The year was 1990.
In a small, quiet orphanage tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world, a boy stirred from slumber.
His eyes opened slowly, blinking up at a faded ceiling he didn't recognize. For a moment, he just lay there, unmoving, his breath shallow. Something felt… wrong.
He sat up suddenly, heart racing. The unfamiliar room around him was simple—bare walls, a narrow bed, a crooked little nightstand with a lamp that barely glowed. He looked down, trying to make sense of it.
"Where… where am I?" he whispered to himself.
Panic started to creep in. He stumbled toward the window, tugged aside the curtain, and stared out in disbelief. Nothing was familiar. No towering apartments, no buzzing traffic, no city skyline. Just a quiet street and distant hills beneath an early morning sky.
Then he saw his hands.
Small. Pale. Soft.
Hands that didn't belong to him.
"What the hell…" he breathed, voice cracking.
His breathing quickened, heart thudding louder in his chest. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the bed. Then, as if his mind were trying to claw its way out of the fog, fragments of memory surfaced.
"Okay, okay… calm down," he muttered, gripping his head. "Think. What happened yesterday?"
Piece by piece, it came back to him. Last night—no, the night before—he'd been hunched over his laptop, struggling with a coding project. One his sadistic professor had assigned two months ago and expected miracles from. Three days of debugging. Three days of banging his head against walls and deadlines. And then…
Yes. He'd lost it.
He'd slammed his forehead into the keyboard out of pure frustration.
And then?
Boom.
The laptop exploded. The code—somehow—had killed him.
The memory hit like a thunderclap.
"Oh come on!" he shouted, veins popping with renewed rage. "The damn code killed me?!"
His outburst echoed through the empty room.
He stood there, trying to calm himself. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
"This has to be a dream. Or a coma. Or—something."
Then—
Ding.
He blinked.
"…Did I just hear something?"
He turned in place, scanning the room.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
DING.
DING YOU MOTHERF@#%ER, I SAID 'DING'—THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS ACKNOWLEDGE ME!
He jumped three feet into the air. "WHAT THE—?!"
A voice. Not from outside. From inside his head.
"Who—who are you? And why are you yelling at me?!"
The voice replied, gruff and annoyed.
"I'm your System, dumbass. Your helper. Guide. Partner. Take your pick."
His jaw dropped.
"No way… You're the System? Like those web novel things? So I really did reincarnate? Into a poor kid , with a mysterious voice guiding me to greatness? Wait—does this mean I get powers? Stats? Can I beat up arrogant rich kids and collect a harem of—?"
"Okay, stop right there."
The System sounded like it was rubbing its metaphorical temples.
"You are not a Chinese webnovel protagonist. You are not in some wish-fulfillment isekai. And no, you're not getting cheat skills handed to you on a golden platter. You want to become powerful? Then burn your damn ass off and earn it."
There was a long silence.
The boy stood there, cheeks flushing with shame, arms folded awkwardly.
"…Right," he muttered. "Sorry. I read too many dumb stories."
"No kidding."
He sighed and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Okay then. Let's start over. Could you… explain what's going on? Please?"
"Sure," the System replied, its tone cooling. "But don't expect an easy ride. Your story's just begun—and it's going to be rough."