Ethan Carter was twenty-three years old, and he already felt like life had chewed him up and spat him out.
He sat on the edge of his creaky twin-sized bed, his head pounding and his chest rattling with every cough. The old fan in the corner did little against the sticky summer air of their tiny two-bedroom apartment. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and the bitter taste of cold medicine lingered on his tongue.
"Great," he muttered hoarsely, fishing another couple of generic cold-and-flu tablets from the half-crumpled pack. "World's got billionaires shooting rockets into space, but nobody's figured out how to cure a damn cold?"
He sighed, shaking his head. His mother's soft cough echoed from the next room, and guilt pricked his chest. She was bedridden, her health declining year by year. The weight of medical bills—plus groceries, utilities, and his younger sister's school expenses—was stacked squarely on his shoulders.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. By now, Ethan had dreamed of having a degree, a decent job, maybe even a little savings. Instead, he was scraping by on minimum wage shifts at a discount store, plus whatever side hustles he could scrounge up. He barely had time to breathe, let alone dream.
And now? He was sick. And sick meant slower shifts, fewer hours, maybe even missing work if his manager decided he looked "too contagious." Missing work meant less money. And less money… well, less money meant dinner might be just rice and canned beans again.
Ethan popped the pills into his mouth, reaching for the chipped mug of water on the nightstand. But before he could swallow, the tablets dissolved—literally. They shimmered, blinked out of existence, like someone had plucked them out of reality with a pair of tweezers.
Ethan froze.
"…The hell?"
A mechanical voice buzzed in his head, sharp and impossible to ignore.
[Sensing the Host's desire. Reconstruction System initializing…]
He blinked. His mouth hung open.
"What—"
The voice droned on, crisp and cold, echoing as if spoken directly inside his skull:
[Ordinary cold medicine detected. Decomposing.][Reconstructing into an improved formula.][Process complete.]
In his palm appeared two sleek capsules, smooth and unmarked, glowing faintly as if they had been manufactured in some high-tech lab.
Ethan dropped them instantly. They clattered onto the floorboards, rolling to a stop near his worn sneakers.
His heart thudded. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the fever this time but from raw disbelief.
"…No way. No freaking way."
He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating. Maybe the fever had fried his brain. Maybe he'd finally snapped under the pressure. But when he looked again, the capsules were still there, perfectly real.
Ethan crouched down and picked one up. It felt solid, a little heavier than his usual store-brand medicine. He turned it over in his fingers. Smooth. Odorless. Cold against his skin.
It wasn't just a dream.
The voice came back, calm and robotic:
[System Name: Reconstruction System.][Function: Decompose any object into base materials. Reconstruct into a new form.][Restrictions: One use per day. Cannot affect living beings. Must reconstruct from an existing item of comparable mass.][Supplementation: Minor deficiencies automatically corrected.]
Ethan's jaw went slack.
"You've got to be kidding me," he whispered.
Every novel, every anime, every manga he had ever binge-read late at night flashed through his mind. Systems. Powers. Cheats. Except those were just stories. This… this was happening. To him.
He stared at the capsule in his hand. Could it really cure his cold? Could it actually work?
From the next room, his mother's voice rang out, thin but sharp:
"Ethan! Don't forget to take your medicine before you head out. You've got a long shift tonight!"
"I know, Ma!" he called back, forcing steadiness into his voice.
His hand tightened around the capsule. Maybe it was insane to test something that literally materialized out of thin air, but what choice did he have? He couldn't afford to miss work.
He hesitated only a second longer before tossing the pill into his mouth. It slid down his throat easily.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then warmth spread through his chest, rushing down his arms and legs. His pounding headache faded. His stuffed nose cleared. The ache in his muscles evaporated as if it had never been there.
Ethan sat there, stunned, gripping the bedsheet.
"…Holy shit."
He flexed his fingers, clenched his fists, and stood up. His body felt light, energized. He hadn't felt this good in weeks.
"No freaking way. It actually worked."
A laugh bubbled out of him, half-disbelieving, half-hysterical. He caught himself, pressing a hand over his mouth. His mom and sister couldn't know—not yet. They'd worry, or worse, think he was losing it.
But inside, his thoughts raced.
If this System could turn crappy cold meds into miracle pills… what else could it do?
He glanced around his tiny room: the cracked phone charger, the busted sneakers with holes in the soles, the old secondhand laptop that crashed twice a day.
Could he fix them? Upgrade them? Sell them?
His pulse quickened.
One reconstruction per day. Just one. But even one was enough to change everything.
"Ethan!" His sister's voice now, from the kitchen. "We're out of milk again!"
He sighed, rubbing his face. Milk, rent, medicine, utilities, food. The endless list never stopped. But for the first time in years, he didn't feel crushed by it. For the first time, he felt a spark of hope.
This System… it could be his ticket out.
His path to something better.
Maybe even to becoming rich.
Ultra-rich.
Ethan grabbed his jacket, slung his beat-up backpack over his shoulder, and glanced once more at the single glowing capsule left on his nightstand.
He didn't know how, he didn't know when, but he swore to himself:
"This is it. My life changes today."