System, please just shut up

The dorm room was dead quiet.

Not the comfortable, familiar quiet of early mornings or study evenings, but a profound, echoing silence.

It was hollow, the kind of stillness that fills a space when it's been emptied of life. The soft glow of the moon, filtering through the window, seemed to do little to chase away the heavy darkness clinging to the corners of the room.

Kael sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely in a pose of forced composure.

He wasn't looking at anything in particular. The floor, the window, the way the pale moonlight traced a slow, dusty arc across his desk—it all blurred together, an indistinct wash of light and shadow. His mind, usually so sharp and focused, felt scattered, a thousand racing thoughts vying for his attention.

He hadn't changed out of his uniform yet.

His boots, still tied, were dusted with the pale gray stone of the festival plaza. A new, spiderweb crack ran along the surface of one vambrace, a silent testament to a blow he couldn't even remember throwing.

And beneath the collar of his shirt, a dark, coppery stain of dried blood—not his—clung to the fabric, a physical reminder of a horror he was still trying to process. The scent of ozone and corrupted mana seemed to still hang in his clothes, a phantom stench that made his skin crawl.

He finally exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night with it. The question that had been buried so long, ignored beneath the relentless press of daily life, came crawling up now, raw and demanding.

What the hell am I even doing here?

He didn't mean at the academy.

Not really. It was deeper than that—a question of his entire existence, something pressing against the back of his mind since day one.

This life. This world. This body.

He remembered dying.

He knew that much with an absolute, chilling certainty. He remembered his old world, the quiet, the numb familiarity of routine and regret. He remembered the feeling of sitting alone at a kitchen table too big for one person, the bitter, stale taste of coffee that had long since lost its flavor, and the crushing weight of a life unlived. And then… a sudden, violent transition.

A cold, unblinking system.

He got a second chance. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't earned it. But it was given anyway, maybe a divine mistake. He went through the motions, played the part.

He smiled, he trained, he tried to be who they all thought he was. He was a new man, a blank slate, and he was determined to get it right this time.

But lately… it was getting harder to pretend. It was getting harder to believe it was just a role he was playing.

Yesterday, he'd fought civilians possessed by something ancient and twisted. He had felt his palm snap against a man's neck, a quick, precise blow to incapacitate, and watched as black tendrils of corrupted mana dissolved under his touch.

He hadn't even flinched. That's what scared him the most. Not the fight. Not the chaos. But how normal it all felt. How comfortable he was slipping into it. No hesitation. No fear. Just motion and instinct, a fluid dance of violence and protection.

When did I become this version of me?

A month ago, he'd flinched at loud noises, at sudden movements at even the thought of any form of labour.

Now he moved like someone who had been exposed to hardship since birth…

He laughed with people he barely knew. He spoke in strategy and thought about stuff that would normally sound alien to him, like he was built for it..

Maybe he was.

Or maybe he was just really good at pretending again. The thought was a cold, bitter pill to swallow. Was he just wearing a new mask, one that fit this world better than the last?

He stood and crossed to the small mirror on the wall. He looked at himself, truly looked, the moon's pale light illuminating his face. Not a scar. Not a line.

The body was young, sharp, powerful, its muscles coiled with a latent energy that felt both familiar and alien.

But the eyes were his. Still his.

There were shadows in them now. Quiet ones. Not the kind you see in hardened soldiers who have lost everything, but the kind you see in people who have started to forget what "normal" even looks like. The kind that comes from being unmade and remade into something else.

He stared at his reflection and said, softly: "I'm not the same person."

He meant it.

But he didn't know if that was a good thing or a terrifying warning.

His gaze dropped to the bandage on his palm, still fresh from training. His sword technique had grown sharper.

His instincts faster.

The Archive wasn't just changing his stats—it was changing him, forging him in the fire of its brutal demands.

Sword Mastery: Advanced to Master Sigil — Penalty: Death.

The system didn't ask how he felt. It didn't ask if he needed a break. It just listed penalties. Progress bars. Timers ticking down. A relentless, cold voice in his head, pushing him forward, molding him into its perfect tool.

He sat back down, the silence of the room a heavy blanket around him. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet hold him.

He didn't regret it. Not really. This world had given him chances he never had before—friends, a purpose, a path. It gave him movement. Something that pulled him forward, even if he didn't understand where it led.

But sometimes… he missed the quiet. Not peace. Not safety.

Just the absence of pressure. The simple, uneventful rhythm of a life he had once known. The mundane, the predictable, the boring. He yearned for it now, a life without a constant, ticking clock, a life where the penalty for failure wasn't death.

He didn't know if he was becoming who he was meant to be… or just someone who fit better in a world built on blood and steel. He just knew that the line between the two was blurring, and he was losing his way back to the person he used to be.