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I didn’t get it.

Really?

The Academy’s casualty rate was 50% to 70%, yet from everything I had read in Charlie’s notes, system users were rare and highly valued. The City-States hoarded and protected them like precious resources. So why would they willingly throw so many away?

It didn’t add up.

I needed answers.

I logged into one of Charlie’s old forums—a place where system users exchanged knowledge—and posted my question. Then, while waiting for a response, I buried myself in more research at the library.

A ping sounded from my smartphone.

Someone had replied.

“That’s quick.”

I swiped open the notification, only to be met with a flood of mockery.

"How the hell do you not know this?"

"Lmao, is this guy serious?"

"Another ignoramus. Just go die in a Dungeon already."

I scrolled past the insults, looking for something useful—and finally, I found it.

"The casualty rate is because of the Dungeons."

"Every Academy student is required to enter a Dungeon at least once a month."

I frowned.

Dungeons?

I searched the library database for anything related to them. Within minutes, I found my answer.

Dungeons were alternate worlds—or rather, fabricated storylines created by the Weave. They were filled with corrupted data that the system arranged into a challenge that system users could clear. The point was to contain the corruption before it spread too much.

It was a cleanup job.

And the Academy had turned it into a test of survival.

The books explained that every student’s system interface contained a Dungeon function. I hesitated for a moment, then accessed my own interface.

A new button appeared before my eyes.

[Random Dungeon]

So it was real.

According to what I had read, the Weave would match each person to a dungeon suited to their level. Every Dungeon had a storyline, and in order to clear it, the player had to complete certain objectives within that story.

The part that caught my attention the most?

Dungeons were one of the fastest ways to level up.

Not only that, but players had a high chance of obtaining powerful Skill Books—items that could grant them powerful abilities.

I stared at the button on my interface.

I wasn’t stupid.

This was a death sentence for the weak.

But for the strong?

It was an opportunity.

And I needed every opportunity I could get.

I decided to postpone the whole dungeon-delving thing.

I needed to research more before throwing myself into something that could very well kill me.

Instead, my thoughts drifted to something else—something that had been bothering me since I arrived at the Academy City.

Hunger.

Back in Amway, hunger didn’t exist. The City-States had eliminated it entirely. No one starved. No one needed to eat unless they wanted to. I had assumed that was a universal truth of the Weave—a digital paradise where people never suffered the flaws of the real world.

But that illusion had shattered.

Outside the City-States, hunger was real. A cold, gnawing emptiness in my gut that refused to be ignored. Even if it was simulated, it felt no different from true suffering.

So like any hungry person, I looked for food.

Thankfully, they had affordable food in the cafeteria.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The first chance I got, I returned to my room. I didn’t like the stares I was receiving.

I sighed and pulled out my smartphone.

I stared at Jasmine’s picture on the screen.

A part of me wanted to believe she was still somewhere out there, waiting for me. But another part of me whispered that she had probably moved on to whatever afterlife-afterlife there was. I shook my head.

Thinking about it wouldn't change anything.

I lay down on the bed, knowing I didn’t need to sleep. Sleep wasn’t necessary in the Weave. Technically, our minds never needed rest.

And yet… people still did it.

To escape.

To dream.

So I let my eyes close, and for the first time in a while… I dreamed.

+++

++

+

Jasmine was there.

She sat across from me at our favorite café, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. Her smile was warm, teasing, just like I remembered.

But something was different.

I wasn’t Charlie.

The face reflected in the café window was Owen’s.

Dark hair. Dull appearance. The real me.

Jasmine tilted her head. "Will this bring you happiness?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Challenging Kristof. Seeking revenge." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "Will it make you happy?"

I hesitated.

I had never really thought about it that way.

Would it?

Would finally bringing Kristof down fill the void inside me?

I exhaled. "I don’t know."

Jasmine’s expression softened. "Then why not let it go?" She reached across the table, placing a warm hand over mine. "Find happiness instead."

I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

But I couldn’t.

I clenched my fist. "No."

Jasmine frowned.

I pulled my hand away. "I will have my revenge."

A shadow passed over her face. She looked at me—not with anger, not with disappointment, but with something far worse.

Sadness.

And then—

I woke up.

Morning came early.

Of course, it did.

Who was I kidding? Sleep wasn’t really necessary here. It was just something people did out of habit—or maybe for comfort. But the moment my eyes opened, reality rushed back in.

I had class today.

Combat Theory.

There was no uniform requirement at the Academy. The only rule was that students had to wear formal attire—at least 80% black.

I didn't change.

There was no need to.

From what I had read, people used to wash their clothes regularly in the Before. That was strange to me. My clothes were always neat and pristine—unless, of course, a SKILL altered them or someone forcibly edited my data.

With that thought, I left for class.

+++

++

+

Combat Theory was boring.

Not because I didn’t care—but because I barely understood anything.

The professor—a tall man dressed in pristine white—spoke in abstract terms.

Something about Qi, Qigong, Information-based Existence, Aeather, Mana, and Power. About how to wield data at its inert state.

I could feel my brain short-circuiting.

What the hell did any of that mean?

Was this some kind of philosophy class? Because it sure felt like it.

I tried my best to focus, but the words felt like static noise in my ears.

+++

++

+

The rest of my classes weren’t much better.

Most of the professors wore white, a stark contrast to our mandatory black attire. It was unsettling—like they were a different breed of people altogether.

System Mechanics was bearable, at least. The professor actually explained things in a way I could follow.

But Ethics and Governance?

Just as mind-boggling as Combat Theory.

The class debated over the structure of the City-States, the necessity of Overlords, and the balance of power in the Weave.

I sat in silence, feeling more lost than ever.

Did people actually enjoy this?

By the time classes ended, I felt like my head was going to explode.

+++

++

+

I went straight to the library.

I had no time to waste.

If I was going to survive in this place, I needed to understand dungeons—inside and out.

The library had few people scattered here and there, quietly flipping through pages or scrolling through their system interfaces. The peace and quiet were valuable—something I had learned to treasure in a world that felt more like a battlefield than a place of learning.

Sadly, peace never lasted long.

A dark-haired man strode toward me.

Before I could even react, he shoved me.

I stumbled slightly, catching myself against the edge of the wooden table.

I frowned and glanced at him. The Level 15 hovering over his head made my stomach tighten.

I focused. [Appraisal - Level 7] activated.

Name: Derek Manticore.

Crap.

I knew that name. At least from old CHarlie’s stories.

Derek smirked. "Oh? At least you remember me, Charlie."

I stiffened.

Not good.

I met his gaze evenly. "That isn’t my name."

His smirk widened. "Tch. Still playing dumb?"

I could tell instantly—this was trouble.

Derek was an old acquaintance of Charlie Stone.

And I had been sworn to secrecy about how I stole Charlie’s body—how I shouldn’t even use his name here.

I forced myself to stay calm. "Leave me in peace. I have a lot of reading to do."

Derek snorted. "Stop acting all high and mighty already, punk. From what I heard, your daddy disowned you. Charlie, I must say, this is your newest low."

I exhaled slowly. "My name is Owen."

"Hah~! So pathetic!"

Derek sneered and looked like he was about to make another remark when—

"Don't cause any disturbance in here, or do you want me to hurt you so that you’d learn your lesson?"

A voice, sharp and laced with irritation, cut through the tension.

Derek and I both turned.

A brunette woman in a neatly buttoned blouse and glasses stood behind him, arms crossed.

Her expression was completely deadpan, but her words carried an unmistakable threat.

"I. HATE. NOISE."

Derek clicked his tongue. Annoyed. Frustrated.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He shot me a final glare before walking away.

I let out a slow breath. "Thanks."

The librarian adjusted her glasses. "The same goes for you."

Her voice was flat. Uninterested.

"I. HATE. NOISE."

I watched her disappear behind the bookshelves.

Great.

I just wanted to read, and now I had two people I needed to avoid.