The first thing Ren noticed was the smell.
It wasn't the sharp, chemical sting of antiseptic he had breathed for the last year. It was earthy, pungent, and unmistakably organic. It smelled like wet straw, old sweat, and something that suspiciously resembled manure.
The second thing he noticed was the noise. Instead of the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, there was a cacophony of snoring, rustling, and the distant, unhappy lowing of a large animal.
Ren opened his eyes.
He expected the grey ceiling of the hospital room. He expected the IV line tugging at his wrist.
Instead, he was staring at a wooden beam, dark with age and soot. A spider, the size of his thumb, was busy spinning a web in the corner.
Ren sat up. Or rather, he tried to.
In his old life, sitting up was a calculated maneuver. It required bracing his core, grabbing the bedrail, and grimacing through the spike of pain in his spine.
This time, his body moved like a spring. He shot upright with zero resistance, the motion so fluid and powerful that he nearly headbutted the person sleeping in the bunk above him.
"Whoa," he whispered. His voice sounded different. Higher. Scratchier.
He looked down at his hands.
They weren't the pale, skeletal hands of a dying patient. They were rough, tan, and covered in small scars. Calluses thickened the pads of his fingers. Dirt was wedged under his nails.
He took a deep breath. The air was thick with dust, but it rushed into his lungs without a hitch. No wheezing. No coughing. No burning sensation in his chest.
He felt... alive.
Then, the headache hit him.
It wasn't a migraine. It felt like someone was trying to shove a library into his skull through his ear. Images flashed behind his eyes, blinding and fast.
A cold orphanage floor. The taste of stale bread. A letter with the royal seal. A long walk in the rain. A uniform that didn't fit. The sneer of a noble.
Name: Milo.
Age: 16.
Affiliation: Argentum Academy, First Year.
Class: Tamer.
Rank: F (Provisional).
Ren gasped, clutching his head as the memories settled, fusing with his own. He wasn't Ren anymore. Well, he was, but he was also Milo. He remembered how to tie the complex knots used for leashes. He knew which berries in the forest caused paralysis. He knew that the boy snoring in the bunk across from him was named Jace, and he had a habit of stealing socks.
"Milo," he muttered, testing the name on his tongue. It felt foreign and familiar at the same time.
Then, the realization hit him like a physical blow.
"Milo," he repeated, his eyes widening. "Wait. Milo?"
He scrambled out of the bunk, ignoring the scratchy straw mattress. He ran to a cracked mirror hanging on the stone wall by the door.
The face staring back was average. Messy brown hair, brown eyes, a slightly pointed chin. It was the face of a background character. A face you wouldn't look at twice in a crowd.
But Ren knew this face. He had read the description in Chapter 3 of Chronicles of the Beast God.
'Milo, a boy from the slums, fell first. The goblin arrow pierced his throat before he could even call for help, his unbonded beast fleeing into the dark.'
Ren—no, Milo—stared at his reflection in horror.
"I'm the Red Shirt," he hissed. "I'm the guy who dies in the tutorial to show how dangerous the dungeon is."
He frantically searched his memories for the date. The "Awakening Ceremony" was today. The "First Expedition"—the one where he was scheduled to turn into a goblin pincushion—was in two days.
"Two days," Milo paced the small space between the bunks. The stone floor was cold under his bare feet. "I have forty-eight hours to stop myself from dying."
The door to the dormitory banged open.
"Up! Get up, you lazy rats!"
A man with a chest like a barrel and a face like a bulldog marched in. He was wearing the leather armor of the Academy instructors, a whip coiled at his hip. This was Instructor Grout. Milo's memories supplied the name along with a healthy dose of fear.
"Today is the Day of Choosing!" Grout bellowed, banging a baton against the wooden bedframes. "If you don't have a beast by noon, you're out! And if you're out, you owe the Crown for your tuition. You know what that means! The mines!"
The room erupted into chaos. Twenty boys scrambled out of bed, fighting for their tunics and boots.
Milo moved on autopilot, his body remembering the routine even if his mind was reeling. He pulled on the rough linen tunic and the canvas trousers. They were dyed a dull brown—the color of the Commoner Tamer class.
He followed the herd of boys out of the dormitory.
As he stepped outside, the smell of manure intensified. He realized why. The "Dormitory" wasn't a building of its own. It was an extension of the Academy Stables. The commoner students were literally sleeping next to the livestock.
But as Milo looked up, the indignation died in his throat.
Above the stables, rising like a spear of white marble against the blue sky, was the Royal Spire. It was pristine, beautiful, and utterly impossible. Floating islands of rock drifted lazily around its peak, held aloft by permanent gravity enchantments. Waterfalls cascaded from the floating rocks, turning into mist before they hit the ground.
To the west lay the Vanguard Hall, a fortress of iron and grey stone where the sounds of steel on steel rang out. To the east was the Arcanist Tower, glowing with ambient violet light.
And here, in the mud, was the Tamer Wing.
"It really is the game world," Milo whispered. The sheer scale of it was breathtaking. The air hummed with a subtle energy that prickled his skin—Mana. It was everywhere.
"Move it, mud-blood!"
A shoulder slammed into Milo, knocking him sideways. He stumbled, his feet slipping in the muck, but he caught his balance before he face-planted.
He looked up.
Standing there was a boy who looked like he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. His uniform wasn't brown linen; it was tailored silk, dyed a deep midnight blue with silver trim. His boots were polished leather, untouched by the mud.
Kaelen var Hestra. Second son of a Baron. Class 1-B.
"You're blocking the path," Kaelen sneered, wiping his sleeve as if touching Milo had contaminated him. "Some of us have actual potential to attend to."
Two other boys, Kaelen's lackeys, snickered behind him.
Milo's first instinct—Ren's instinct—was a sarcastic retort. 'Nice outfit, did it come with the ego?'
But Milo's instinct froze him. Fear. Pure, conditioned fear. In this world, a commoner insulting a noble could result in a beating, and the teachers wouldn't bat an eye.
Milo lowered his head. "My apologies."
Kaelen scoffed. "Pathetic. Don't worry, Milo. After today, you'll be back in the slums where you belong. I doubt even a blind mole-rat would bond with you."
Kaelen shoved past him, his lackeys trailing in his wake like ducklings.
Milo watched them go, his hands balling into fists. The fear was fading, replaced by a cold, simmering anger.
"Enjoy it while you can, Kaelen," Milo thought, remembering the plot. "In Chapter 20, you get your face Scarred by an Acid Slime because you were too arrogant to check for traps."
Milo turned to follow the crowd, but a sudden hush fell over the courtyard.
It started at the front near the main gates and rippled backward. Students stopped walking. Conversations died. Even Instructor Grout straightened up and looked respectful.
Milo stood on his toes to see what was happening.
From the direction of the Royal Spire, a figure was approaching.
He didn't walk; he glided. Each step seemed to carry him further than it should, as if space itself was shortening to accommodate him. He wore a uniform of pure white and gold—the colors of the Royal Class.
He was tall, with hair like spun gold and eyes that burned with a literal inner light. The air around him distorted slightly, shimmering with heat.
Damian Solace.
The Protagonist.
Milo felt a strange jolt in his chest. He had spent last year reading about this guy. He knew Damian's favorite food (spicy wyvern wings), his biggest fear (failing to save everyone), and the tragic backstory of his parents. Seeing him in 3D was surreal.
Damian looked exactly like the cover art, only more... intense. The mana rolling off him was palpable, a warm pressure that washed over the crowd.
"He's dual-casting," a student near Milo whispered in awe. "Look at his hands."
Milo squinted. Sparks of blue lightning danced between Damian's left fingers, while his right hand rested on the hilt of a sword that glowed with a soft orange heat. He was maintaining two opposing elemental states while walking and smiling at fans.
"Show off," Milo muttered, echoing his last words from Earth.
Damian stopped in the center of the courtyard. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the assembled students. When his eyes passed over the Tamer crowd, they didn't linger. Why would they? To a dragon, ants were invisible.
"Good luck to all of you on the Awakening," Damian said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the courtyard as if he were standing right next to them. Wind magic. "May you find the power to protect Aethelgard."
The students cheered. Girls swooned. Even Kaelen looked at Damian with hero-worship in his eyes.
Milo didn't cheer. He was doing math.
'Damian is heading to the VIP section. That means the selection is starting early. If I don't get to the Beast Hall now, the nobles will take everything, and I'll be stuck with a sickly rat.'
While the rest of the commoners were busy gazing at the sun, Milo turned and sprinted toward the massive stone coliseum in the distance.
He wasn't the Chosen One. He didn't have a Dual Core. He didn't have gold or a family name.
He had a death sentence hanging over his head and a brain full of spoilers.
"Time to cheat," Milo gritted out, his lungs pumping fresh, clean air.
He ran past the cheering crowds, past the pristine Royal Spire, and plunged into the shadows of the Beast Hall.