The car rolled to a stop in front of the grand iron gates of Saint-Michel Académie, the gold lettering gleaming against the Parisian morning light. Beyond the gates, the school stretched out in elegant symmetry, a testament to old money, prestige, and the relentless pursuit of excellence.
George swallowed.
This was real now.
Pierre Moreau stepped out first, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement, exuding the quiet authority of a man who wasn't used to being questioned.
George followed, his hands tightly curled around the strap of his bag. He had faced death in the simulations. He had survived even childbirth.
And yet, standing before this school, he felt more out of place than ever.
The headmaster's office smelled of leather and aged paper, the walls lined with books bound in rich gold trim. A massive oak desk stood at the center, and behind it, an older man with sharp, assessing eyes—the kind of gaze that made students fold under pressure before a single word was spoken.
Headmaster Jean-Luc Beaumont.
George recognized the surname immediately. Étienne Beaumont's father—the current Prime Minister of Belgium.
Of course he was. Because this wasn't intimidating enough already.
Pierre Moreau, unfazed, clasped the headmaster's hand with familiar ease.
"Jean-Luc, it's been too long."
"Pierre," the headmaster responded smoothly, "I was surprised when I received your request. You don't usually take an interest in individual students, especially not so late in to the year."
Pierre turned slightly, placing a hand on George's shoulder.
"That's because I've never met one like George."
The headmaster's gaze flicked to George, and suddenly he felt exposed, like he was being weighed, measured, and found lacking.
"Exceptional talent, is it?" the headmaster mused, leaning back in his chair. "Academics? Athletics?"
Pierre smiled knowingly. "Life experience."
George tensed.
It was an innocent enough statement, but it sat uneasily in his chest.
Because the truth was? He hadn't earned this spot the way the other students had.
He wasn't a legacy.
He wasn't a child of diplomats or CEOs.
Hell, he wasn't even a straight-A student.
He was just a kid from Romania who got lucky.
And for the first time since arriving in France, the weight of that hit him hard.
He didn't belong here.
Pierre, sensing George's silence, continued. "He's already fluent in French, incredibly adaptable, and more than capable of keeping up with your students. I have no doubt he will thrive here."
The headmaster let out a hum of acknowledgment, still studying George with an unreadable expression.
Then, with a small nod, he pulled out a folder from his desk. "A self-made scholar. A rarity in our modern age." His tone had been unreadable. He then scrutinized him for a long moment before nodding in approval.
"You come highly recommended, Mr. Corvin. That carries weight. Make sure you do not squander it."
George wasn't sure how to respond to that.
It felt surreal.
So he just nodded, the words sticking in his throat. In this place of legacies and quiet judgments, silence felt safer than truth.
———
The classroom was an architectural masterpiece—tall windows framed with dark wood, chandeliers casting warm golden light, and rows of desks that looked like they belonged in a historical estate rather than a school.
George barely had time to process before the whispers started.
"Is that the new student?"
"Moreau brought him in personally."
"Romanian, right? I didn't even know they let Eastern Europeans in here."
He forced himself to keep walking.
He could feel their gazes pinning him down, studying him, categorizing him. Not one of them knew who he really was, but that didn't matter.
In this place, perception was reality.
And right now?
They perceived him as an outsider.
"George!"
Annabelle's voice was a relief, cutting through the murmurs as she waved him over. He moved quickly, sliding into the seat beside her.
"Ignore them," she murmured under her breath. "They'll talk about anyone new."
George exhaled slowly, keeping his face neutral.
"Do they ever stop?"
Annabelle smirked. "Not until you either impress them or become irrelevant."
Neither option felt particularly great.
The class began, and immediately, George felt the gap between himself and the others.
Surrounded by the polished children of European aristocrats and high-profile diplomats, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was an imposter among them.
The syllabus was intense, pushing the limits of his knowledge in ways that made his head spin. His French fluency gave him an edge in communication, allowing him to blend in just enough to avoid being labeled an outsider. But academically?
They were all geniuses, prodigies even with elite education since childbirth.
He was drowning.
Every lesson reminded him of how much ground he had to cover. How far behind he was. And if there was one thing George had learned, it was that falling behind in a place like this meant getting left behind for good.
He couldn't afford that.
So, on his third sleepless night in a row , as he stared at the ceiling of his unfamiliar dormitory, he finally gave in to the inevitable.
He didn't want to depend on it. But with three missed readings and a philosophy assignment he barely understood, he reached for the System.
It had been waiting.
———
[Simulation No. 04 Begins]
[Loading new scenario…]
[The air is crisp. The scent of old parchment and ink lingers in the room. Candlelight flickers against the wooden walls.]
[You are seated at a desk, your fingers ink-stained, your back aching from hours spent bent over books.]
[The voices around you are sharp, refined, and unforgiving. Laughter echoes from the grand halls, but it is not yours. Not yet.]
[You are a young scholar at the University of Berlin, in the year 1833.]
Year 1: The Struggle of Learning
[The lectures are brutal. The professors speak with a speed and confidence you cannot match. You copy notes furiously, afraid to miss a single word.]
[The students around you are aristocrats, noblemen's sons, future philosophers, and scientists. They have been raised on knowledge, molded by tutors from birth.]
[You were not.]
[Your German is clumsy, your arguments shaky, your confidence thin. The others mock you behind your back. Some do it to your face.]
[Your first essay is returned covered in red ink. A professor's scathing remark lingers in your mind—"Perhaps scholarship is not your calling."]
Failure has already begun whispering in your ear.
Year 2: The Breaking Point
[You wake up before dawn. You study until candlelight burns your eyes. You practice speaking aloud in empty classrooms, your German growing sharper, more refined.]
[You memorize entire books on philosophy, mathematics, history. But still, when you speak in class, your voice is ignored.]
[In the grand halls of debate, you try to interject. Someone talks over you. Someone laughs.]
[You want to give up. It would be easier to go home. To accept that this world is not for you.]
[But you don't. You can't. You won't.]
Quitting is a luxury you do not have.
Year 3: The Turning Point
[You speak. Someone listens.]
[Your voice is no longer weak, no longer hesitant. The arguments you once fumbled now flow with precision. Your essays return with fewer corrections, more praise.]
[You challenge a classmate in a debate—and win. His expression turns sour. Others begin to take notice.]
[You find allies. A small group of scholars who see you not as a peasant, but as an equal. You spend nights in heated discussion, arguing over the nature of truth, the limits of knowledge.]
[One of them, a mathematician, calls you brilliant. You struggle to believe it.]
But belief is not necessary. Only persistence.
Year 4: The Scholar
[You have carved a place for yourself in this world. Your name is known among your peers. Professors speak of you with respect.]
[You have mastered multiple languages, debated the greatest minds of your time, and pushed the boundaries of knowledge.]
[But knowledge is not enough. The world outside is changing. War is coming.]
Year 5: The War Calls
[The Prussian Army marches. The university halls empty. Some of your classmates enlist willingly. Others flee.]
[You hesitate. You are a scholar, not a soldier. You have spent your life sharpening your mind, not a blade.]
[But the war does not care. A decree arrives—young men are to serve. The choice is no longer yours.]
[You trade ink-stained fingers for calloused hands, parchment for cold steel.]
You leave the university behind.
Year 6: The Frontlines
[The battlefield is not like the university. There are no debates, no carefully crafted arguments. There is only survival.]
[The mud clings to your boots, the air reeks of blood and gunpowder. The first time you kill, your hands tremble. The second time, they do not.]
[You learn the rhythm of war. The orders, the formations, the screams. You do not learn to like it.]
[The war drags on. You survive where others do not. But survival is not victory.]
Year 7: The Final Lesson
[The enemy advances. The cannons roar. Your regiment is outnumbered, outgunned.]
[You fight. You bleed. You endure.]
[But you cannot outrun fate.]
[A musket shot pierces your side. The world tilts. The sky above you is vast and endless, the same sky you once studied in Berlin.]
[You think of books left unread, arguments left unfinished, ideas that will die with you.]
[Your breath grows shallow. Your fingers twitch, as if grasping for a quill, for a desk, for a life that is no longer yours.]
[You have died.]
[Simulation No. 04 Ends]
He leaned forward, staring at his reflection in the dormitory mirror. It was the familiar face of a teenager. He looks the same. But he isn't.
His hands tremble, the ghost of battle still reverberating through his nerves. His body was here, in the calm of this elite school's dormitory. But his mind? It was still on the muddy frontlines, where blood and ink mixed into a single haunting memory that was quickly fading away. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself against the cascade of emotions.
All those years. All that struggle. It made the relentless demands of Saint-Michel seem almost trivial in comparison, yet more daunting now that he had lived through seven years of someone else's life once again. He had survived. But here, the stakes felt higher—because this was real. He unclenched his fists, breathing deeply, focusing on the now.
And then the familiar glow of ethereal blue text.
[Select two rewards from the following:]
① Linguistic Mastery – Your fluency in German, Latin, and French becomes instinctual, as if you have spoken them since birth.
② Endurance of the Soldier – Your body adapts, gaining the strength and resilience of a soldier who survived trough war.
③ 19th-Century Historical Knowledge – A deep, scholar's understanding of European history, politics, and scientific advancements.
④ The Scholar's Notes – A leather-bound book containing every discovery, insight, and philosophical argument you made in your lifetime.
⑤ Rhetorical Eloquence – Your ability to break down arguments, dissect logic, and see through deception is permanently enhanced.
Two?
Too perfect.
George stood slowly and moved to his desk, tapping the side of the still-glowing interface. It blinked softly, innocently.
But he wasn't buying it.
"This can't be a coincidence."
The first simulation had made him a taxi driver. He hadn't even known how to handle a steering wheel properly before then, but the next day was his driving exam—and he passed with ease.
The second had been strange. A child in an orphanage. French fluency. He hadn't seen the use… until that afternoon in the café, when Anna's mother needed someone who could understand a desperate plea in a rare French dialect.
Then the third.
A mother. A child. Emotions so raw they cracked his voice even thinking about them. And now? He was effortlessly cradling a real infant, comforting her like it was second nature.
And the fourth?
He looked down at the open books on his desk. The scholarship. Saint-Michel Académie. The pressure to keep up with some of the brightest students in Europe. The need to belong.
The choice was simple, Rhetorical Eloquence and Linguistic Mastery—exactly what he needed.
He immediately felt sharper. Quicker. His memory hummed like a tuned engine. He picked up the Latin text on his desk. Read a full paragraph. Understood it without translating in his head. The sharpness in his mind felt almost... artificial.
And his arguments, his thinking—it was clearer now. Structured. Persuasive.
The System had really given him just what he needed: eloquence, academic fluency, linguistic mastery. All tied in a neat bow.
He wasn't angry. Not yet. But suspicion coiled in his stomach like a snake waiting for the next move.
The System hadn't asked what he wanted.
It just gave him what he needed—and waited to see who he'd become.
"Are you helping me… or using me?"
The System offered no response.
Only silence.