"I..."

Qian Jing was about to snap when the system’s voice cut through again.

"Player Qian Jing, please take note—your gameplay time is nearly exhausted. Prepare to log out."

The world around him twisted into kaleidoscopic chaos as sound faded into a distant echo.

It felt like an absurd dream—a strange one where he wandered into the 【Endless World】, that place they called the virtual game. Blacksmiths, battles... fragments flickered through his mind like broken mirrors.

Most dreams dissolved in seconds. This one clung to him with surgical precision. Every detail—the texture of armor, the scent of burning steel—had been etched into his synapses as if they'd truly happened.

He pushed up from the bed, only to wince at the searing ache in his arms. His muscles screamed like overworked gears, a sensation eerily familiar from that first week at school when Rodriguez had forced him to sprint fifty laps around campus.

The pain now outclassed that memory by a mile. Every muscle throbbed, even the fleshy part of his palms burned raw—as though he'd parried a hundred blades in an endless duel with the academy's fiercest instructors.

Raising his arms, Qian Jing noted they glistened like oiled meathooks. A quick glance downward revealed a sweat-soaked tangle of sheets and blankets that would make any parent weep for joy—or call child services.

"Qian Jing, I—"

The door burst open as his roommate Lin stumbled in. The man's face contorted into an O of horror at the soaked bedsheet disaster zone.

Oh no. Qian Jing braced himself. He already knew what Lin was thinking—the exact same joke he'd mentally dismissed a minute ago.

"It wasn't like that!" he blurted, flailing toward the bedding. "Just... just a dream! I sweated buckets in my sleep!"

"Sure, sure," Lin mumbled with exaggerated solemnity, inching backward while grinning like a hyena. The door slammed behind him as a cascade of stifled laughter followed into the hallway.

Qian Jing stood at the threshold, ready to chase after his friend before catching himself mid-step. Why explain? If he wasn't actually wetting the bed (though some part of him secretly suspected Rodriguez had cursed him for that hat incident), who cared about another ridiculous nickname?

"Guess I'd better clean this mess," Qian Jing muttered, yanking the soaked linen free and tossing it into a wooden pail. The sweat reeked up at him like punishment from the gods. "If the Dean doesn't award me scholarships for working through dreams, War God himself will descend to strike Rodriguez down."

His mantra of cheerful self-destruction had always served well since leaving his noble family—except when it came to the hat incident and its lingering social repercussions.

He passed a dormitory where cheers erupted like war drums. Boys huddled together over some tournament, their faces lit with youthful fanaticism.

"Idiots should be running laps until Rodriguez's boot meets every one of those windpipes," he grumbled to himself, ignoring the sidelong glances as he limped toward the water well.

The incident with the cursed hat wasn't exactly secret anymore. Every student had witnessed his humiliation that day—how his face twisted into something best left unspoken while gravity did its worst.

Kneeling at the well, Qian Jing felt his legs tremble through the ache. The bucket descended smoothly, the rope rolling effortlessly over the pulley... but when he lifted it, something strange happened.

The water sloshing in the pail felt lighter than air. Too light. As if this morning's virtual training had finally seeped into reality.

"This is what happens after working out in my dreams," he laughed to himself, dumping the contents over his bedding before noticing a pair of feet nearby.

White canvas shoes—simple, worn at the toes. Legs smooth as river stones led upward past a flowing black robe with the gray sigil of magic etched across its front. And then there was that face...

The girl wore an oversized hat slung low over her cheekbones and enormous glasses that obscured half her features. But Qian Jing knew enough—those were the telltale signs of a mage in training, though none could say for certain which school she belonged to.