The Resaile Mountains stood like frozen sentinels against the winter sky, their jagged peaks disappearing into a haze of swirling snow.
When winter descended, the harsh winds and blinding snowstorms sweeping down from the neighboring Surye mountain range transformed the grimy slopes of Resaile into pristine white monuments, as though nature itself wielded an enormous paintbrush to cleanse the landscape.
"It's the goddess taking pleasure in our suffering," people murmured when the locals gathered in the tavern.
---
On the desolate outskirts of Gessian Territory, a dilapidated wooden shack struggled against the elements. Wind whistled through countless cracks in the walls, bringing with it needles of cold that pierced the interior. Inside this sad excuse for shelter, young Ralth huddled in a meager pile of hay, his thin frame wrapped in a single threadbare layer of clothing as he fought to preserve what little warmth his body could actually generate.
"Damn it," he whispered through chattering teeth, his breath forming small clouds that dissipated into the frigid air. "This... this is truly pathetic. Me, a transmigrator who should wield extraordinary powers, reduced to freezing in a pile of straw." His bitter laugh turned into a hacking cough that left him gasping.
It had been a month since Ralth's consciousness had traveled across dimensions and fused with that of the former owner's allowing him to inhabit the body of this malnourished farm boy—the son of Old John, a notorious drunkard who farmed under the rule of Baron Gessian when he wasn't drowning himself in cheap spirits.
Old John—his supposed father—had been nothing but a violent drunkard who had beaten and starved his son with callous regularity. The boy's body bore the evidence: yellowing bruises overlapping with older scars, ribs visible beneath skin, joints swollen from malnutrition.
"Small mercies," Ralth murmured, thinking of the drunkard's frozen corpse he'd discovered three days prior, face-down in a snowdrift. The man had succumbed to the cold while staggering home from whatever tavern had been willing to serve him booze.
But even this blessing came with its curse—Old Ralth had long since traded any item of value for his poisonous comfort, leaving his son with nothing. The last pitiful grain of food had passed Ralth's lips yesterday, and now hunger gnawed at his insides with as much ferocity as the cold.
He'd wrapped his threadbare clothes tightly around his emaciated frame and burrowed deep into a pile of moldering hay, Ralth could feel his consciousness beginning to drift, the call of eternal sleep beckoning to him.
"No!" he hissed to himself, pinching his arm viciously. "You can't give in! You can't sleep now! You're a transmigrator with potential beyond this miserable existence—how can you surrender in a place like this?" His eyes, though heavy as lead, remained stubbornly open as he fought against the hypothermia.
Indeed, Ralth possessed something extraordinary—a mysterious cube that had manifested deep within his soul upon his arrival in this world. Though he had yet to decipher its purpose or power, its mere existence offered hope in his desperate circumstances. To a drowning man, even a floating twig represents salvation.
Knock, knock, knock!
The sound barely registered through Ralth's foggy consciousness. Was someone actually at the door, or was his mind playing cruel tricks as it surrendered to the cold?
BANG!
The door flew open with a violent crash, sending a fresh wave of frigid air rushing through the shack.
"Old John! Are you still breathing in here?" called a sharp, commanding voice.
The sudden intrusion jolted Ralth back to full awareness. Summoning what little strength remained in his limbs, he struggled to his feet, hay clinging to his filthy clothes. That voice—he recognized it immediately. It belonged to Mr. Thompson, the chief steward of Gessian Territory and overseer of the baron's affairs.
"Sir," Ralth managed, his voice cracking from disuse and thirst, "my father perished in the cold three days past, but I still live. Whatever business brings you here, I am at your service."
This was no coincidence—a man of Thompson's station would never brave such weather to visit a peasant's hovel, especially one like Ralth's without purpose. Whatever that purpose might be, it represented opportunity, and Ralth intended to seize it with both hands.
"Ah, you must be Old John's son Ralth, then," observed Thompson, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he surveyed the boy.
The official's expression soured further as he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it delicately over his nose. Ralth couldn't fault him for the gesture—he was painfully aware of his own appearance. Matted hair hung in greasy clumps around his dirt-streaked face. His clothes, little more than rags, were caked with grime, and untreated wounds had festered into blackened sores across his skin. Even the most pitiful street beggar in the territory would have looked refined by comparison.
"I am indeed Ralth, sir," he confirmed, forcing his stiff body into a proper half-bow despite the pain that shot through his limbs.
Rumor held that Mr. Thompson was a stickler for proper etiquette, forever lecturing even the lowliest peasants on proper comportment in the presence of their betters. In this moment, Ralth desperately hoped those rumors had substance.
A flicker of surprise crossed Thompson's stern features. After years of dealing with the territory's peasants, the official had grown accustomed to their lack of manners. Though he routinely corrected their behavior, he had long since ceased expecting improvement. The minds of the lowest class were, in his experience, simply incapable of retaining the nuances of noble etiquette.
Yet here was this half-starved, pitiful child, maintaining decorum even as death's shadow loomed over him. It stirred something in Thompson's heart—a nobleman's spirit persisted in dignity even in the face of death, and he glimpsed that same quality in the boy before him.
"Well done, child," Thompson said, his tone softening unexpectedly. "It's fortunate you've survived. Come with me now—I have tasks that require your assistance."
"Yes, sir," Ralth responded simply, relieved .
As they stepped outside the decrepit shack, Ralth gazed upward at a sky completely obscured by dense clouds—a heavy curtain that blocked even the sun's meager warmth, the poor man's only free source of heat in winter. A vicious gust of wind cut through his threadbare clothing, causing him to shudder violently from head to toe.
Thompson turned at the sound of Ralth's chattering teeth, his brow furrowing as he took in the boy's pitiful attire—a single layer of thin fabric that might as well have been nothing against the biting cold.
"Damn it all," the official snapped, whirling toward his escort. "Guard! Remove your coat this instant! Quickly now!"
The soldier's face froze in disbelief at the command. Surrendering his warm garment to a filthy peasant child in such bitter weather seemed beyond unreasonable.
"Sir," the guard protested in a low voice, "if one miserable child perishes, what of it? The territory spans leagues, and who can say how many children the Magus truly requires."
At the mention of a Magus, Thompson's expression transformed instantly from irritation to alarm. "Silence!" he hissed, his eyes darting nervously about. "Do not presume to second-guess the Magus's wisdom with your peasant's intellect!"
He stepped closer to the guard, lowering his voice to a threatening whisper. "Speak of this again, and you'll dance from the gallows before sunset. Now remove your coat and dress the boy, or I'll strip it from your corpse!"
Though they had spoken in hushed tones, Ralth's ears caught the exchange clearly. His mind latched onto one word : Magus.
Magic existed in this world! Despite his careful inquiries since arriving, the remote Gessian Territory had yielded nothing beyond farmers' superstitions and ghost stories. But now—confirmation! The supernatural was real here, opening possibilities Ralth had scarcely dared to hope for.
The soldier reluctantly shed his thick woolen coat, passing it to Ralth with obvious resentment. The garment, still warm from the guard's body heat, enveloped the boy in blessed warmth that seemed to reach his very bones.
Thompson's earlier good humor had evaporated with the guard's indiscretion. His face now a thundercloud, he barked at Ralth, "Move quickly, boy! The Magus does not tolerate delays, and his impatience means death for us all!"
Ushered into a waiting carriage, Ralth found himself transported swiftly to the baronial castle that dominated the center of the territory. The grand hall, while imposing in size, maintained only the barest illumination—wall-mounted torches and a central hearth providing the sole light sources in the cavernous space.
At the center of the hall stood a gathering of children—some clearly from wealthy homes with their clean faces and quality clothing, others as destitute as Ralth himself. All stood in nervous silence, their attention fixed on a shadowy figure seated at the far end of the chamber.
"Master Magus, Baron," Thompson announced with a deferential bow, "I present all children between twelve and nineteen years of age from throughout the territory, as commanded."
From the shadows at the hall's end, a figure in a midnight-black robe and distinctive three-cornered hat rose slowly to his feet.
"Heh heh heh," the Magus chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "Your Gessian Territory produces a pitiful crop of children, Dennis."
Beside him, Baron Gessian—a corpulent man with perpetually sweaty features—offered a sycophantic smile while dabbing at his glistening forehead. "Indeed, esteemed sir. Our harvests have been poor these past seasons, and many among the lower classes have succumbed to hunger."
"Most unfortunate," replied the Magus, patting the baron's shoulder with a gesture that made the nobleman visibly flinch. "The Academy requires a specific quota of appropriately aged pupils. Should I fail to deliver sufficient numbers, the Academy will surely express its... disappointment."
The Magus's voice grew steadily colder. "And I, dear baron, have no desire to face such disappointment alone." His gloved finger traced a line across the nobleman's jowls. "Should my next visit to Gessian find your children similarly lacking in number, you might find yourself transformed into a maggot, destined to consume excrement for the remainder of your days."
The Magus's final words emerged as a bestial growl that silenced every whisper in the hall. Even the guards stood frozen, hands tight on weapon hilts they dared not draw.
"Much better," the black-robed figure said, turning to address the assembled children. "This silence pleases me." His eyes, hidden beneath his hat's shadow, seemed to evaluate each child individually. "Form a line and approach me one by one for testing. I will not repeat these instructions."
The children hurried to comply, their fear of the Magus far outweighing any confusion about the "test" he mentioned. The baron's ashen face told them all they needed to know about the consequences of disobedience.
Ralth found himself positioned midway through the winding queue, at a bend that afforded him a clear view of the proceedings. He watched intently as the Magus withdrew a crystalline sphere from beneath his robes. Each child placed their hand upon the orb at the Magus's direction, causing it to illuminate briefly before the Magus pronounced judgment.
"Spiritual strength nine points. Inadequate. Next."
"Spiritual strength eight points. Inadequate."
"Spiritual strength seven points. Inadequate."
"Ten points of spiritual strength. Borderline acceptable. Stand aside."
"Spiritual strength nine points. Inadequate."
The process moved with ruthless efficiency. Soon enough, the boy ahead of Ralth received his dismissal—"Inadequate, next"—and it was Ralth's turn to face the Magus' judgment.
As he approached the dais where the Magus sat, Ralth finally glimpsed the face concealed by the tricorn's shadow. Contrary to his expectations, the Magus bore no monstrous features or terrifying countenance. Gray hair framed a deeply lined face, with a monocle perched before one sunken eye socket. His expression, remarkably, appeared almost grandfatherly.
Yet Ralth's body involuntarily trembed as he stood before the Magus—the primal response of prey in a predator's presence.
"Place your hand upon the crystal," the Magus instructed, his voice unexpectedly soft.
"Yes, Master Magus," Ralth replied, extending his trembling fingers toward the translucent orb.
His fate—whether to return to a frozen death in a broken-down shack or to follow this mysterious figure into the unknown—depended on this single moment. As his palm connected with the cool surface of the crystal, Ralth held his breath.
Light bloomed within the sphere, shining outward. Something like an electric current traveled up Ralth's arm, circulating through his entire body before concentrating in his skull. The sensation was neither painful nor pleasant—merely alien.
Deep within Ralth's soul, the mysterious cube that had accompanied his journey to this world stirred. A message formed in Ralth's mind, clear as spoken words:
[Felsan Cube is now online]
At the exact same moment, the Magus's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he announced in a voice that betrayed the faintest hint of surprise:
"Sixteen points of spiritual strength. You pass!"