[System Alert: Base Template "Newbie Luck" Expiring]

[Warning: Your current Archetype will be soon transition.]

[Installed Archetype: "Newbie Luck" → "Trash Transmigrator"]

[Recommendation: Find and install a new Template immediately.]

North stared at the glowing text floating before his eyes. Slowly, he placed his cup of wine back on the table, exhaling through his nose. His fingers twitched slightly, but he otherwise remained still. For a full five seconds. Then, finally, he muttered under his breath—

"I would greatly appreciate it if (you) so-called System actually explained things properly instead of just throwing cryptic half-assed warnings at me."

His voice was calm. Too calm. Which meant he was definitely about to lose his patience.

Because, honestly? What was he even supposed to do with this information?

[Base Template "Newbie Luck" Expiring Soon]

[New Template: Trash Transmigrator]

…Excuse me?

Was this thing trying to humiliate him?!

"Tsk! Tsk!" North clicked his tongue, his expression twitching in irritation. First of all, what the hell was a "Trash Transmigrator" Template? That wasn’t just bad-sounding. That was literally a death sentence. Because in every damn cultivation novel, simulator scenario, and LitRPG setting he had ever seen, the moment someone got labeled as "trash"… They either died horribly or became the punching bag for arrogant young masters.

And North? North had no interest in getting his face slammed into the ground for "character development." No, thank you very much.

Furthermore, it couldn’t have let him enjoy his meal in peace?! No, of course not. It just had to drop this bombshell right in the middle of his quiet moment of triumph. He had literally just gotten his Fate Token, just found a place to sleep, just figured out how the currency worked.

And now?

[System Alert: You Are Now Officially Trash]

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

North sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can we at least talk about how I'm supposed to install a new Template?"

No response. Of course. He flicked at the glowing text. It didn’t react. He waited a few seconds. Still nothing. North exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples. "Fantastic," he muttered. "FUCK YOU."

Still, no point sitting here complaining (even though he really, really wanted to). His new priority now was to figure out how to change his templates. The only problem? He had no idea how. The System sure as hell wasn’t helping. And, unless a Template Store magically popped up in front of him, he was going to have to find answers himself.

North leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "...I just know this is going to be annoying."

He lifted the large mug and downed the entire drink in one gulp. The bitter taste of cheap wine burned slightly down his throat, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Alcohol was alcohol. After that ridiculous System stunt, he definitely needed it. Still, he wasn’t about to let some annoying notification ruin his dinner. He had worked too hard today—he wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion and hunger. So, pushing aside his frustration, he focused on the warm, fragrant meal before him. The roasted beast meat looked simple, but the moment North took a bite, his eyes widened slightly. Surprisingly good. Juicy, tender, with just the right amount of fat to melt on the tongue. A mix of deep, earthy spices blended into the meat, flavors he had never encountered back on Earth. The aroma itself was intoxicating, rich and smoky, making his stomach tighten in anticipation for the next bite.

North chewed slowly, his eyes briefly closing from the pleasure of eating actual food. The warmth spread from his tongue straight to his mind and stomach, easing away the exhaustion he hadn’t even realized was digging into his bones. For the first time today, he allowed himself to simply enjoy something.

Just food. And it was damn good. He ate in comfortable silence, savoring every bite.

By the time he was done, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, letting the warmth settle in his stomach. Just then, a knock on the door.

"Sir, I’ve brought the hot water for your bath," a voice called from the other side.

North stood up, stretching, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in. "Come in," he said.

The door creaked open, and a young male waiter stepped inside, carrying a large wooden bucket of steaming water. He moved efficiently, placing it inside the small washroom attached to the room before bowing slightly.

"Also, I’ll be taking the dishes," he added, glancing at the empty plates.

"Yeah, go ahead," North muttered, rubbing his stiff neck.

The waiter collected the utensils, gave him a polite nod, and stepped out. The moment the door closed behind the waiter, North was already stripping off his sticky clothes. He slipped into the hot water, and immediately his muscles began to relax. The warmth seemed to seep into his very bones, washing away the aches from a day of manual labor. To his surprise, there was even a crude soap-like substance provided—another detail he'd never bothered to program into his game.

The NPCs developed basic hygiene on their own, he mused, working the soap into a lather. Probably should have seen that coming.

Yet the pleasure of being clean brought a new problem into focus. As he stepped out of the bath, water dripping onto the wooden floor, he realized he had no change of clothes.

North stood there, naked, dripping water onto the floor, staring at his ruined hoodie and jeans.

"...Well, this sucks."

With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his clothes, dunked them into the leftover bathwater, and began scrubbing. It wasn’t ideal, but he wasn’t about to walk around in sweat-soaked, dirt-covered clothes tomorrow. Once done, he wrung them out as best as he could, hanging them over the wooden chair near the small window. He could only hope they dried by morning.

At least they should be dry by morning, he thought, Though this definitely wasn't how I imagined spending my first night in new world.

Finally, once every menial task was done, North picked up the box containing the Fate Token. His chance to become a Visionary at last. For a moment, he couldn't believe how much he'd accomplished in one day. From nearly dying in an inn brawl to getting a job, earning money, delivering Wei’s letter, receiving his first Fate Token. And now? Now, he would take the first real step toward survival. Somehow he'd managed to navigate this insane world he'd created.

Slowly, he lifted the lid of the jade box. Inside, nestled atop a silken cushion, was the Fate Token. Even though he had programmed it himself, seeing it in reality was… different. The token was small, delicate, about the size of a thumb, yet it carried a presence far larger than itself. It was a translucent crystal orb, perfectly smooth, but inside—A single golden thread coiled and shimmered, shifting faintly, as if it were alive. North’s eyes were drawn to it immediately. It was mesmerizing. The golden thread inside didn’t just glow—it pulsed, moving like a tiny fragment of the universe itself, twisting, stretching, reacting to unseen forces.

Using it wasn't complicated—at least in theory. Just hold it until the thread of fate disappears. When North had programmed it, he'd designed it to react to a person's luck & fate or or more simply, their potential to create chaos in the storyline. It would slowly merge with them, like two streams joining into a river. But seeing it now, feeling its weight in his hand, he understood more about what he'd actually created.

The Fate Token represented something profound: the moment a person broke free from the bonds of ordinary existence. It was supposed to symbolize that finally, a person had control over their fate and was no longer bound by normal rules—they had the power to fight against heaven itself.

[Item Analysis: Fate Token Active]

[Warning: Personal Fate Destabilizing]

[Note: Template Modification Imminent]

North watched the golden thread inside the orb glow brighter, swirling like a living thing, but also slowly disappearing.

And then, everything went dark. For a moment, North felt weightless, his mind pulled into the depths of something vast, something unknowable.

The world split apart like a cracked mirror, fracturing into a thousand shards of possibility. And through those cracks, he saw.

...

At the center of this grand space was a long table, endless and magnificent, carved from exquisite jade. Seated around it were thirteen figures, each one radiating power so deep, their very presence capable of shattering mountains. Immortals. They were powerful. Too powerful. Men and women dressed in flowing robes woven from stardust, their hands adorned with rings that pulsed with the very essence of world itself. They had faces that should have been familiar. But North could not recognize them. His disciples. His followers. His chosen? They raised goblets of golden liquid, their faces filled with reverence and devotion.

"To our Lord!"

"To the One Who Guides Us to Greatness!"

"To Break Heaven's laws.”

“To Ultimate Freedom.”

They were waiting. At the head of the table, a man sat upon a throne carved from the very bones of fate itself.

For the feast to begin.

…

...

...

Stolen story; please report.

The white moon overhead fsuddenly lickered violently,

Then, it bled.

A single red tear.

Then another. And another.

Until the sky itself wept blood, staining the world with something ancient, something monstrous.

A single drop of blood fell onto the table. Then another. And another.

The once cheerful faces of the people had changed. Their smiles were wider. Too wide.

Their hands twitched, their fingers digging into the table as they leaned forward.

Their lips parted, and their teeth glistened.

They were starving.

They tore into him, not with weapons, but with their hands, their teeth, their bare fingers digging deep into his flesh.

His own voice faded beneath their laughter, beneath the sounds of wet tearing.

The first, a woman with long silver hair, cracked open his skull, her fingers digging into his brain. "His thoughts become my thoughts," she sang, wisdom bleeding from her lips.

Blood spilled down her chin, but she did not wipe it away. She swallowed, and as she did, her body trembled, shuddering with something indescribable. Ecstasy. As if she had consumed something divine. As if she had become something more.

“The arms that shaped world," The second, a man, moaned, tearing flesh from bone. "Let your strength become my strength!"

"Your eyes," whispered another, his fingers diving deep. "Let me see as you see, let me witness through your divine vision!"

The fourth plunged his hands into his chest, his fingers reaching into his ribs. "These lungs that breathed life into our world," he whispered, tearing through lungs. "Let me inhale your divine breath!"

A fifth laughed hysterically, his expression one of pure euphoria, as he reached into his guts, his hands drenched in blood.

Another ripped out his heart.

Still beating.

Still warm.

Blood pooling on table.

The immortal held it in both hands, trembling. Then, with blood dripping from his lips, he took a bite.

The feast descended into madness. They did not hesitate. They could not stop.

Each of them consumed a piece. Each of them devoured what remained. And they were laughing. Not with hatred. Not with cruelty. But with pure, unfiltered joy.

…

The vision flickered, the scene twisting into something darker, something deeper.

His consciousness faded, his mind barely clinging to the last image. Twelve blood-drenched figures, their mouths still full of him.

Their eyes, hollow yet glowing with joy & ecstasy.

…

…

…

North’s unfocused eyes snapped back into focus, his breath hitching as a violent gasp tore from his throat. His body jerked, muscles tensing as if he’d been yanked back into reality from somewhere far, far away. The Fate Token cold and dark in his trembling hand. His breathing was ragged, his heartbeat erratic. The golden thread had vanished, absorbed into his being. The contract was sealed. His fate was set.

He stumbled to the window, bile rising in his throat. His body felt cold.

North exhaled, running a shaky hand through his hair, inhaling a deep breath.

"...What The FUCK did I just witnessed."

…

[Fate Token Absorbed]

[Visionary Awakening: Completed.]

[System Alert: Base Template Archetype "Newbie Luck" Expired]

[Installing New Base Template Archetype: "The Undefined"]

*Due to your Undefined status, you may attempt to acquire new templates. Warning: Templates are not freely given. They must be earned through conditions or taken from others.

…

Ten minutes.

...

North paced across the room, his bare feet pressing against the cold wooden floor, his mind racing with a thousand fragmented thoughts. His breath was uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides. Every few steps, he'd pause, run his hands through his hair, then resume his restless circuit. Finally, he dropped into the room's only chair, trying to steady his breathing. He knew exactly what this vision meant—he'd coded this system himself, after all.

The Fate Token always shows a significant piece of your future. Could be anything—good or bad—but it's bound to happen…

He had coded the world this way himself. He had programmed it himself. He knew how it worked.

The Fate Token Always Showed a person significant instance of their Future:

It could be anything.

* A great triumph. (Becoming an immortal, ruling a sect, discovering a divine inheritance.)

* A warning. (Betrayal, downfall, an enemy they must overcome.)

* A tragedy. (Their own death, their sect being destroyed, their loved ones lost.)

Visionaries saw their fate. Their vision was their truth. It didn’t matter if they liked it or not. And fate… did not change easily.

This was why Visionaries were so distinctive in their behavior. Some saw themselves achieving immortality and became arrogant. Others witnessed their own failures and grew cautious. A few saw their deaths and went mad trying to prevent the inevitable. But that was the cruel joke—the harder they tried to avoid their fated scene, the more certainly they walked toward it. North had designed it that way, another torture mechanism for his game's NPCs. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. This was inevitable. He could try to avoid it, but fate would twist itself to make it happen. It was only a matter of time. If he didn’t do something, his story would lead him directly to that bloody feast.

North leaned back in the chair, his mind finally slowing down.

Right. If the system worked as he designed it, then there had to be loopholes. Visionaries who changed their fate were rare… but must have existed. If not, he had to become one.

...

...

....

North narrowed his eyes.

Right now, there seemed to be only three ways he knew of to alter a Fate Token's prophecy.

Find an External Fate Override.

(Legendary artifacts, forbidden techniques, or powerful beings that could rewrite fate.)

Gain Enough Power to Defy It.

(If he became a monstrous existence beyond fate’s grasp, he could force the fate to shift around him.)

Find the Source of the Vision.

(If he understood why this fate existed, he could dismantle it at the root.)

The first two were long-term solutions.

The third? That was something he could start on immediately.

North sat up, his fingers drumming against the table. His vision had shown thirteen powerful people. Twelve future Visionaries. That meant…

They were either:

Alive right now, still weak, unaware of their future role.

On their own paths, destined to eventually meet him.

If he could find them before they became his doom… Maybe he could stop this future from happening. North exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment.

This world was not going to give him an easy way out.

But if fate had already decided he was meant to be the feast…

Then he’d just have to burn the table first.

If this world wanted a villain?

Fine.

He’d gladly become one.

…

…

While lost in thought about his future, something else caught North's attention—an empty space in his consciousness, like a door waiting to be opened. In the simulator, he'd simply called it an Imaginary Island, a pocket dimension where Visionaries created and stored Images for their powers. But now...

North suddenly stood somewhere else. A small, isolated space, no larger than a single room. The ground beneath him was solid earth, soft green grass swaying gently despite the absence of wind. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, an infinite expanse of nothing and everything. There was no sun. No source of light. Yet somehow, everything was illuminated, bathed in a soft, gentle glow.

And at the edges, there was nothing.

Not in the sense of emptiness, but in a way that felt absolute. The world simply ended at the border, a place where even his mind refused to comprehend what lay beyond. When he tried to look past the edges, his perception simply... stopped, as if his mind refused to process what lay beyond.

[Blessed Land Embryo: Imaginary Island]

So this is what it really looks like, he thought, turning slowly to take it all in.

He knelt, touching the grass. It felt more vivid than anything in the physical world, as if each blade contained deeper truths about what 'grass' truly was. This Imaginary Island could be said to be the real foundation of a Visionary’s Strength. And every Visionary possessed one—a personal domain where they cultivate their power

It acted as both a resource and a weapon, shaped entirely by the Visionary’s will.

North took a few slow steps, feeling the soft texture of the grass beneath his feet. His Imaginary Island was tiny. That was expected, he was only Rank 1.

For new Visionaries, their islands were barely formed, no larger than a simple courtyard or a small room. There were no walls. There was no depth beyond what he could see. There was nothing yet created.

But the potential?

That was limitless. Furthermore, as he became stronger, his island would grow, evolve, and expand, reflecting his development.

"The benefits of this place..." he murmured, remembering the code he'd written. First and most crucial was the ability to create or store personal Images—the foundation of a Visionary's power. Without an Image, a Visionary was powerless.

But the space served another vital function: resource generation. Visionaries could cultivate materials, plants, and resources inside their island. If North wanted, he could start growing rice, herbs, or even trees inside. Then the Imaginary Island acted as a spatial storage. He could keep his possessions here, no longer needing a physical backpack or storage rings.

However, his current Rank 1 status severely limited him.

He could grow basic crops, but livestock wouldn’t survive. He could store objects, but only a limited amount. He could walk, but couldn’t fly or expand it yet. He could shape it—but only within small constraints. At higher ranks, an Imaginary Island could become massive, with landscapes as large as entire cities or entire continent.

Right now? He had… a room-sized patch of grass. Not exactly the realm of a god. Still, this was invaluable.

North sat down cross-legged on the soft grass, taking a deep breath.

First step—he needed an Image. Every Visionary required a conceptual foundation to manifest their power. Without it, all this Nether energy would be useless, like trying to build a house without a blueprint.

He had two paths before him. The common route: buy an existing Image from the market, like ninety-nine percent of Visionaries did. And why wouldn't they? Creating an original Image was like trying to leap over a mountain—nearly impossible without profound understanding of Heavens or reality's underlying principles.

I should know, he thought grimly. I made it that hard on purpose.

Creating an Image required deep comprehension of universal truths—matter, concepts, values, and countless other factors that worked in the background. When he'd coded this system, he'd made Image creation nearly impossible for most users, forcing them to rely on pre-made options. It had seemed like good game design at the time. North's fingers dug into the grass of his Imaginary Island. If he still had his terminal, creating an Image would be as simple as typing a few lines of code. But here, trapped in his own game? He was bound by the same restrictions he'd placed on everyone else.

His options further crystallized: the safe route—buy a complete Image from the market. It would be expensive, but reliable. His Imaginary Island would develop according to its established pattern.

The riskier path—buy cheaper and household type Images and attempt to combine them into something new(powerful). It would be less expensive but far more dangerous. One mistake in the fusion process could shatter both Images and leave him worse than before: Broke.

Still, what kind of Image should he buy?

Traditional Visionaries crafted Images based on weapons, philosophies, elements, or concepts. Each path led to different types of power, different destinies.

A Sword Saint might want to craft an Image of an Infinite Blade.

A Scholar might want to craft an Image of a Library of Infinite Knowledge.

A Tyrant might want to craft an Image of a Throne Overlooking the World.

His fingers pressed into the grass further.

He refused to be bound by a fate he didn't choose. He needed to craft an Image that would break everything. An Image that would allow him to rewrite his future itself.

North grinned slightly, despite everything.

"If this world wants to turn me into a feast…"

"Then let’s see what happens when the meal gets up and walks away."

For now, he had time—time to decide, time to plan.