him to fail, and the thought filled him with a bitter, rebellious anger. He was a pawn in a game he didn't even know the rules to.
Survive? What kind of game is this?
He stood, his boots scuffing the warped floorboards, and paced to the window. The glass was cold under his fingertips, the rain's rhythm a mocking counterpoint to his racing pulse. His reflection in the window was unfamiliar—a lean face, sharp cheekbones, eyes too wide with panic. The face of a stranger wearing his soul.
Who am I now?
He was Oliver Smoak. He knew that much. But the name felt hollow, a label for an empty vessel. The System's voice felt like an anchor, pulling him down, making him question his own reality.
The System spoke again, its tone biting, a new message flashing in his mind like a headline.
A faint glow pulsed from a crooked picture frame on the wall, its wooden edges chipped, a faded painting of a raven staring back with unblinking eyes. Oliver's stomach twisted, his fingers twitching toward his tie, a nervous tic from a life he couldn't fully recall. An anomaly? Here? He approached the frame, his hand hovering, the air around it humming with a faint, unnatural warmth. It felt like a trap. A simple, easy test designed to lull him into a false sense of security.
What if it's a trap? What if it's cursed? What if this is how I get myself killed?
Memories of failure—spells fizzling, laughter echoing—clawed at his confidence. He closed his eyes, focusing on a fragment of his past life: a warm hand on his shoulder, a voice saying, You've got this. He held onto that feeling, a scrap of warmth in the cold gloom, and let instinct, not knowledge, guide his hand to the frame. He tilted it, and the glow faded, the hum silencing. The air felt lighter, the oppressive weight lifting from his shoulders.
His shoulders sagged, relief mingling with unease. He did it. He had passed the first test. But why did it feel like he was being played? Why did the System feel like a puppet master pulling his strings? He was a human being, not a quest-log.
A muffled voice broke the silence, bright and chipper, filtering through the thick wall.
"No, Mom, I'm fine! Just… you know, figuring it out!"
The voice was Enid's, though Oliver didn't know her name yet, its upbeat tone a stark contrast to the room's oppressive weight. He pressed his ear to the wall, the wood cold against his skin, catching snippets of her conversation—something about parents, expectations, a strain beneath her cheer. He could hear the feigned cheerfulness, the way she hid her own struggles.
She sounds like sunshine in a storm.
The System's label made him frown, his fingers curling into fists. She was a person, not a tool, not an asset to be catalogued and analyzed. He stepped back, his boots creaking, the metallic tang sharper now, like a warning.
A Reflection and a Warning
Oliver moved to the full-length mirror, its cracked surface reflecting a stranger—his new face, pale and sharp, with eyes that held too much doubt. His fingers brushed the glass, cold and slick, and a shimmering message appeared, not from the System but scrawled in glowing script: Seek the Serpent.
The words vanished as quickly as they came, leaving only his reflection, its eyes seeming to watch him. He had seen it. It was a message from something else, something alive. The mirror's surface rippled faintly, and Oliver stepped back, his heart pounding, the metallic scent now overwhelming. The air felt charged, a silent threat.
What's the Serpent?
The System was silent, offering no answers, and the dorm's gloom pressed closer, the rain's patter a relentless reminder of his isolation. He was Oliver Smoak, Host of the Wandless Magician System, but the title felt like a chain, a leash tied to an unseen master. He wasn't ready for this. He was a normal guy, a college student. He wasn't meant for magic, for cursed objects, for voices in his head.
But the mirror's message lingered, a spark of curiosity igniting in his chest, pulling him toward the unknown. He was being hunted, and he was being guided. And for the first time, he felt a flicker of defiance. If he was going to be a player in this game, he would play it on his own terms.