The young servant boy, wwas still hovering near the bedside . His lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but Han had already grown tired of the constant staring.
"Leave," Han muttered, rubbing at his temples. "I need… a moment."
The boy bowed awkwardly, eyes flickering with concern, then hurried out the wooden door.
Silence returned.
Han exhaled shakily and sat up straighter, both hands pressing against his skull. The headache felt like someone was hammering nails into his brain.
"Fuck… it hurts," he groaned.
[Ding.]
System Notification:
Cause of current headache: System integration process.
Condition temporary. Will pass with time.
Han froze, then slowly opened his eyes wider. "…You're telling me this thing is what's frying my brain?"
Affirmative.
He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Great. I survived ammonia gas just to die of a migraine. Fantastic."
The headache throbbed again, but his irritation outweighed the pain. "Alright, fine. Since you're here, let's figure out what the hell you even are."
⸻
The System's Face
"Open system," Han said aloud, half mocking the words.
A translucent panel flickered into existence before his eyes, faintly glowing. His glasses reflected the strange light, making him look like he was staring into a computer screen.
There were only a handful of tabs:
Base Stats
• Strength: 3
• Stamina: 3
• Speed: 3
• skills
And at the bottom, a flashing message icon.
Han leaned closer unconsciously, muttering: "So… no flashy fireballs, no teleportation, no magic. Just stats. Huh.I guess i should be thankful i didn't die."
He tapped at the message. The panel shifted.
Message:
"I sacrificed quite a bit for you, so don't die too easily."
That was it. No sender. No signature. Just that single ominous line.
Han blinked. "…What the heck is this? Who are you?"
I am not authorised to answer, Host.
His lip curled. "Of course you're not. Figures. Useless piece of junk."
…
The panel dimmed slightly, as if sulking.
Han sighed, rubbing his forehead again. Alright. Focus. Stop panicking. Information first.
⸻
The Window
He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled across the stone floor toward the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he blinked into the daylight.
What greeted him was not the glass towers of Seoul, nor the neat grid of asphalt roads. Instead, massive stone walls stretched across the horizon, built thick and high, manned by guards carrying shields and spears. The buildings within were wooden, with steep roofs and smoking chimneys.
And below his window…
Knights.
Dozens of them, dressed in chainmail and leather, training with swords and spears. Their movements were sharp, disciplined, precise.
Han's breath caught.
"This… confirms it," he whispered. "Europe. Medieval Europe."
The smell of sweat, the clash of steel, the heavy grunts—it was all too real. He wasn't dreaming.
⸻
Questions
He leaned against the window frame, thinking furiously.
If I just blurt out, 'Hey, what year is it?' they'll think I'm insane. If I ask about countries directly, same thing. I need… indirect questions. Things that sound natural for a kid my supposed age to ask.
He began listing them mentally. What's the king's name? What's the date of some festival? Who's training in the yard?
Before he could test his theories, the door creaked open again.
⸻
Interruption
"My lord," the servant boy said breathlessly, carrying a bucket. "Sword training is ready. I—I came to fetch you."
Han blinked. Sword training.
His gaze flickered back to the knights outside. "So that's why you had water ready earlier.
The boy tilted his head in confusion, but Han waved it off and muttered, "Never mind."
Inside, though, his stomach knotted. Sword training? Are you kidding me? I've never held anything sharper than a kitchen knife.
But refusing might draw suspicion. And suspicion was dangerous.
So, gritting his teeth, he rose. "Lead the way."
⸻
The Walk
The hallways were stone, lit by narrow windows and torches in iron sconces. As they walked, servants carrying baskets and tools passed by.
And every single one of them bowed.
Some lowered their heads deeply, others bent their backs slightly, but all of them moved aside with deference.
Han's steps faltered. Wait… they're bowing… to me?
He glanced around. Nobody else was in the hallway. The bows were directed squarely at him.
He forced himself to keep walking, trying to mask his surprise.
The boy glanced at him nervously. "My lord, are you alright?"
Han nodded stiffly. "…Fine."
Inside, his thoughts spun. Okay, think. If people are bowing, that means I have status. That gives me protection—but also responsibility. Need to act like I belong, at least until I figure things out.
The Training Field
The training yard stank of sweat and iron. Young men swung wooden swords, practicing strikes against straw dummies. The ground was packed dirt, scarred by countless footsteps.
And at the center stood a man.
Broad shoulders, thick arms covered in scars, chest hair peeking through his tunic. A jagged scar ran from his chin down his neck, and an eyepatch covered his left eye. His very presence radiated danger.
Han instinctively straightened.
The man's single eye narrowed. "Boy. You are late." His voice rumbled like thunder. "You grow lazier by the day. Your nothing like your father."
Han stiffened. Who the hell is this guy to talk like that to me? A noble
The scarred veteran jerked his chin toward a rack. "Get your wooden sword."
Han swallowed hard. His palms were already sweating.
⸻
First Clash
The wooden sword was heavier than he expected, the grip rough against his skin.
"Stance!" the man barked.
Han hesitated, then raised the weapon clumsily like he'd seen in movies. His posture was awkward, knees stiff, arms shaking.
The man snorted. "Pathetic..I just taught you this yesterday.." He lunged.
The clash of wood rang out. Pain shot up Han's wrist. He stumbled backward, nearly dropping the sword.
The veteran didn't relent. He swung again, forcing Han to block, then again, striking his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.
"Hold your ground!" the man roared. "If you cannot stand against me with wood, you will die the instant steel touches you!"
Han gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing. Fuck you. I didn't ask to be here.
But he adjusted. He copied the man's stance, shifted his feet, braced harder. The next strike rattled his bones, but he stayed upright.
⸻
Thirty Minutes Later
His lungs burned. His arms ached. Sweat poured down his face. Every block felt like lifting a mountain.
And yet—
Han was grinning.
He didn't even realize it at first. Somewhere in the chaos of strikes and parries, in the rhythm of movement, he had begun to enjoy it.
Losing again and again, but learning. Each mistake corrected by another blow. Each failure met with a spark of stubbornness.
This… is actually fun?
For once, his mind wasn't drowning in loneliness or bitterness. It was focused. Pure.
⸻
Two Hours Later
Han collapsed to his knees, panting. His arms trembled so badly he could barely hold the sword. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched.
The scarred man finally lowered his weapon. "Good. You've got more fire in your eyes than you did yesterday."
[Ding!]
Skill Acquired: Basic Swordsmanship.
Han blinked. Then laughed breathlessly. "…hoh… is this how i acquire skills?"
He looked down at the faint notification glowing in front of his eyes. His first skill.
For the first time since waking up in this timeline , his lips curved into a real smile.
And just like that, a spark lit inside him.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This could be interesting.