Ivan woke up, feeling the grass beneath him and the warm sun on his face, realizing he was in a completely different world. Annoyed, he shielded his eyes from the sun as he stood up and looked around. Looking for a shady spot to escape the harsh sunlight, he spotted a large tree in the vast grassy distance and made his way towards it.
He still has his clothes from before he was transposed into this world: a regular white uniform, blue jeans, and a pair of worn sneakers.
Finally, he reached the shade of the sprawling tree. Collapsing gratefully onto the cold grass, he let out a shabby breath. The memory of his exchange with the booming voice flickered back, a cold spark in his mind.
He squinted against the sun, finally reaching the shade of the sprawling tree. The wind rustled through the leaves, making a sound like a soft lullaby, calming his racing heart. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brushed against something unexpected—his old phone. A wry smile touched his lips. Useless here, most likely, but a curious link to his past life nonetheless.
Suddenly, a wave of frustration washed over him. The wishes! He squeezed his eyes shut, willing a bottle of water into existence. Cool, refreshing water—that's all he craved. He opened his eyes, but nothing happened, not even a wisp of mist. Panic clawed at his throat. Had the entity lied?
He started to panic. Think! What were the exact words? Summon? Materialize? A memory was sparked. Knowledge of how to use the objects! That was his second wish. Maybe the summoning required some kind of activation?
Scoffing at the absurdity of it all, he muttered under his breath, "Status bar." It was a long shot, a cliché lifted from the countless anime shows he used to watch. But to his utter astonishment, a translucent blue bar materialized in front of him, hovering at eye level.
His breath hitched. It was real. But the information displayed was far from motivating.
Name: Unknown
Level: 0
MP: 0
Strength: 0
Dexterity: 0
Resistance: 0
Everything was zero. He was a blank slate, a complete novice in this strange world. Dejected, he slumped against the tree trunk. Water… He desperately needed water. Maybe the summoning worked differently here. He closed his eyes and focused on the image of a bottle of water, hoping that his next attempt would yield better results.
Then a strange sensation happened in his hands; it felt like his hand was sinking in warm water. He instinctively opened his eyes and saw his hand phasing through the glowing grass and soil beneath him. He tried squeezing his hand on the other side, and with a sudden rush of relief, he felt the cool surface of the water bottle. he finally pulled the water bottle through his phasing hand and gratefully drank half of the bottle.
After this, he wasted no time experimenting with his newfound ability. Survival was his first priority. Sure, the power to summon anything from his old world was impressive, but a bottle of water wouldn't get him far in this strange land. He needed something more practical—clothes and shoes.
Taking another swig of water, he closed his eyes, picturing a sturdy pair of hiking boots. He focused his hand into the ground, then felt the cold sensation in his submerged palm as he reached out, and then, with a soft shimmer, a pair of brown hiking boots materialized in his hand.
A grin split his face. It worked! He slipped them on; the worn leather was surprisingly comfortable. Now, clothes. He pictured a simple set: a dark t-shirt, a pair of cargo pants with plenty of pockets, and a light, simple hoodless jacket for the night chill. He concentrated, willing the clothes into existence. This time, the shimmer was larger, enveloping him for a brief moment before dissipating to reveal the clothes neatly folded in his hand.
He didn't wear the clothes yet, since he still had more things to think about. This power was more than just convenient; it was adaptable. He could summon the perfect outfit for any situation. But a nagging curiosity gnawed at him. How far could he push it? What were the limits, if any?
half an hour has passed. He was summoning piles of lumber to test if there were any side effects from using this power excessively. As he continued to experiment, he found out that he could use any surface as a channel to summon objects, including his own body.
Exhausted from his lumber-summoning marathon, sweat beaded on his forehead despite the shade of the tree. He slumped back against the rough bark, his weak muscles screaming in protest. A half-hour of experimentation had revealed the limitations of his physical form, not his power itself. He could summon anything, yes, but lugging around tons of wood took its toll.
He flopped onto his back, staring at the swaying branches above. His curiosity buzzed like a fly in his ear, persistent and impossible to ignore. One question had been lingering ever since he woke up here, one he had been too distracted to answer until now.
"…Do I still look like me?"
With a half-laugh, he sat up and extended his hand toward the ground again. This time, he didn't close his eyes. He just thought it: Small mirror. Something simple, clean, and enough to see my face without making me feel like a vampire.
In a moment later, he summoned a square hand mirror with a cheap plastic frame lying in his palm, like something bought at a dollar store. He blinked.
"Guess I've got standards," he said, snorting.
He slowly tilted it toward his face… and blinked again. "…What the hell?!"
Staring back at him was a much younger version of himself. His jaw was slimmer, his eyes wider, his skin… unfairly smooth.
"What is this?" he said, twisting the mirror left and right. "No acne? No eye bags? My hair isn't thinning?"
Then the realization hit him like a middle-school PE dodgeball to the face.
"Oh God," he groaned, dragging a hand down his smooth cheek. "He made me look like I was fifteen."
He stared into the mirror again. The memories bubbled up instantly, uninvited and embarrassing.
The time he tripped and spilled orange soda all over the principal 's white shirt, the time he wore mismatched shoes for half a day before someone pointed it out, and the time he tried to impress his class with a backflip, only to land flat on his back and knock the wind out of himself.
"Ugh," he muttered. "Now I look like the idiot who wore a Pikachu hoodie in ninth grade."
But then, he angled the mirror again, letting the light fall just right on his face. No red spots. No acne scars. No awkward patchy beard-in-progress. Just… clear skin and not a single bump in sight.
He blinked. "…Actually," he said with a slow grin, "not bad."
Ivan pocketed the mirror and leaned back against the tree, suddenly a little less annoyed and a little more smug.
"If I'm going to be stuck in fantasyland, I might as well be the glow-up version of me."
He paused. "Though if this thing makes me relive puberty again, I swear I'm chucking the next wish straight at that cosmic jackass."
As he was trying to summon a bench to rest on, he was interrupted by an explosion that was heard far beyond the tree line , causing him to jolt upright in alarm. The ground rumbled beneath him, and he realized that his powers were not the only extraordinary thing in these hills. With curiosity sparking a fire within him, he sprang to his feet and turned towards the distant explosion, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through his veins, urging him to unveil the mysteries lurking in the forest.
The bench can wait; he needed something more efficient than walking and wasted no time phasing his hand into the trunk of the tree. He felt the sensation of the handlebars and the cool metal as a welcome sensation against his skin, and then all the knowledge of its operation and basic maintenance flowed through him as he mounted the motorcycle that he summoned.
Engaging the throttle with a swift twist, he raced into the heart of the forest, his youthful frame pulsating with adrenaline as he skillfully maneuvered through the thick maze of trees.
And then he saw it—a massive wyvern looming ahead, its sharp claws and wings riddled with holes, menacing as it was ready to attack. The party of three adventurers who were fighting it quickly sprang into action, each wielding their weapons and strategizing their plan of attack. The wyvern let out a deafening roar as it lunged towards them, but the adventurers worked together seamlessly, dodging its attacks and landing powerful blows.
Their movements were tenfold faster than the athletes he saw back in his world. They swerved and twirled around the wyvern, taking turns striking its vulnerable spots with precision.
He felt powerless as he observed the adventurers' strength. One of them is a very old mage, who looked like he was over 60 years old with the saggy skin, white beard, and white hair, casting powerful spells without the need for chanting or even incantations while also dodging the monster's attacks effortlessly.
He then looked at the other members of the group, seeing a man who wielded a massive sword with ease, its weight practically nonexistent as he swung it with incredible speed. He even looked like the angry dude from a manga. Muscular, he wore black armor, except for the red scarf around his neck that fluttered in the wind as he moved. The sheer velocity at which they moved was mesmerizing, but the wyvern caught the sword with its claws, causing the man to stumble. In that split second, the old mage seized the opportunity and delivered a swift and precise fireball to the wyvern's face, stunning it momentarily.
the wyvern was clearly pissed as it tried to retaliate with its fiery breath. The mage quickly countered with a shield spell. As the dragon's flames collided with the shield, it came at the cost of intense fatigue. But the mage still managed to block the attack. The mage's gaze became more exhausted as he concentrated on maintaining the protective barrier, the strain evident in his every movement.
He could see the adventurers losing momentum, and he needed to act quickly. The adventurers rushed at their mage with urgency, knowing that his strength was waning. He was quick enough to summon a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) equipped with High-Explosive (HE) warhead and shoot the creature's left wing; the force of the explosion alone was enough to rip it off entirely.
The adventurers paused in mid-motion, their momentum shattered by the foreign roar of the explosion. The elf woman wielding a bow and arrow staggered back a step, her face pale with shock, while the swordsman's eyes widened, nearly dropping his weapon. The old mage flinched, lowering his hand mid-chant as the heat and smoke of the blast washed over them. All three stared in stunned disbelief at the strange young man holding a black, tube-shaped contraption—its tip smoking from the launch.
Ivan's breathing was sharp and shallow, his adrenaline now pumping in his veins. His ears rang violently, a shrill scream of pressure that drowned out all other noise. The taste of burnt propellant clung to his nose, and his vision was rimmed with white from the muzzle flash. Even the vibrations of the blast had numbed his fingertips. Without a second to lose, he dropped the weapon and phased his hand through his torso again, summoning another RPG with the same High-Explosive warhead.
Another rocket flew with a thwump, slamming directly into the wyvern's chest. The explosion was deafening, and the wyvern let out a guttural, earsplitting shriek as scales shattered and flesh tore. The creature staggered—momentarily blinded by fire and fury.
Ivan opened his mouth to shout, "Get back!" but even he couldn't hear himself. The words felt distant, like they were spoken underwater. His jaw moved, but the world around him was muffled, blurred, and out of sync.
The adventurers didn't move. Not because they didn't want to—but because they didn't know what to make of this strange, fragile-looking boy who wielded a strange object.
Then it happened.
In the chaos, the wyvern surged forward, maddened and writhing with pain. Its right wing—massive and torn—swung blindly in a rage-fueled arc.
Ivan barely had time to register the movement that hit him with a sudden rush of wind. A wet, sickening CRACK. And then—nothing. No breath. No sound. Just weightlessness.
He was airborne before his brain could comprehend the pain. The world spun in a jumble of green, blue, and white. Then, he hit the tree. The impact knocked the air from his lungs with a choking guhh. The sickening crunch of his bones echoed inside his skull louder than the explosion had.
His right arm bent unnaturally at the elbow—bone poking against skin. His left leg crumpled beneath him, twisted at an angle it was never meant to bend. The world blinked in and out like a bad signal. White-hot pain seared through his body in flashes—burning, pulsing, receding, then spiking again like lightning beneath his skin.
His lungs wheezed, failing to draw a full breath. Each inhale brought a metallic taste and a stabbing pain near his ribs. His vision blurred, and a high-pitched whine filled his ears—constant, invasive, maddening.
He tried to move. He couldn't, Not really. His fingers twitched, and his unbroken arm clutched his shattered one instinctively. A low, broken sound escaped him—somewhere between a sob and a gasp. his eyes showed fear and panic, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood. As he lay there, helpless and injured, with only one hand clutching his broken arm, his hand shivered uncontrollably from the shock and pain. The sound of the creature's roar still echoed in the distance, indicating that the danger persisted.
However, he saw the adventurers continue with the fight. giving him a slight sense of ease, enough to put him in the right state of mind to focus, ensuring he won't die in his first few hours after being transported into this world.
Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain that intensified with each labored breath, he phased his hand through his abdomen. Feeling the familiar, cold sensation wash over him, urgency now drove his focus to manifest a life-saving object. The image of a morphine auto-injector, the kind he'd seen in documentaries about military medics, flickered in his mind as a silent prayer.
He envisioned every detail of the injector—the plastic outer shell, rubber seals, and sharp needle—as he pulled the object into existence. The weight of the injector was unexpectedly heavy as he pulled it out through his phasing hand. Relief flooded him as a surge of knowledge washed over him—not just the proper dosage for his weight and estimated injury, but also the injection site, away from major nerves and blood vessels. He quickly extracted the injector, pressed it firmly against his thigh, and pushed the button to inject the medication. The medication mostly works within minutes, so he has a few moments to gather his thoughts before the pain subsides.
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, tinged with both self-deprecation and a hint of dark humor. "Fragile," he rasped, the word tasting metallic in his mouth. "I never imagined my body would be this fragile," he thought. The irony was almost laughable. He'd spent the past few hours testing out his newfound power, feeling invincible even. yet there he was, brought low by a single blow from a monstrous lizard. Now lying on the forest floor with one arm hung limply at his side. He realized the limitations he'd so easily overlooked.
The wyvern's thrashing form grew weaker with each blow the adventurers landed. Finally, with a deafening shriek, the massive creature crumpled to the forest floor, lifeless. The adventurers, battered and bruised, stood panting amidst the wreckage of the battle. their attention then snapped towards the strange figure slumped against the nearby tree, his clothes ragged and stained with blood. Moments ago, they'd witnessed this bizarre scene—They had seen him phase a hand into his chest, pull out a strange stick-like object, and stab it into his leg.
Smoke still curled from the scorched grass, mingling with the faint scent of ash and something chemical—acrid and unfamiliar. The shattered body of the wyvern lay still, its final shriek still echoing faintly in the ears of those who had survived it. In the haze of the aftermath, the adventurers stood silent.
"Give him time to breathe," the man who wielded a sword said. "He had done more damage to that wyvern than most of us. We'll tend to his wounds later."
The old mage, robes singed and beard half-charred from the earlier breath attack, leaned heavily on his cracked staff. He narrowed his eyes at the slumped figure.
The boy—if he could even call him that—was conscious, barely, clutching his ruined arm with a pained grimace. But it wasn't the injuries that caught the mage's attention. It was the weapon. That tube-like, soot-stained object beside him on the forest floor.
Not a staff. Not a wand. Not even a crossbow. Yet it had obliterated a wyvern's wing like it was made of paper.
The mage squinted harder, taking in more of the boy's appearance now that the smoke was clearing. Lean, small-framed. His clothes were unlike any noble's or soldier's. And his face—slanted eyes, high cheekbones, an almost delicate sharpness to his features—eastern continent, the mage thought. But even that didn't explain it.
The old man huffed. "What kind of fool child from Gōnkan survives a wyvern with a toy that screams like thunder?"
He stepped closer, ignoring the lingering heat in the air, his cracked staff dragging behind him like a reluctant companion. "You're no monk, that's for certain. Don't move like one. And the eastern kingdoms—" he scoffed, "Last I read, they'd rather keep it for display than wear something stitched this fine. That fabric alone... that's craftsmanship we don't even see in Spei's high courts. Built for comfort, not combat."
The boy blinked slowly, eyes glassy with pain and confusion. Watching. Listening.
The mage tilted his head, beard still smoldering at the tip. "So tell me, stranger," he said at last, his voice raspy and heavy with both suspicion and a scholar's hunger for curiosity.
"Where in the voids of Earth did you crawl from?"
"What the hell is he saying?" Ivan said as he blinked, half-lidded and swimming in the pain. The old man's voice buzzed in his ears like static—raspy and sharp, but whatever he was saying might as well have been drunk chinese. He didn't understand a single damn word. Not one. Still… there was something in the tone. Not anger, Not a threat, More like… curiosity? Suspicion?
His eyes flicked from the mage to the others.
Their stances were cautious, wary—not hostile, but no one had stepped forward to help. They were keeping their distance. Watching. Judging. Maybe even a little afraid of him. Ivan gritted his teeth, his jaw still trembling from the pain. His right arm was still completely useless. Every throb sent hot flashes down his spine. Even with the morphine dulling the edge, he knew it wouldn't last forever. He needed help—fast.
Ivan's hand moved toward his chest—ready to summon something, anything that will help him, maybe even bribe them. Then, a firm grip stopped him.
The old mage crouched beside him, closer than any of the others had dared. No threat in his touch, only steady weight. He was chanting something; still, Ivan didn't understand the words, but he felt the warmth seep into him—like basking in the sun early in the morning. The pain dulled, and his breathing eased. His broken body, slowly knitting back together as relief swept through him like a tide. When the spell ended, the mage stepped back.
He pushed against the tree with his newly healed arm, slowly pulling himself up to his feet. Wobbly, trembling, but standing. He couldn't speak their language, so he did the only thing he could. He bowed with the kind of gesture that words could never match. A universal sign for saying, Thank you.