Prologue: Awakening in Chains
I opened my eyes, and there it was—another world.
...Or at least, that's what I wanted to say, but this was a scene that made anyone blurt out, "Is this for real?"—a total loss of plausibility.
In stories like this, you usually save someone at a crosswalk and get hit by the isekai truck, or collapse from overwork and meet a scantily clad goddess—or at least some old geezer—in a blinding light. That's the standard trope, right?
Even a grand voice begging you to save the world, or dying while robbing a vault—something with a clear cause and effect.
That way, at least the resentment wouldn't feel so pointless.
But me? Not even that bare minimum effort.
I just dealt with a troublesome customer at the convenience store, faced off against a booze-soaked old man screaming gibberish about a pack of smokes with his halitosis hitting like a freight train, said nothing when the next shift guy was fifteen minutes late, muttered "Good luck" and clocked out.
I even swapped out the bag with the expired junk food—didn't want to sell that store's crap—putting in four cans of pricey imported beer I'd bought at another shop for ten bucks, scrolled mindlessly to check hot new anime, skipped past some recap video about a production company tanking, and dug into new trailers for that wargame series I used to binge.
A bit tipsy, I stirred up some aggro on the community boards with a few lol's, then shut off my phone before I got banned, and closed my eyes.
What hit me when I woke wasn't the lingering smell of discarded bento trays, the beery tang on my lips, the yellowed pillow and blankets, or the traffic noise pollution of my studio apartment.
No—it was the acrid stench of shit drilling into my nostrils, and the hard wooden floor jabbing my ass.
When he first snapped awake from that deep stupor, Jinhyuk felt a flood of sensations.
The rickety wooden walls sealing him in on all sides, rusted iron bars, and the filthy reek of the huddled masses around him—stink so bad even subway beggars or homeless folks would bow to it.
The moment he registered it, the grime assaulted his nose, bone-chilling cold wrapped his body, and a vicious hunger and thirst clawed up from his gut's depths.
Splinters from poorly finished wood planks stabbed his ass, drawing pain.
Beyond the barred cart, an endless snow-covered wasteland stretched under gloomy skies, with floating islands and rocks drifting high above now and then.
Mystical, yet brutally unforgiving.
Clunk, rattle—
Every jolt forward sent harsh vibrations through his body, icy winds slicing through the cart's gaps like knives.
In this endless procession filled only with the ragged snorts of draft beasts, Jinhyuk endured a brutal psychological unraveling.
First came denial.
This is a dream. Lucid dreaming for sure.
He slapped his cheek hard—only stinging pain answered.
Opening and closing his eyes hundreds of times changed nothing.
Then rage.
"Hey! You fucking bastards! Who the hell dumped me here?!"
He jabbed at empty air, yelling for status screens and logouts.
Screamed out stats like in the novels, thrashing wildly.
But no windows appeared—only soldiers' merciless clubs for dealing with a midnight barbarian rant.
"This crazy barbarian's at it again! Shut the fuck up!"
Each rib-cracking blow from the hardwood staff choked his breath.
Next, bargaining.
Please, just once—let me go back, I'll live right, he pleaded desperately, invoking every nameless god he could think of.
Parents' faces in mind, tears streaming as he begged.
No reply, of course.
Just cold snowflakes slipping through the bars to wet his cheeks.
Then deep depression settled in.
Gazing past the bars at floating rocks and snowy hellscape, he yearned for his damp studio blankets and the noisy internet broadcasts he'd watched in late-night moods.
A bottom-rung life he'd never known in the modern world.
Wrapped in threadbare hides or ragged cloth—straw piles too scarce—they huddled body-to-body against the cold, a wretched sight.
And he was thrown right in the middle.
The cart's captives wailed their own tales.
"C-cold... so cold... please, home..."
"Hungry... gonna die..."
Debt dodgers, criminals caught red-handed, failed suicides from starvation, smugglers nabbed in tribal trades.
Everything from slash-and-burn folk to rebels and slum rats crammed into this tiny space.
Their words weren't Korean, but history buff Jinhyuk's brain translated them crystal-clear into his native tongue.
The one mercy—and curse—this world granted him.
"Shut your traps, you vermin! Be grateful your worthless lives get used for the Empire—should be thanking us!"
A sour-faced officer flung open the cart window, bellowing against the biting cold.
Jinhyuk curled his throbbing body, piecing together intel.
Yeon Empire, Northern Great Wall Garrison, Left Wing Army, subordinate sergeant.
History major with trivia knowledge across eras and nations, but this country? Nowhere in the records.
From soldiers' chatter: this was the Northern Great Wall, guarding the Central Plains from beasts, yokai, and mounted nomads.
Garrisoned jointly by the Yeon, Jo, and Wei Empires.
Worst of all: Jinhyuk himself was branded a "Dongyi tribesman"—barbarian slave.
Cavalry passing outside speared packs of gray wolves the size of mid-sized cars, then made slaves butcher the hides amid blood and guts that turned stomachs.
"Heh heh, Corporal. If those idiots shit themselves again, we'll have extra cleanup."
"Tch. Six more days to destination—if too many croak, the bosses'll bitch. Better keep 'em breathing just enough; makes our shift easier."
A rat-eyed trooper brown-nosed; the senior soldier, Cho Kang, yawned lazily, spear slung over his shoulder.
Cho Kang treated slaves not as people, but cargo with a delivery deadline—a jaded bureaucrat incarnate.
"That crazy barbarian's finally shut up. Yelling 'Nogu-a-un! Status! Stats!'—thought he'd snapped for good."
"Barbarians only quiet down after a good clubbing, sir. Few days of beatings fixed him right up."
Jinhyuk bit his lip, self-mocking.
Standard isekai summonings had set paths, right?
Hero in a palace, flirting with princesses; academy enrollment, harem-building genius rep.
Worn clichés.
But reality? No princess—just snot-nosed slave geezers. No academy—just shit-splashing slave cart.
Harem?
The hairy guy's body heat next to him was his sole warmth for survival.
Hero? Bullshit.
He was a one-use arrow sponge, a meat shield—fastest to burn out in this world.
Ordinary NEET body, zero stats, zero cheats.
The cart's clunking jolts mimicked funeral drums.
Finally, Jinhyuk reached acceptance.
Fine, I admit it.
I'm a slave.
Meat shield, cannon fodder.
But the blazing fury rising from his chest? No way he'd die easy.
Not dreaming of lordships or harems.
But whoever—no motive, no courtesy—dumped him in this shithole? He'd find them.
Send a truck, show a goddess—at least give a reason.
Some target for his rage against this fucked world.
This system's, gods', fate's—whatever flung him into the slave cart without manners.
"Fucking hell. No princess fling? Fine. But the bastard who sent me here? I'll track 'em and rip 'em apart."
Princesses? Whatever. Future abandoned.
Among slaves scrabbling for daily rations to survive, his rage faded into numb sameness, eating away at him.
Jinhyuk swallowed snowflakes through the bars.
Cold and fishy, but not enough to douse the inferno in his heart.
"I don't know who you are or why you tossed me in this slave cart, but I won't die till I find you, torture you slow, grind you to paste, and snap your neck."