Awakening in a Harsh World
It was the first thing that registered in his mind. A dull, aching sensation crawled over his body, like he had been trampled underfoot and left for dead. He groaned, forcing his heavy eyelids open, only to find himself staring at a night sky unfamiliar to him.
The stars were wrong.
They were scattered like shattered glass, gleaming with a hue of violet and blue that should not exist. A sharp chill bit into his skin, and as he tried to move, the rough sensation of dirt and straw beneath his fingers sent an unsettling realization through him.
Where am I?
He sat up, his body sluggish, and looked around. Cracked cobblestones, the scent of rot and filth, and the distant sound of voices speaking in a language that he somehow understood filled his senses. He was in an alleyway, dimly lit by torches mounted on wooden walls. The buildings looked medieval—wooden beams, stone foundations, and tiled roofs. It was straight out of a history book.
Then, the moment of clarity struck.
[System Initializing…]
His breath hitched. Words—floating text—appeared before him as if etched in the air.
Welcome to the Survival System.Your objective: Survive.
Your starting skill has been assigned: [Adaptive Growth]
Description: Experience gradually improves your capabilities over time. No shortcuts, no instant rewards. Grow through hardship.
"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Is this… a system?"
He had read novels about this, played games with similar interfaces. But this wasn't fiction. The pain was real. The cold seeping into his skin was real. And if the smell of rotting garbage nearby was any indication, the filth of this world was all too real.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Alright. Think. Think."
His memories were fragmented. He recalled Earth, his job, his mundane life… and then nothing. No truck accident, no divine summoning, no deathbed regrets. Just a cut-off moment, and now he was here. Wherever here was.
"Survival System…" he whispered. "Not a leveling system, not a cheat power. Just… a way to not die?"
His stomach growled violently, and a wave of weakness hit him. Hunger. His body was already demanding sustenance.
Survive, huh? That meant food, shelter, and a way to defend himself. But how? He didn't even know where he was.
He forced himself to stand, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. His clothes were tattered, a simple linen tunic and rough pants, barely keeping the cold at bay. His feet were bare, and his hands had small cuts, as if he had crawled through debris before waking up here.
First priority: Find food.
He limped toward the alley's exit, peeking into the streets. The town was alive, but not bustling. Lanterns swayed from wooden posts, casting flickering shadows over uneven roads. People—merchants, peasants, armored guards—moved about, speaking in hushed tones. No electric lights. No signs of modern civilization.
Definitely medieval.
He spotted a bakery stall, the scent of fresh bread making his stomach twist in agony. He needed food, but he had no money, no connections, no identity.
And then, the system responded.
[Survival Instinct Activated]
Warning: Attempting to steal in plain sight may result in fatal consequences.
He stiffened. The voice was neutral, devoid of emotion, but the meaning was clear. If he tried to snatch food from that stall, he would likely be caught. And in a medieval world… punishment for theft wouldn't be as simple as a fine.
A harsh lesson from history flashed in his mind: They cut off thieves' hands in some places.
No, he couldn't afford to be reckless. His system wasn't helping him overpower anyone. It only assisted in not dying.
Then, another prompt appeared.
Alternative survival options available:
- Scavenge discarded food.
- Seek charity from a local church.
- Offer labor for a meal.
His pride twisted at the thought of begging, but right now, he wasn't in a position to be stubborn. He needed to play smart.
His eyes darted across the street until he spotted something promising—a back alley near the market district, where vendors tossed unsold goods. It wasn't ideal, but survival wasn't about ideals. It was about staying alive.
Clenching his fists, he made his decision.
He moved carefully toward the alley, stepping over discarded crates and scraps of cloth. His breath quickened as he saw a group of people rummaging through a pile of refuse. A few of them—thin, ragged figures with hollow eyes—glanced at him warily but continued their search.
A young boy, no older than ten, pulled a stale piece of bread from the heap and clutched it tightly, only for an older man to snatch it from him. The boy whimpered but did not protest. That was how it worked here.
He felt something inside him tighten.
This… this is the world I have to survive in.
Steeling himself, he approached the pile, scanning for anything remotely edible. He dug carefully, finding a half-rotten apple. He hesitated, then wiped it on his sleeve and took a bite. The taste was sour, bitter, but it was food.
[Adaptive Growth: Minor Resistance to Spoiled Food Acquired.]
A wave of nausea passed through him, but he endured. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do.
A sudden scuffle broke out nearby. Two men, both desperate, were fighting over a chunk of meat, their voices low and guttural. One pulled a crude knife, and before he could react, the other was on the ground, clutching his bleeding arm.
He backed away slowly. This was dangerous.
He had survived the first few hours, but he needed a better plan. The system wasn't going to give him anything freely, and from the looks of it, neither would this world.
Survival would take everything he had.