Author's NoteThanks for reading Chapter 1! I know it's the early days, but if you're here for system-driven worldbuilding, OP potential, and a transmigration twist that doesn't play by the usual rules—you're in the right place.
I'm currently balancing a full work schedule, but I'm committed to this story and the journey ahead. Chapter 2 drops this Sunday, and from there, I'll be updating at least once a week.
Next stop: Sotolo Fields—a place where the terrain shifts, the mobs don't respawn, and the NPCs might be more than they seem. If you're ready for a layered MMORPG world where adventure meets existential recursion, buckle up.
This isn't just a game. It's a system with consequences.
Chapter One: The Hearth
He awoke with a start.
The young man's limbs felt heavy, as if sleep still clung to his bones. Slowly, he raised his head, scanned the room, and then jerked upright.
He was standing in what appeared to be a large 18th-century kitchen. The hearth before him glowed faintly, its warmth carrying the scent of toasted breadcrumbs and something faintly herbal—rosemary, maybe, or thyme. The air was thick with the weight of stillness, as if the room had been waiting for him.
To his right, a wooden door stood shut, its surface embedded with small metal nails—hooks, he realized instinctively, meant for hanging aprons. A faded cloth still dangled from one, its edges stiff with flour. To his left stretched a brick wall, cold and unyielding, its mortar chipped in places. Above him, wooden beams loomed, darkened by age and smoke. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor.
Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak. But the words that escaped were not his own.
"Please help me find three stalks of wheat for the sourdough I am baking."
His eyes widened. He tried again.
"You can find it in Sotolo Fields."
Panic surged. What is happening? he thought, horrified by his lack of control. He reached inward, searching for memory—any memory—but found only a blank abyss.
His heart pounded. He inhaled sharply to steady himself.
That's when the pain began.
It tore through his skull like a blade. His legs buckled, and he clutched his head, gasping as the agony stretched on. Then, slowly, the torment ebbed—and in its place came a flood.
Memories poured into the void, hundreds of them, crashing against the walls of his mind. Faces, places, fragments of a life he couldn't name. A woman laughing in a sunlit garden. A train station at dusk. A flickering screen. And then—one image held fast.
A dog with mismatched ears, barking at a flickering screen.
Winston.
The name struck him like a whisper from a forgotten world. But before he could grasp it, a system prompt blinked across his vision:
Villager 2922: Awaiting Task Confirmation.
He blinked, trying to dismiss the prompt, but it hovered—persistent, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The hearth crackled louder, and for a moment, he thought he saw a face in the flames.
"I'm not a villager," he whispered, but the system didn't care.
Somewhere beyond the brick wall, gears began to turn.
He took a step toward the door, knowing it wouldn't open until he obeyed.
He paused, hand hovering near the latch. The wood was warm, almost breathing. A faint hum vibrated through the grain, like a machine buried beneath centuries of tradition. He pulled back.
This isn't just a simulation, he thought. It's a performance. A ritual.
The words he'd spoken—about wheat and sourdough—felt like lines from a script. But whose? And why?
He turned back to the hearth. The flames had dimmed, revealing a small iron pot nestled in the coals. Steam curled from its lid, fragrant and familiar. Hunger gnawed at him, but he didn't move.
Instead, he knelt and pressed his palm to the floor. It was warm. Not just from the fire—but from something deeper. Something alive.
The prompt blinked again.
Villager 2922: Awaiting Task Confirmation.
He stood. "I confirm nothing," he said aloud.
The lantern above flickered. A low tone echoed through the room, like a distant bell tolling underwater.
Then, a voice—not his own—spoke from the walls.
"Task rejected. Reassigning behavioral parameters."
He staggered back. The brick wall to his left shimmered, then split—revealing a narrow corridor lined with shelves. Each shelf held objects: a wooden spoon, a cracked mirror, a child's shoe. None made sense.
He stepped inside.
The corridor was longer than it should have been. The air grew colder. The scent of bread faded, replaced by something metallic. He reached for the mirror.
His reflection stared back—but it wasn't him.
The face was older. Tired. Eyes sunken, mouth slack. And behind it, Winston barked again—this time from inside the glass.
He dropped the mirror. It didn't shatter. It simply vanished.
Another prompt appeared.
Memory Fragment Unlocked: Winston – Tier 1.
He backed away. The corridor pulsed. The shelves rearranged themselves. A new object appeared: a stalk of wheat, golden and perfect.
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he turned and ran.
Back through the corridor, past the hearth, toward the door. He grabbed the latch and pulled.
It opened.
But not to the outside.
Beyond the door was a field—endless, golden, swaying in a wind he couldn't feel. A signpost stood crooked in the soil.
Sotolo Fields.
He stepped through.
The door vanished behind him.