CH-1
Life was stagnant, similar to other days in the endless cycle of academia. I was sitting in the empty classroom after giving my lecture to the students, my weathered leather chair creaking beneath me as I shifted my weight. The fading afternoon sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. I liked to stay late in the deserted university hall after nearly everyone had gone, finding solace in the silence that followed the day's chaos. Only some janitors remained; they knew my routine so well that they had adjusted their schedules around it, cleaning the room early and leaving me to my solitude.
The whiteboard still bore traces of my earlier lesson—hastily erased equations and literary terms that had failed to disappear completely. My worn messenger bag sat slumped against the desk, papers threatening to spill out from its overstuffed confines. I ran my fingers through my slightly disheveled hair, feeling the day's exhaustion seeping into my bones.
I sat there, thinking about the next chapter for the novel I was writing—my escape from the mundane reality of teaching. This one was a cultivation satire in which the main character had been transmigrated into a young master with a unique power system I had been developing for weeks. The protagonist could throw dice in his mind, with the first roll determining the rarity of how powerful the thing coming from the next roll would be, while the second roll would decide how closely the item, ability, or whatever manifested would match what the MC desired.
My notebook lay open before me, filled with scribbled notes and crossed-out paragraphs. I tapped my pen rhythmically against the desk as I considered the mechanics of this system. For example, if the character first rolled two dice—one showing 4, one showing 3—a total of 7 out of 12, it meant his item would be of above-average rarity according to the universal standard. Not legendary by any means, but certainly useful in most situations the protagonist might encounter.
For the next roll, the MC would think of what he wanted. Let's say he wanted something to heal—he could leave it vague and simply think "healing" or be specific and envision a particular remedy. He could picture an elixir that would heal a certain condition, a magical herb, or even a technique.
The next roll might give him a 2 and a 3, totaling 5 out of 12. This meant there was a 5/12 chance of it being a healing item with a rarity of 7. Even if he got the healing item, it would likely be far from his desire. If he wanted something to heal someone with chi deviation—a serious condition in the world I was creating—there was a significant chance the item would be for healing something entirely different, like a broken bone or a superficial wound. The system was designed to be both a blessing and a curse, granting power but never quite in the way the protagonist expected.
I was leaning back in my chair, the aged springs protesting beneath me, contemplating the first chapter of this novel as my previous work was coming to an end. That one had been a modest success in the online web novel community—nothing spectacular, but it had received a decent response. A few dedicated readers had even sent me encouraging messages, their words of praise fueling my desire to continue writing.
This was what I enjoyed most about my double life—even if only a small audience wanted to read my work, I loved writing and dedicating a few hours of my life to crafting these fictional worlds. As an English teacher by day, I believed it improved my understanding of the language and sometimes even enhanced my teaching ability. There was something satisfying about practicing what I preached to my students about creative writing and narrative structure.
The classroom was silent save for the distant hum of the building's ancient heating system and the occasional squeak of my chair. The familiar smell of chalk dust and cleaning supplies filled my nostrils as I hunched over my laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to begin.
I was just starting to type the opening lines when I saw a light appearing before my eyes—a flickering glow that seemed out of place in the dimly lit classroom. At first, I thought it might be a reflection from a passing car's headlights or perhaps a janitor's flashlight in the hallway. But as the light intensified, growing brighter and more focused, I realized it was something else entirely.
My gaze was drawn to a glowing circle forming in the center of the room, about three feet in diameter, hovering approximately two feet above the floor. Intricate scripts reminiscent of a fantasy realm—characters I couldn't recognize yet somehow felt I should understand—began swirling around the perimeter of the circle. They rotated slowly at first, then faster and faster until they became a blur of luminescent symbols.
The light from the circle cast eerie shadows across the classroom, transforming the familiar space into something alien and otherworldly. I felt a strange pull, not physical but almost metaphysical, as if the very fabric of reality was being stretched around me. My heart hammered in my chest, a mix of fear and inexplicable excitement coursing through my veins.
The next thing I knew, everything went white and black simultaneously—an impossible contradiction that my mind struggled to process. How to describe it? I don't know. It was instant, yet it felt like time had passed. It was as if I was everywhere and nowhere, stretched across the universe and compressed into a single point, all at once. My consciousness seemed to expand beyond my body, then snap back like a rubber band stretched too far.
When awareness returned, the first thing I noticed was blurriness clouding my vision, like what one would experience wearing glasses with the wrong prescription or after waking up from a deep sleep. I could hear a few voices in the background—hushed, urgent whispers in a language I couldn't understand. Instinctively, I reached for my glasses, which had somehow remained on my face through whatever had just happened. I removed them to clean the lenses, assuming they had fogged up or smudged during... whatever that was.
But as I took them off, something strange happened. The blurriness didn't worsen as it should have—instead, it vanished completely. I could see clearly, as well as I had before my sight began to deteriorate in my early twenties. No, even better than that. I could make out minute details across the room that would have been impossible with my normal vision, even with my prescription glasses. The fine threads in a tapestry hanging on a distant wall. The tiny engravings on a metal goblet held by someone several yards away. I dared to think my vision was even better than it had ever been, enhanced somehow by whatever had happened to me.
Setting these thoughts aside, my eyes scanned my surroundings, taking in details with this newfound clarity. Somehow, I had been teleported—there was no other explanation—into a grand throne room that looked as if it had been plucked straight from a medieval fantasy novel. The ceiling soared high above me, supported by massive columns of polished marble streaked with veins of gold. Elaborate chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, filled not with electric bulbs but with what appeared to be glowing crystals that cast a warm, amber light throughout the space.
The floor beneath my feet was a mosaic of intricate patterns, swirling designs in blues, reds, and golds that seemed to tell a story I couldn't quite decipher. Tapestries depicting epic battles and mystical creatures adorned the walls, their colors vibrant and rich despite what must have been considerable age.
At the far end of the room, atop a dais reached by seven marble steps, stood two ornate thrones—one slightly larger than the other. The larger throne appeared to be carved from a single piece of dark wood, inlaid with precious metals and gems that caught the light and sparkled like stars. The smaller throne was similar in design but fashioned from a lighter wood with silver inlays rather than gold.
Upon these thrones sat what could only be the rulers of this place. At the top of the marble staircase, the two regal figures watched me with a mixture of curiosity and displeasure. The woman had raven hair that cascaded down her shoulders in elaborate curls, secured with jeweled pins that matched the delicate crown nestled among her locks. Her eyes were a bright, unnatural purple that seemed to glow with an inner light, and her porcelain skin was flawless, almost luminescent in the chamber's soft lighting. She wore a gown of deep blue silk embroidered with silver threads that caught the light as she shifted slightly in her seat.
The man beside her wore a more substantial crown, a masterpiece of goldsmithing set with rubies and diamonds that must have been worth a king's ransom—which was appropriate, as he was clearly the king. His silver hair was cut short, emphasizing the strong lines of his face and the unusual crimson eyes that watched me with what I dreaded to recognize as annoyance and perhaps a touch of disdain. His robes were crimson and gold, matching his eyes and crown, and he sat with the easy confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world.
The crowned man—definitely the king—looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then gestured to a soldier or knight standing nearby. The armored man, clad in gleaming plate mail bearing the same crest that adorned the tapestries, approached me with measured steps. His armor clinked softly with each movement, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. The plume on his helmet—red and white—bobbed slightly as he walked, and his hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword.
He stopped before me, standing at attention, and began speaking in a language I couldn't understand. The words flowed smoothly, with a rhythmic cadence that suggested it was a formal greeting or perhaps a ritual phrase. My mind churned with possibilities, trying to make sense of the impossible situation I found myself in.
Well, I dared to say it wasn't a unique situation—at least not for someone who had read as many fantasy novels as I had. I might have been going mad, but this was straight out of a cliché isekai story. The mysterious transportation, the medieval fantasy setting, the throne room scene—it was all there, as if I had somehow fallen into the pages of one of my own novels.
But why had I been transported here, and why alone? Wasn't the typical plot to teleport an entire class of students, giving the protagonist a built-in support system and potential harem members? What was the purpose? Was this some kind of demon king situation where I'd be asked to defeat a great evil? But if so, why weren't they more welcoming? Unlike other scenarios I'd read about, there was no circle of mages who had fueled the summoning magic, no grateful king immediately offering me a position in his court. Just confusion and what appeared to be irritation.
What was going on? What was the knight saying? I focused harder on his words, trying to detect any pattern or familiar sound that might give me a clue.
Only one word stood out from his repeated phrase, and it made a strange sort of sense in this context: "Zha'tek *Status* vir kaneth zul'roth," he said, then repeated more slowly, emphasizing each syllable as if speaking to a child, "Zha'tek *Status* vir kaneth zul'roth."
I listened again, focusing on the familiar word "status" in English. It was so out of place among the flowing, almost musical foreign language that it had to be significant. The knight was looking at me expectantly, his hand now extended as if he were inviting me to do something.
On a hunch, I whispered the word "Status" under my breath. The next thing I knew, a blue screen—transparent and glowing faintly at the edges—materialized in front of me, hovering about a foot from my face. It looked exactly like the status windows I'd described in my own LitRPG attempts, complete with categories and numerical values:
```
[Name: Alex Williams]
[Age: 25]
[Titles: Summoned]
[Traits: Dice of Providence]
Level: 0
Attributes:
Strength: 10
Dexterity: 10
Constitution: 10
Mana: 15
[Attribute Points: 0]
[Primary Class: None]
[Sub-Class: None]
Skills:
Sever - Lv 0
Converge - Lv 0
```
I stared at the floating window, my mind racing. This couldn't be happening. I was not only in another world but in a world with a system—a game-like interface that quantified my abilities. And more importantly, I apparently had a trait called "Dice of Providence"—the very same power system I had been developing for my novel just moments before being transported here. It was as if the universe had reached into my mind and stolen my idea, then dropped me into a world where it was real.
As soon as I opened the status window, something shifted inside my mind. It felt like a key turning in a lock, or a puzzle piece clicking into place. Through some kind of system interference—or perhaps it was a feature of being "summoned"—I could suddenly understand the people speaking around me. The foreign language still sounded foreign, but my brain somehow translated it instantly into meaning I could comprehend.
From their tones and the bits of conversation I could now understand, they seemed merely annoyed by my presence rather than hostile or excited. I heard fragments—"another one," "waste of time," "the old man's curse"—that suggested this wasn't the joyous occasion that hero summoning usually was in stories.
When they saw me examining my status, their expressions changed. The knight's eyes widened slightly, and a murmur ran through the assembled courtiers. They must have realized I could now understand them. The knight coughed loudly to get my attention, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. As I looked at him, the status window automatically faded away like mist in the morning sun.
The knight began speaking formally, his voice clear and carrying throughout the chamber:
"Welcome, Summoned One. We know you must be frightened to find yourself here, torn from your world without warning or preparation. We, the people of the world of Analor, in the Kingdom of Valeria, welcome you as custom and law require." He paused, his expression suggesting the welcome was more obligation than genuine sentiment. "As is our sacred tradition, we provide you with bread and salt, and welcome you as our guest, and state that no harm shall come to you under this roof. We ask that you give us the chance to explain your situation before you pass judgment upon us."
It sounded like a rehearsed speech one might read from a teleprompter, delivered without emotion or depth. The knight's eyes never quite met mine, and his stance remained rigid and formal. As I considered my options, I realized that with the number of people in this throne room—guards posted at every entrance, courtiers lining the walls, servants watching from the shadows—even if I didn't want to, I would have to remain quiet and compliant. Whatever this situation was, causing a scene would not be in my best interest.
A woman clad in the simple but elegant attire of a high-ranking servant came rushing forward with an ornate silver plate. On it lay a small loaf of bread, golden-brown and still steaming slightly, alongside a small crystal dish containing what appeared to be salt. Following the knight's expectant gaze, I understood that I was supposed to partake of this offering. I broke off a small piece of the bread, dipped it lightly in the salt, and ate it under the watchful eyes of everyone present. The bread was surprisingly good—light and fluffy with a crisp crust—though my appreciation of its culinary merits was somewhat dampened by the circumstances.
Soon after, the king rose from his throne with a fluid grace that belied his imposing stature. As he stood, everyone else in the room immediately did the same, straightening their postures and bowing their heads slightly in deference. The atmosphere in the room shifted, becoming more formal and tense. With a commanding tone befitting a military colonel addressing his troops, he asked for my name, his crimson eyes fixed upon me with unsettling intensity.
"Alex Williams," I replied, surprised at how steady my voice sounded despite the turmoil inside me. "Professor Alex Williams."
The king nodded once, a sharp movement that seemed to acknowledge my response without necessarily approving it. "I am Rodolf Valethrone, King of Valeria, Protector of the Eastern Marches, and Guardian of the Sacred Flame." His voice was deep and resonant, carrying effortlessly across the vast room. "And you, Alex Williams, have placed us in a most... inconvenient position."
Then he began explaining my situation, pacing slowly before his throne as he spoke. As his words washed over me, each one adding to the bizarre narrative, my face contorted in confusion. What kind of absurd circumstance had I landed in?
He explained that there was no demon to slay, no dark lord to overthrow, nothing heroic or grand for me to do. This wasn't the typical isekai scenario where I'd be given a magical weapon and sent on a quest. No, the reality was far more mundane and, in some ways, more perplexing.
Nearly 1,200 years ago, he explained, this world had been different. They were facing war on all fronts from various demonic races—creatures of shadow and flame that sought to claim the world of Analor for their own. Cities burned, kingdoms fell, and the very fabric of reality was threatened by these invasions from the nether realms.
During that time of desperation, every kingdom tried to summon heroes from another world for help—warriors, mages, healers, anyone who might turn the tide of the seemingly endless war. The greatest archmages worked tirelessly to perfect the summoning ritual, a complex spell that would reach across the dimensions and bring champions to their aid.
During one such summoning, the archmage leading the ritual—a man named Valeron the Wise—had an apprentice who was later discovered to be a spy from a rival kingdom called Zapheriyon. This spy had tampered with the summoning magic, sabotaging it in ways even he didn't fully understand.
Due to this interference, the actual summoning intended for a group of people was shifted forward in time—to the present day—and focused on a random location and individual—me, apparently. The king's expression darkened as he continued the tale, his voice taking on a bitter edge.
The archmage, Valeron, was so humiliated and enraged by this betrayal that in the years that followed, he shattered all known norms of magical practice and ethical boundaries. He surpassed his rank through forbidden rituals and dangerous experiments, becoming something more than human, something that inspired both awe and terror. Single-handedly, he turned the tide of the war, helping every kingdom defeat the demonic invaders.
But his victory came at a terrible price. After the war ended, his rage still unquenched, he turned his newfound power against those who had betrayed him. He killed every single person belonging to the Kingdom of Zapheriyon, from the king to the lowest peasant, and destroyed their capital city in a cataclysmic display of magical might. The ruins still pulsed with so much mana corruption that no one could enter without suffering a fate worse than death. The land was blighted, the very air poisoned with magical residue that would take millennia to dissipate.
Then, contrary to everyone's fears that he would establish himself as emperor over all the lands, Valeron simply vanished. No one knew where he went—whether he had died from the strain of his powers, ascended to another plane of existence, or simply chosen to live in isolation. The mystery of his disappearance became a legend, told and retold for centuries.
But before his disappearance, he had studied the tampered summoning ritual and discovered it would still bring a single person years later—a delayed reaction to the sabotage. He left behind 100,000 gold coins—a fortune beyond imagining—and claimed the destroyed kingdom as his own, with no one daring to venture there in all these years.
As a final act, he somehow directly took control of the mana veins all over the world—the very lifeblood of magic that flowed beneath the earth—and forced every country into a magically binding pact. This pact forbade them from using the summoned person—me—for their own purposes, or from harming or detaining me in any way. The penalty for breaking this pact would be the severing of a nation's connection to the mana veins, effectively destroying their ability to use magic—a death sentence in a world where magic was integral to daily life.
Since it was his fault that brought me here, according to the terms of the pact, I was to be given the money and swiftly sent off to that destroyed kingdom to "pay homage to a mage who has been gone for nearly 1,100 years." Nice. Great. Amazing. What the fuck kind of situation was this?
The king was speaking as if he didn't want to see me in his kingdom for even an extra minute, his tone making it clear that my presence was an unwelcome reminder of ancient history and magical obligation. I stood there, still trying to process everything, the reality of my situation slowly sinking in. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even wanted here. I was an inconvenience, a loose end from a millennium-old magical mishap.
Author's Note:
Thank you for taking the time to read! If you enjoyed the beginning, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Do you have any suggestions? Is there something you'd like to see more of as the story moves forward? Or maybe there's something that didn't quite work for you? Let me know—I appreciate all feedback! Your input helps shape the story, so don't hesitate to drop a comment.
Looking forward to hearing from you! 😊
