IX

The hallway was eerily empty. My footsteps barely made a sound against the polished floor as I walked toward the door that bore my name—Owen Hart.

For a second, I just stared at it. Seeing my real name there instead of Charlie Stone gave me a strange sense of finality. There was no going back.

I stepped inside.

The dorm room was far bigger than my old studio apartment back in Amway. The bed looked comfortable, the desk was neatly arranged, and the window—an actual window—overlooked the city skyline. Artificial or not, it was a luxury I hadn’t expected.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my smartphone. The device was still with me, meaning my bytes were still intact. That was good. Bytes were everything—currency, data, maybe even something more fundamental. I scrolled through my notepad, reviewing the scraps of information I had managed to gather from Charlie’s files.

Academy City.

It had been mentioned before, but only in vague terms. Some kind of Player training ground, a place where the City-States honed their best. But the way the Cleaner spoke about it made it clear—meritocracy was a lie, and power here wasn’t earned fairly.

I swiped over to my email. A new message had arrived:

Class Schedule – Owen Hart

* Combat Theory [8:00 AM]

* System Mechanics [10:00 AM]

* Break [12:00 PM]

* Simulation Training [1:00 PM]

* Ethics and Governance [3:00 PM]

* Independent Study [5:00 PM]

I sighed, locking my phone. It didn’t matter what they called these classes. The real lesson here was survival.

A flicker in my vision made me pause. My system interface—still barely understood—flashed a notification:

[Status: Hungry]

[Power: 55%]

Hunger? I frowned. I hadn’t felt this since… ever. I had assumed bodily needs were simulated, but this was different. A gnawing emptiness twisted inside me, sharp and demanding.

I scrolled back through my notes. Somewhere, in the fragmented information left behind by Charlie, I found a mention of this.

Only the City-States have the luxury of never suffering from hunger.

So this was intentional.

I clenched my jaw. If hunger was a status effect, then why did it hurt so much? And more importantly—why did I feel like I could consume bytes instead of food?

My fingers hovered over my phone. It acted as my wallet, holding my stored bytes. If I could figure out how to withdraw them…

But I hesitated. Bytes were valuable. If I messed up, there was no telling how much I’d lose. And I couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

That left one option.

✦

The hotdog vendor stood at the corner of a small plaza, illuminated by neon signs advertising his wares. He was a Level 1, which meant he either hadn’t fought before or had no desire to.

And yet, he didn’t seem to hate his job.

I watched him for a moment, confused. Why? The Cleaner had said it himself—meritocracy was a lie, and power was everything. So why was this man content to serve food in a world where levels dictated your worth?

Ah…

He was an NPC. A non-player. The others didn’t recognize him as a player so he probably remained ignoant to a lot of things.

I shook off the thought and handed him a few bytes.

The hotdog was warm in my hands. I hesitated before taking a bite. It was just data, right?

The moment I tasted it, my system flickered.

The hunger that had been clawing at my insides vanished, replaced by a warmth that spread through my body. The flavors—savory, slightly charred, the tang of mustard—were vivid.

Too vivid.

I felt… full. But more than that, I felt something else.

Like I had just taken in more than food.

Like I had just grown.

After feeding myself until I felt full, I then proceeded to look for the library.

“Ah, found you.”

The library was massive—vaulted ceilings, endless rows of bookshelves, and an eerie silence that made every movement feel watched. It was nothing like the compact digital archives I had been forced to rely on back in Amway. Here, knowledge was tangible. I intended to devour it.

I found a terminal tucked between the shelves and settled into the chair. The screen lit up with a soft hum. A search bar blinked at me, waiting.

City-States.

The results poured in. I skimmed, my eyes dancing over the texts, absorbing whatever I could.

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There were exactly twelve City-States under the Council. Each one ruled by an Overlord, beings who had existed for far longer than anyone should. Their rule was absolute, their authority unquestioned.

And their laws were ironclad.

* Migration was forbidden.No one could move between cities.

* Hunger did not exist.Those within the cities never suffered from it, unlike those in places like Amway.

* Non-system users were confinedwithin their respective city-states. Those without access to the SYSTEM were considered

* Level-ups were restricted.No one could rise in power unless it was

And that was just the surface.

The deeper I read, the more the words blurred together—control, confinement, oppression.

I might not have been the most educated person, but even I could recognize what this was. Trampling on freedom. Stripping away human rights.

This wasn't order.

This was a cage.

✦

I searched for Academy City.

What I found made my blood run cold.

It was considered the unofficial thirteenth city, a place separate from the Council but still under its influence. Unlike the others, it had no permanent ruler. No Overlord.

Instead, it had a purpose.

I kept scrolling. Then my eyes caught on a single line.

50% to 70% of the academy’s students die every year.

I stared at the words. Read them again.

Half. More than half.

I felt something dark coil in my stomach.

Why?

I pushed further, searching for an answer. It didn’t take long.

The Council’s philosophy was simple:

Quality over quantity.

They believed in eliminating the weak, ensuring that only the best survived. The Academy wasn’t just a school. It was a furnace. A place designed to forge champions—or grind failures into dust.

I leaned back in my chair, gripping the edges of the desk. My breath came slow, controlled, but my fingers trembled.

I had been sent here for a reason.

Not to learn.

Not to grow.

But to either become something worth keeping—or die trying.

The Academy City was more transparent than I had expected. After everything I read in the library, I would have assumed otherwise. But maybe that was the whole point—when you ruled with absolute authority, there was no need for secrecy. No need to hide the brutal truths.

I sighed, shutting down the terminal and rubbing my temples. This place wasn’t just a school; it was a furnace. A battlefield disguised as an institution.

Then my smartphone buzzed.

I pulled it out of my pocket. A new email.

Sender: Academy Administration

Subject: Guidance Office Interview

Dear Owen Hart,

You are requested to report to the Guidance Office for an interview. Attendance is mandatory.

I frowned. Guidance Office?

I doubted this was about helping me adjust to student life.

✦

I returned the books I had been reading, placing them carefully back onto the shelves. Then, I began my next task: finding the damn office.

The Academy was a maze of towering buildings and interconnected pathways. There were no clear signs, and the map on my phone was frustratingly vague. I resorted to the oldest trick in the book—asking for directions.

One person sent me down a hall. Another told me to take the stairs. A third waved me in a direction that directly contradicted the last person.

By the time I finally stood in front of the Guidance Office, I was convinced the staff had designed this place to be as inefficient as possible.

I pushed open the door.

✦

Inside, a woman sat at a clean, white desk, flipping through a stack of documents. She looked up as I entered, her expression unreadable behind thin, rectangular glasses.

"You're late," she said.

I checked my phone. "I’m exactly on time."

She shrugged. "Then you’re late in spirit."

I raised a brow. What?

"Sit," she instructed, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.

I did as I was told.

The woman studied me for a moment before speaking. "I’m Stephanie. I work for Works Inc., which means I have a direct connection to Lord Kristof. While you’re in the Academy, I’ll be the one overseeing your progress."

My fingers curled slightly against the armrest of the chair. Kristof’s reach extended even here.

Stephanie adjusted her glasses. "You're not the only sponsored candidate from Amway. There are several others under my supervision, so let's get this interview over with, shall we?"

She pulled out a form and a pen.

"Name?"

"Owen Hart."

"Age?"

"Twenty-three," I answered, falling back on Charlie’s age.

She didn’t even look up. "How old are you really?"

I exhaled through my nose. So she knew.

"Five," I answered.

She finally glanced at me. "Five?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice even. "I didn’t have a childhood. I was born fully mature. Natural spawning."

Stephanie didn’t react. This information wasn’t surprising to her. I supposed in this world, people like me weren’t uncommon. We make a good percentage of the population in Amway at least.

She simply nodded and continued filling out the form. "Alright. Next question..."

And so the interview continued.

Stephanie’s pen scratched against the paper, her gaze cool and detached. The interview had been methodical so far—basic questions, all leading to a file somewhere in the depths of the Academy’s archives.

Then she paused. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine.

"Do you seek to harm Lord Kristof?"

The room felt suddenly smaller.

I could feel the weight of her stare, the subtle shift in the air. Lie detection. I didn’t know what skill she had, but I could tell—if I lied, she would know.

"No," I said.

Silence.

Then Stephanie smiled.

"Liar."

I tensed.

Her nails tapped against the desk. "If you wish to stay here, Owen, I strongly advise you to always speak the truth with me. It will reflect poorly on you otherwise."

There was no malice in her tone. Just fact.

I exhaled slowly. My fingers curled against my knee as I spoke again.

"Yes," I admitted. "I want to harm him."

She nodded, scribbling something onto the paper. "Good."

I blinked.

"Good?"

Stephanie leaned back in her chair. "The Council of City-States has long sought a method to replace the Overlords. It is a well-known dilemma. One without a clear solution—until now, perhaps. For over the past decade, the Council had done their best to manufacture hatred to a bigger scale in hopes to create people like you. It seemed Lord Kristof had outdone himself."

I narrowed my eyes. "What are you saying?"

She twirled the pen between her fingers. "The consensus is that even the Overlords themselves wish for change. If only to expand the number of City-States and improve the survival chances of the Council as a whole."

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

I thought I understood this world. I thought I had pieced together enough of its mechanics to take advantage of it. But time and time again, it proved that there were layers to this place that I hadn’t even begun to peel back.

The Overlords wanted to be replaced?

I couldn’t tell if that made them wise, pragmatic, or simply monsters playing a longer game.

Stephanie shut the folder. "That concludes our interview."

The air between us settled into something unspoken. A warning. A challenge.

She adjusted her glasses. "You are now a member of the Provisional Army of the Council. That comes with responsibilities."

I didn’t miss the underlying message. Get strong. Or die.

I clenched my jaw.

This world didn’t just demand strength. It demanded something worse.

Resolve.

And I had plenty to spare.