Winter in the Black Forest was a merciless beast, a howling tyrant that swept down from the jagged peaks of the Northwild Mountains. Snow fell in relentless sheets, driven by a biting wind that clawed through every crack and crevice, painting the grimy, soot-stained land a deceptive, pristine white, like someone had upended a bucket of celestial paint across the filth. The skeletal pines groaned under the weight of the frost, their branches sagging like weary sentinels guarding a forsaken realm.
In a drafty, ramshackle wooden hut on the outskirts of this frozen hellscape, Edwyn sprawled in a pile of musty hay, his lanky frame curled tight to trap what little warmth his tattered clothes could muster. The walls of the hut creaked ominously, as if the wind itself was trying to tear the place apart board by board. His breath puffed out in faint clouds, mingling with the faint stench of mildew and despair that clung to the air.
"Hsss… damn, it's colder than a demon's heart out here," Edwyn muttered, his voice dripping with a sardonic edge. He hugged his bony arms closer, flashing a crooked grin despite the shivers wracking his body. "Being an isekai protagonist? Yeah, real glamorous. Where's my magical harem and overpowered sword? All I got is this lousy hay and a front-row seat to hypothermia."
A month ago, Edwyn had been a broke, sleep-deprived college student, fueled by instant noodles and existential dread, until a speeding truck decided to yeet him into this medieval nightmare. Now, he was stuck in the body of some scrawny peasant kid, living under the iron-fisted rule of Baron Drelis of Black Forest, a noble who probably thought "mercy" was a type of cheese. Worse, Edwyn's new "father," Rickard, was a hopeless drunk who'd spent his days alternating between slurred curses and swinging fists. Starvation and beatings were Edwyn's daily bread, and his frail, malnourished body could barely take the abuse.
Lucky for him, old Rickard had finally done the world a favor and kicked the bucket two days ago, frozen stiff in a drunken stupor. The bad news? The old bastard had bartered every scrap of value in the hut, pots, blankets, even the damn door hinges, for jugs of gut-rot moonshine. Edwyn had scarfed down the last crumb of moldy bread yesterday, and now his stomach growled like a caged beast. The untreated gashes from Rickard's final beating throbbed, the wounds blackening with infection, and the cold sank into his bones like a curse.
Curled in the hay, Edwyn felt his consciousness flicker, teetering on the edge of oblivion. "No way, man," he growled, his voice low but defiant. "You're not checking out like this. You're a transmigrator, damn it. Cheat item, big destiny, the whole nine yards. You don't get to die in a pile of straw like some NPC loser."
Yeah, Edwyn wasn't completely screwed. When he'd crash-landed into this world, he'd discovered something, a furnace, glowing deep within his soul, like a smoldering ember waiting to ignite. Though he hadn't the foggiest idea what it did. Still, it was his ace in the hole, his ticket out of this frozen dump. To a drowning man, even a straw is salvation, and Edwyn was clinging to that straw with all the cocky bravado he could muster.
Knock knock knock!
The sharp sound jolted him from his daze, his head snapping up.
"Who the hell's knocking in this weather? Santa Claus delivering coal?"
BANG!
The flimsy door flew open, splintered wood groaning as a gust of icy wind blasted into the hut. "Old Rickard, you still alive, you drunken sot?" a gruff voice bellowed.
Edwyn scrambled to his feet, brushing hay from his ragged tunic with a theatrical flourish.
"Well, well, well, looks like the VIPs are making house calls," he thought, recognizing the voice instantly. It belonged to Lord Ellison, the Baron's steward, a man who ran the Black Forest estate with the precision of a guillotine and the charm of a tax collector.
Peering through the dim light, Edwyn caught sight of Ellison's silhouette in the doorway, flanked by two armored guards bundled in furs. The steward was a tall, wiry man, his sharp features framed by a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes glinting with the cold calculation of someone who'd seen too many winters and too many fools. His fine wool cloak was dusted with snow, and he carried himself with the kind of authority that made peasants quiver.
"My Lord Steward," Edwyn called out, his tone dripping with mock grandeur as he spread his arms wide. "Sorry to disappoint, but old Rickard's off dancing with the grim reaper. Froze solid two days ago. Me, though? Still kicking, ready to serve. What's the gig?"
Ellison stepped inside, his boots crunching on the frozen dirt floor. His gaze swept over Edwyn, and he grimaced, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose. You couldn't blame the guy, Edwyn looked like he'd been dragged through a swamp and left to rot. His shoulder-length red hair was a matted, greasy mess, clinging to his gaunt face in clumps. His clothes, little more than a threadbare tunic and patched trousers, were stained with dirt and blood, and the festering wounds on his arms and back gave off a faint, sickly stench. Compared to Edwyn, a sewer rat was downright dapper.
"You're little Edwyn, aren't you?" Ellison said, his voice clipped but curious, one eyebrow arching as he studied the boy.
"The one and only," Edwyn replied, flashing a lopsided grin despite the pain shooting through his body. He gave a theatrical half-bow, wincing but refusing to let it show. "Heard you're a stickler for manners, my lord, so I figured I'd roll out the red carpet. What's a guy like you doing slumming it out here?"
Ellison's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stern facade. He was used to peasants groveling or cowering, not tossing out quips like they were auditioning for a bard's troupe. Rumor had it Ellison demanded etiquette even from the lowliest serf, and Edwyn was betting on it. If he could charm the steward, maybe he could score something better than a slow death in this shack.
"Not bad, kid," Ellison said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You've got more spine than most of the rabble around here. You're alive, and that's what counts. Come with me. Do as you're told, and don't make me regret dragging you out of this pigsty."
"You got it, boss," Edwyn said, snapping a mock salute. "Lead the way. I'm ready to dazzle."
They stepped out into the storm, and the cold hit Edwyn like a sledgehammer. The sky was a roiling mass of gray clouds, blotting out the sun's feeble warmth. Snow swirled around them, stinging his exposed skin like a swarm of icy hornets. His thin clothes offered about as much protection as a paper napkin, and he shivered so hard his teeth rattled.
"Damn, it's colder than a witch's tit out here," Edwyn muttered, hugging himself tighter. "Where's the tropical isekai package? I want a refund."
Ellison shot him a sharp look but didn't comment. Instead, he turned to one of his guards, a burly man with a face like a bulldog's. "Guard! Take off your coat. Now!"
The soldier froze, his jaw dropping. "My lord, you can't be serious. Giving my coat to this filthy peasant? In this weather?" He gestured at Edwyn with a sneer, as if the boy were a walking plague.
The guard paled but pressed on, lowering his voice. "My lord, if we're short one, it's no big deal. That Arch-Mage won't-"
"Silence!" Ellison snapped, his face darkening like a storm cloud. "Don't you dare insult the Arch-Mage's wisdom with your pea-brained logic! One more word, and I'll have you swinging from a rope by sundown. Now strip that coat off and give it to the boy!"
Edwyn raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly grin.
Arch-Mage, huh? Now we're talking.
He'd been poking around for weeks, trying to dig up dirt on anything supernatural in this backwater dump, but peasants didn't exactly have access to the good gossip. All he'd gotten were half-baked folk tales about witches and ghosts. But this? This was the real deal. Magic was out there, and Edwyn was ready to grab it by the horns.
The guard grumbled but peeled off his heavy wool coat, tossing it at Edwyn with a scowl. Edwyn caught it with a flourish, wrapping it around himself like a king donning a royal cloak. The warmth was a godsend, soaking into his aching bones. "Well, damn, this is more like it," he said, winking at the guard. "Thanks, pal. I owe you one. Maybe I'll name my first castle after you."
"Move it, kid," Ellison barked, his good mood clearly soured by the guard's insolence. "If the Arch-Mage gets impatient, we're all dead meat."
"Dead meat? Sounds like my kind of party," Edwyn quipped, but he fell into step behind Ellison, his mind racing. An Arch-Mage, a test, and a shot at something bigger than starving in a shack. This was his chance to flip the script.
The carriage ride to the Baron's castle was bumpy, the wooden wheels rattling over frozen ruts. Edwyn leaned back against the creaking seat, the guard's coat still warm around him, and let his mind wander.
Alright, you mysterious piece of soul bling. Time to show me what you've got. Don't let me down.
The Baron's castle loomed at the heart of the territory, a squat, grim fortress of weathered stone that looked like it had been built to withstand a siege, or a really bad mood. Its towers were capped with snow, and icicles hung from the battlements like jagged teeth. Inside, the main hall was a cavernous space, dimly lit by flickering torches and a massive central hearth that roared with flames but did little to banish the chill. The air smelled of smoke, damp stone, and nervous sweat.
Over a hundred children, ranging from scrawny peasant kids to the pampered sons and daughters of minor nobles, stood in uneasy clusters. Their ages varied, but they all shared the same wary, wide-eyed look, like lambs waiting for the butcher. Edwyn sauntered in behind Ellison, his hands shoved in the coat's pockets, a cocky grin plastered on his face despite the gnawing hunger in his gut.
"Well, look at this," he muttered under his breath. "A whole buffet of nervous kids. Wonder what's on the menu."
Ellison strode to the front of the hall, his boots echoing on the stone floor. "Lord Arch-Mage, my Lord Baron," he announced, bowing deeply to two figures seated in the shadows at the far end. "All children between twelve and fifteen in the Black Forest are present."
Edwyn's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the pair. Baron Drelis was easy to spot, a bloated, sweaty man in gaudy silks, his jowls quivering as he tried to maintain a fawning smile. Next to him stood the Arch-Mage, a tall, gaunt figure cloaked in a black robe that seemed to drink in the light. A pointed tricorn hat cast his face in shadow, but Edwyn caught a glimpse of white hair and a monocle glinting in the firelight. The air around the mage crackled with an unseen energy, like the hum of a live wire.
"Hehehe… not many kids in Black Forest this year, are there, Drelis?" the Arch-Mage said, his voice low and raspy, like dry leaves skittering over gravel. He patted the Baron's shoulder, and Drelis flinched as if he'd been slapped.
"Y-yes, my lord," Drelis stammered, sweat beading on his brow. "The harvest was poor. Many… many peasants didn't make it through the winter."
The Arch-Mage's head tilted, his monocle catching the light like a predator's eye. "That won't do," he said, his tone deceptively soft. "The Academy needs children of age to enroll. If I can't meet my quota, I get punished." His voice grew sharper, colder. "And I don't like being punished."
He leaned closer to Drelis, who looked ready to faint. "So if I come back next year and find this same pathetic turnout…" The Arch-Mage's voice dropped to a feral snarl. "You can spend the rest of your miserable life as a maggot crawling through a latrine!"
The hall fell deathly silent, the children frozen in place. Even Edwyn, who'd faced down Rickard's fists with a smirk, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Okay, this guy's got some serious mojo, he thought, his grin faltering for a split second before he forced it back.
"Good," the Arch-Mage said, straightening up and turning to the children. "Now that it's quiet, line up. One by one. Come forward for testing. Don't make me repeat myself."
The kids scrambled into a line, their fear palpable. Even the noble brats, usually smug in their fine clothes, looked like they wanted to bolt. Edwyn took his place near the middle, where the line curved just enough for him to get a clear view of the Arch-Mage.
The Arch-Mage pulled a crystal orb from beneath his robe, its surface shimmering with an eerie, pearlescent glow. One by one, the children stepped forward, placing their hands on the orb. It would pulse faintly, and the Arch-Mage would announce the results in a bored monotone.
"Spiritforce: 9. Not qualified. Next."
"Spiritforce: 8. Not qualified."
"Spiritforce: 7. Not qualified."
"Spiritforce: 10. Barely passed. Stand behind me."
Edwyn watched, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the scene. Spiritforce, huh? Sounds like the magic juice around here.
The line moved quickly, and soon it was Edwyn's turn. The kid in front of him, a gangly boy with a face full of freckles, shuffled away after a curt "Not qualified."
Edwyn stepped forward, his heart pounding. Up close, he could finally see the Arch-Mage's face under the hat's shadow, white hair, a wrinkled face that might've been kindly once, and sunken eyes magnified by that monocle. He looked like a grumpy librarian, not a magical powerhouse. But the air around him buzzed with menace, like standing too close to a thunderstorm.
"Well, well, the big man himself," Edwyn said, his voice light but laced with defiance. "Gotta say, love the hat. Very wizard chic."
The Arch-Mage's eyebrow twitched, but he didn't respond. "Put your hand on the orb, boy," he said, his tone flat but carrying an edge that could cut glass.
"Easy, old timer, I'm getting there," Edwyn replied, winking as he reached out. His fingers brushed the orb, and a jolt of energy shot through him, warm and electric, like he'd stuck his hand in a socket. The sensation raced through his veins, pooling in his chest before surging to his brain. Inside his soul, the Infinite Forge roared to life, its embers flaring into a blazing inferno.
A message echoed in his mind, clear as a bell:
[Infinite Forge Activated]
The orb pulsed brighter, its light casting wild shadows across the hall. Edwyn's grin widened, his eyes glinting with a mix of excitement and mischief. Oh, yeah, baby. Time to shine.
The Arch-Mage's monocle glinted as he leaned forward, his voice ringing out with a hint of surprise. "Spiritforce: 15. Qualified!"
A murmur rippled through the hall, the other kids turning to stare. Edwyn pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers as if he'd just drawn a winning hand. "Well, damn," he said, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "Looks like the new guy's got some tricks up his sleeve. So, what's next, Arch-Mage? Got a dragon I need to slay, or are we starting with something a little less… scaly?"
The Arch-Mage's lips twitched, almost a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. "Bold words, boy. Let's see if you can back them up. Stand behind me."
"You got it, boss," Edwyn said, strutting to the designated spot with a swagger that belied his battered body. Inside, his mind was racing. Spiritforce: 15. Infinite Forge. Magic's real, and I'm in the game. Time to kick this isekai up a notch.
As he took his place among the handful of kids who'd passed, Edwyn's grin never faltered. The Black Forest was cold, cruel, and unforgiving, but he was done playing the victim. With the Infinite Forge burning in his soul and a shot at the Academy, he was ready to carve his name into this world.