He stepped out of the exam car, the reality of his pass vibrating through every nerve. The certificate in his hand felt tangible, a physical echo of twelve years he hadn't really lived.
George drifted towards the bus stop, everything around him too vivid, too immediate. The world itself seemed to pulsate with potential—every person passing by like NPCs in a game only he could see. He sank onto a bench and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension growing there.
The short ride home felt endless. George stumbled through the front door, every part of him weighed down by exhaustion. The world had grown sharper too abruptly; now it blurred at the edges.
He collapsed onto the couch without even taking off his shoes, his whole body protesting each movement. He didn't care. The certificate slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. His mind was a chaotic knot—twelve years condensed into a few hours, memories pressing against reality, overwhelming and surreal.
He let his eyes close.
Sleep took him fiercely.
---
A piercing noise shattered the darkness.
George flinched awake, disoriented. It took him a moment to realize he was on the floor beside the couch. Faint morning light seeped through the apartment, making everything look washed out and too real.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying to piece together where and when he was.
His scattered thoughts converged on one blazing certainty—the System was no dream.
The urgent sound came again, drawing his attention like a magnet:
[System Alert]
Fresh shock jolted through his groggy state. Another simulation? Already? His whole body protested at the thought of going through it all over again so soon.
He sat up slowly, letting the weight of everything wash over him
Yesterday, the System had thrown him into twelve years of life without warning.
What would it do to him today?
He swallowed, his hands clammy.
Then, before he could second-guess himself, he reached out—
And activated it.
[Simulation No. 02 Begins]
[Loading new scenario…]
[The world is bright. The ceiling is white. The air smells like fresh linen and warm bread.]
[You are four years old.]
[You are in an orphanage in France.]
I do not speak French.
Year 1: The Silent Child
[You try to speak. No one understands. The caretakers frown. The children ignore you.]
["Pourquoi il ne parle pas?" – "Why doesn't he speak?"]
[They assume you are mute. Or stupid. You are neither. You are just trapped.]
You listen. You watch. You learn.
Year 2-4: First Words
[You pick up sounds. You mimic gestures. Words start forming in your mind, but your tongue is slow to follow.]
["Manger." – "Eat."]
["Eau." – "Water."]
["Moi." – "Me."]
[The caretakers notice. You are learning. You are no longer invisible.]
The isolation fades, but the struggle remains.
Year 5-8: The Scholar
[You speak now. Not perfectly, but enough. Enough to ask for food. Enough to defend yourself from bullies. Enough to feel like a person.]
[At eight years old, you start reading. The words dance across the pages. A new world opens up.]
You are not just surviving. You are thriving.
Year 9-14: The Teacher's Favourite
[Your fluency grows. Your accent disappears. French is no longer something you learned—it is a part of you.]
[At twelve, you help the younger orphans read. At fourteen, your teacher tells you, "Tu as un don pour les mots." – "You have a gift for words."]
[For the first time, you feel pride. You are not just another orphan. You are someone.]
You have found your path.
Year 15-22: The Professor's Journey
[You leave the orphanage. The world is big, but you are prepared. You get a scholarship. You work part-time. You study.]
[At twenty, you publish your first paper on linguistics. At twenty-five, you begin teaching at a university.]
You are no longer an orphan. You are a professor. A mentor. A guide.
Year 32: The End
[You are giving a lecture when it happens.]
[The explosion is sudden. The walls shake. The windows shatter. The screams echo.]
[Your last thoughts are of your students. Your work. Your life.]
It ends too soon.
[Simulation No. 02 Ends]
George woke up.
The taste of coffee lingered on his tongue. The scent of chalk dust and old books clung to his mind. His hands trembled, gripping sheets that weren't there.
A lifetime. Another life.
And then death.
A screen flickered in front of his eyes.
[Simulation Complete. Choose one of the following rewards.]
① Fluency in French
② A worn-out copy of a poetry book you loved as a child
③ A silver fountain pen given to you by a student
George didn't even hesitate.
He reached out and selected Fluency in French.
The moment he did, a flood of knowledge filled his mind. Pronunciations, grammar structures, sentence formations—it was as if he had spoken French his entire life.
The language was just there, perfectly intact in his brain. He hadn't studied it, hadn't struggled through years of grammar exercises or pronunciation drills. Yet, he knew it all. The words flowed effortlessly, as if they had always been part of him.
But the life behind them—the experiences, the people, the moments—were distant.
Like a film he watched long ago, blurred by time. He knew he had been a professor, he knew he had died in an explosion, but the emotions? The details? Gone.
He exhaled, rubbing his temples.
This System… It wasn't just some game. It was rewriting who he was.
And he had no idea how far it could go.
***
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He grabbed it, checking the caller ID—Vlad.
George answered. "Yo."
"Oi, did you pass?" Vlad's voice came through, casual but curious.
George grinned. "Of course."
"Damn, really? Thought you'd crash the car into the instructor."
"Screw you," George laughed. "Come pick me up."
Vlad snorted. "You're actually coming to school?"
George hesitated. For a moment, he considered telling Vlad everything—the System, the simulations, the years of life he had already lived.
But what would he even say?
'Hey man, I was a taxi driver for twelve years, and yesterday I was a French professor who died in a terrorist attack.'
Yeah, that wouldn't go over well.
So instead, he just said, "Yeah. Thought I'd show up for once."
Vlad laughed. "Alright, be there in ten."
Vlad's car pulled up outside, a slightly beat-up hatchback that smelled faintly of old cigarettes and fast food.
George slid into the passenger seat, stretching out.
Vlad gave him a side glance. "So, how does it feel to be an officially licensed road menace?"
George smirked. "Feels great. No more depending on you for rides."
"Damn, you really passed?" Vlad shook his head. "You know what, this is too good of a moment to waste. We're skipping school."
George raised an eyebrow. "Skipping? And doing what?"
"Listen man, school's overrated. Screw math. Coffee and beer—that's the real curriculum, and plus we are celebrating, obviously."
George scoffed. "Celebrate what?"
Vlad grinned. "Your new status as a menace to public safety. And because now that you passed, you're treating me."
George sighed, pulling out his wallet. He still had a decent amount of money left—it was early in the month, and his mom had sent extra because of the driving exam.
The System was giving him real advantages. He could afford to splurge a little.
He smirked. "Fine. Let's go somewhere good."
Vlad whooped and turned the wheel. "Now you're talking."
They parked outside Le Doux Matin, one of the fancier cafés in town.
George raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? This is where you want to go?"
Vlad shrugged. "If you're paying, we're doing it in style."
They stepped inside, the scent of rich coffee and warm pastries filling the air. The place was sleek, modern, expensive. Not the kind of place two high schoolers usually went to.
But George didn't care.
He had bigger things to think about.
As they sat down, ordering overpriced cappuccinos, Vlad suddenly nudged George's arm.
"Dude. Look."
George followed his gaze.
A table across the café. Three girls. Probably French exchange students.
Vlad grinned. "Time to work some magic."
George snorted. "Yeah? You speak French now?"
"Who needs French?" Vlad smirked, standing up. "Watch this."
George leaned back, sipping his coffee as Vlad confidently strolled over.
Thirty seconds later, he came back looking defeated.
"They don't speak Romanian," Vlad grumbled, sitting down.
"They pretend not to speak Romanian," George corrected.
Vlad frowned. "What?"
George exhaled, setting down his coffee.
His mind had already processed everything—their accents, the words they muttered under their breath, the way they interacted. They understood Romanian. They just didn't want to engage.
Fine.
If they wanted to play games, he'd play too.
He stood up, walking casually over to their table. The girls barely glanced at him.
Then, in perfect, fluent French, he said—
"Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles, mais mon ami est trop timide pour parler, alors je le fais à sa place."
("Excuse me, ladies, but my friend is too shy to talk, so I'm doing it for him.")
They froze.
All three heads turned to him at once.
Their eyes widened.
One of them, a brunette with sharp features, leaned forward. "Tu parles français?"
George smirked. "Bien sûr."
("Of course.")
Vlad gawked.
George kept talking.
He introduced himself, joked, asked where they were from—the conversation flowed effortlessly. He didn't even have to think about it.
The words came naturally, like they always had.
Because, in a way, they had.
The System had changed him.
Vlad was staring. "Dude. Since when the hell do you speak French?"
George smirked, sipping his coffee. "What can I say? I pick things up fast."