Orknodi

Even if your mechanical skill is lacking, you want to profit through sheer, dumb luck.

Even if luck is brutal, you want to overcome it through dazzling mechanical skill.

Born to satisfy those exact gamer desires, there was one notoriously brutal virtual reality game: Graduating the Academy on Pure Luck.

‘Haah… To think I dumped thousands of hours into a game like this.’

If I had played a decadent harem simulator instead, right now I'd be agonizing over which beauty to bed next. I should’ve just played an eroge when my friend ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠told me to. I picked the absolute worst game to obsess over before dropping dead from exhaustion.

Well, it wasn't the absolute worst.

After all, out there in the world existed ruthless, skill-gate trash games like Half-Demon Valley—games demanding terrifying physical reflexes, slapped with an endless chain of tags: Stealth, Action, Assassination, Youkai Fantasy.

Of course, Graduating the Academy on Pure Luck was hardly a walk in the park either.

Physical execution, tactical intellect, and sheer luck.

Unless all three aligned in perfect harmony, graduating was an impossible dream. Even a grizzled veteran like me couldn't afford to let down my guard for a second. If luck was on your side, things went smoothly enough. But when your luck went sour, there was no telling how the game's RNG would screw you over or throw lethal curses in your path.

‘And the only tool to exert even a fraction of control over that luck was rerolling.’

And it was in the middle of that very reroll marathon that I found myself hurled into another world.

"Save. Force quit. Log out. Status window."

No matter how many times I barked into empty air like a lunatic, not a single system message popped up. A game world turned reality. In short, the dreaded 'realism patch.'

If I had to be transmigrated into a game world, the least they could have done was give me back the hulking, muscle-bound male avatar I always played. Instead, I had ended up in the body of a tiny, delicate little girl—something I'd never touched in my entire gaming life.

—Wait, don't you only play male characters?

—Because no other build pumps out higher DPS, obviously.

—Oh, reaaally? So as long as the damage numbers are good, you wouldn't care if it's a girl? Even if she has zero muscle, is super tiny, pale as a ghost, and looks utterly pitiable in everything she does?

—Hell yeah, obviously!

A drunken conversation with my childhood friend Sia drifted back to mind. Was that just a bizarre coincidence? ‘Must be a coincidence.’

Sure, this body had zero muscle, was absurdly short, and had skin as white as chalk, but looking pitiable was entirely up to how I conducted myself, wasn't it? A hardcore veteran gamer, looking pitiable? I'd have a harder time trying to look pathetic on purpose.

After clutching my throbbing temples for a brief moment, I pushed myself to my feet with brisk energy. Moping around in a gloom like this really would turn me into some tragic little girl.

There was good news.

The system notifications I had assumed were dead turned out to activate the moment my eyes locked onto specific objects. Not a single word was different from what I remembered in the game. It was the tutorial prompt.

‘So it follows the game’s storyline after all.’

This was fantastic news. The encyclopedic knowledge and countless veteran techniques I possessed were an astronomical asset. To put it bluntly, even if you started as an ordinary commoner, as long as the game didn't arbitrarily screw you over with bad RNG, by graduation you could stand shoulder to shoulder with the high nobility of an empire!

‘The problem is... there are starting backgrounds worse than an ordinary commoner.’

The very first hurdle of this gamified reality was floating before my eyes: the tutorial event known among players as the Random Papa Letter.

The RNG element of this first gate was the father figure sending the letter. Your father changed randomly with every playthrough. The protagonist could be the child of a serf, the offspring of a hunter raised among the mountains, or a war orphan taken in as a knight's squire.

For example, take the result that popped up right before my sudden death. Starting funds: 1 Gold Coin, lower-class peasant. Item: sea field related gear, fisherman. Guardian: none, a solitary soul with zero connections. Back in my naive beginner days, I might have gritted my teeth and tried to soldier through with a character like that. But ever since discovering the reroll marathon, that was the kind of stat roll I scrapped without a second thought.

A roll like that was mediocre at best. Starting funds: less than 1 gold, orphan. Beast-hide armor: originated from a hunter's village. Guardian: Nick the Livestock Butcher, offering accelerated growth in hunting and butchering. Growth speed for hunting and butchering? I'd mastered those mechanics eons ago. Giving me a petty bonus in something I was already an expert at was utterly useless.

Draw a bad hand, and you suffer; draw a good hand, and you get an opulent head start. That was the first crossroad of pure luck.

Expecting truly useful starting specs was wishful thinking anyway. Most starting supplies and buffs were minor perks players could easily compensate for through sheer personal skill.

‘Usually, anyway.’

To see a Normal Ending where your basic human rights were guaranteed, you had to graduate the Academy with stellar marks. To see a Happy Ending guaranteeing success, you had to graduate at the absolute top of the class. If an underachiever was lucky, they'd end up as a minor territorial administrator or a noble's concubine. If things went south, they'd get betrayed by their party members and sold into sexual slavery. In gamer terms: a Bad Ending.

Expulsion? I didn't even want to think about it. Now that the game world was my reality, expulsion equaled death—a Dead Ending.

The tutorial was the first divergence point separating basic human rights and glorious success from ruin and slaughter. It was like drawing a tarot card of destiny.

A Commoner Father with a 60% drop rate: Bad Ending ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠path.

An Orphan with a 30% drop rate: Dead Ending path.

A Successful Father with a 9.9% drop rate: Guaranteed basic human rights.

A Noble Father with a 0.1% drop rate: True success lay here.

‘As a veteran, I’d be grateful just to avoid being an orphan, but...’

Blessed character. Meteoric rise. Top-tier graduation. The expressway connecting that holy trinity was noble pedigree. Still, how common was a 0.1% jackpot? I didn't even need nobility. A successful father—hell, even a commoner father would do. As long as I wasn't an orphan, I had full confidence I could squeeze maximum efficiency out of even the most pathetic pittance.

Clink.

A coin pouch rested on the inn room table. The weight of the starting funds felt remarkably heavy. I was about to break into a beaming grin when I froze.

The volume of the pouch's contents was random, yes—but the denomination of coins inside was also random. It was too early to celebrate. I had to remember The 600:300:99:1 Law. Whether this bag held gold coins (0.1%), silver coins (9.9%), copper coins (60%), or literal pebbles (30%) was impossible to know until I opened it.

Slide.

Untying the drawstring cinching the pouch, I caught sight of the color within. That radiant, lustrous sheen was unmistakably gold.

‘It’s gold!’

Under 1 gold meant an orphan. Between 1 and under 10 gold was a lower-class pauper. Between 10 and under 100 gold was middle class. And 100 gold or more was an ironclad guarantee of success—a golden ticket to a noble father.

The starting grant I received was a cool 100 gold coins. A noble jackpot.

‘Lucky♪’

The starting gear bundled with the money was phenomenal as well. It was a necklace set with an exquisite gem. Gemstone jewelry had a high probability of being an artifact, and even if it wasn't, it was an incredibly valuable asset on its own.

Rip.

I broke the wax seal and opened the letter. Inside lay a sheet of luxurious parchment and a whistle. A letter overflowing with the love of a noble father. What kind of warm words did it contain?

Contrary to my expectations, the contents were utterly barren.

I flipped the letter over. The back was completely blank. I held it up to the lamp. There was no hidden text revealed by the flame either.

What in the world? Is my dad the admissions officer or something? In these shockingly curt words, not a single trace of paternal affection could be found.

Jingle.

Well, paternal love lived in the coin pouch anyway. The heavy sack of gold was all the fatherly affection I needed. Besides, skipping tedious rambling was actually great. It meant fewer bothersome, noble-father-exclusive family crisis events down the road.

If there was any fly in the ointment, it was that the name Orknodi dragged up memories of my past stupidity.

‘What was the girl's father thinking when he named her this?’

Oak-no-die. Okay, no die. You're fine, you won't die. No normal father would name their child that. And just as disconcerting as the absurd name was this alien body.

Tug.

Pulling down the collar of my shirt to peek inside... there was definitely more volume than met the eye. Pulling the shirt taut against my back, the combat power hidden underneath was no joke. My Breasts Are Hiding Their Combat Power.

After indulging in that frivolous thought, gloom washed over me once more. No matter how much combat power they hid, having breasts attached to my own chest was nothing short of distressing.

‘Ugh, whatever.’

I needed to check a mirror first. Fortunately, the letter had come with a whistle. An ultra-rare connection item in the game: the Butler Calling Whistle.

A personal butler capable of automated supply replenishment and loot selling—even if not triple-S rank, was an S-rank god-tier guardian item! Orknodi had rolled starting funds, starting equipment, and starting connections that were the absolute pinnacle of a blessed account.

‘Is this room a bit too cramped for him to spawn?’

In the game, blowing the whistle triggered a loud poof, summoning the butler out of a cloud of smoke in midair. Relying on that memory, I stacked every piece of furniture in the room except the desk onto the bed like a game of Tetris, then climbed onto the tiny sliver of remaining space on the mattress. Thankfully, my stat distribution hadn't gone haywire; hauling that furniture didn't make me break a sweat or tire me out.

Fweeeeet.

The moment I blew the whistle, a knock sounded. It came from the door.

"Did you summon me, Young Lady?"

Instead of bursting out of thin air in a cloud of smoke, the butler simply opened the door and walked in. An awkward silence hung in the air at his remarkably mundane entrance. Why are you coming through the door and making me look like an idiot?

"Um, excuse me..."

He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wore full-dress tails, the traditional livery of a head butler. His hair was slicked back with an intensity matching the stiff sharpness of his collar. A terrifying countenance and murderous eyes that made one suspect he was a mafia hitman rather than a butler. Pinned to his breast was a nameplate:

A bizarre name. Remembering the origin of 'Orknodi,' I couldn't let my guard down. I sounded it out phonetically.

Jo-na Wai-hiem-hai.

Jon-na wi-heom-hae. Fucking dangerous.

"……"

"It appears your anxiety is flaring up again."

"No, it's not that…"

"Do you require medication?"

"N-No. Just... a hand mirror…"

Sure, someone could be named 'Okay, No Die.' If parents wanted a tough, resilient daughter, maybe they'd pull something like that. But how on earth could a butler be named Fucking Dangerous?

The man stared down at me in silence. For a butler, the chilling aura rolling off him was eerie—generating the exact same tension one felt when cornered by an antisocial terrorist or a major villain.

"May I have a moment of your time?"

"Pardon? Ah, yes."

"If you have read the letter, you already know. The Master desires for you to enroll in the Academy."

"The Master? You mean Papa?"

"Papa……?"

This was reality now, not a game. Did she normally address him by some specific formal title? Apparently it wasn't jarring enough to cause serious suspicion, because the butler simply let it slide.

"I have arranged training to ensure you pass the entrance examination. There will be no need for you to bother venturing into the wilderness or groveling alongside common adventurers. As for mirrors, a full-length one will be provided."

The butler's gaze drifted toward the bed, where the table, chair, and assortment of clutter were piled high. On a bed with not a speck of room left for a human being to lie down, the only space permitted was barely enough for a frail child to stand upright, leaning against the precarious stack of furniture. The bed lacked even the faintest indentation of anyone ever sleeping on it.

"It will be an environment far more conducive to peace of mind than lingering in an inn."

A bed without a trace of sleep. A spectacle that looked nothing like the room of a sane person. Belatedly, I realized what this looked like.

"It's a misunderstanding."

"You need not say another word."

Contrary to his murderous name and terrifying countenance, his expression held an odd warmth—a look of profound, aching pity. I had seen eyes like that somewhere before. Rummaging through my memories for a moment, it finally clicked.

It was the exact face TV show panelists made when watching a rescue dog from a shelter whimpering in a tight corner, cowering away from human touch.

"……"

This guy thinks I'm some tragically abused, utterly pitiable child.