Painful.
How painful.
My head hurt.
A gaudy dreamworld shattered at once. The sleeping traveler felt a brutal throbbing in his skull, as if someone struck him again and again with a pole. No—worse. It felt like a blade had been driven through his temples, then twisted.
He tried to move. He could not. His limbs refused to answer, as if his body no longer belonged to him.
I'm not awake. This is still a dream.
Maybe the next scene will be me thinking I woke up, only to realize I'm still asleep.
He tried to focus and break free from the darkness.
His thoughts slipped away like mist. He could not think clearly. Random ideas surfaced and vanished.
Why did this headache strike so suddenly? Could it be a brain hemorrhage?
No. I can't die like this.
Wake up. Now.
The pain eased, but did not leave. It felt like a dull knife cutting into his brain.
Sleep was impossible. He wondered why he was thinking about work at a time like this. That made no sense. With a headache like this, of course he would take time off.
The pain surged again. Strength returned in fragments. He managed to open his eyes.
His vision blurred, then slowly cleared.
A low wooden desk stood before him, worn with age. An open scroll lay at its center. The pages were yellow and rough.
Strange black letters covered them. They felt familiar in a way that unsettled him.
To the right sat a kunai. Its circular handle was wrapped in frayed black cloth. The blade caught a faint glint of light.
A weapon?
This was not his room.
Moonlight spilled in through the window, casting pale shadows across the desk, the scroll, and the kunai. He followed the light upward.
A full moon hung silently in the night sky, framed by deep darkness.
His chest tightened.
He stood up too fast. Pain exploded in his head. His strength vanished, and he fell back onto the chair.
The impact did nothing.
He pushed himself up again and turned, scanning the room.
It was small. Sliding doors lined both sides. A thin futon lay against the far wall. A cabinet stood open nearby, its drawers filled with bandages and dried herbs. Across from it stood a cracked dressing mirror.
He froze when he saw his reflection.
Black hair. Brown eyes. A thin frame. Sharp features.
His breath caught.
The kunai. The unfamiliar room. This was not Earth.
Did I transmigrate?
As his mind settled, memories surfaced.
Fire Country. A border town near Konoha.
No clan. No bloodline.
A dead father. A civilian mother.
A shinobi.
He noticed a red handprint on the table.
Blood.
He turned his hand over. His palm was soaked.
Did I split my head open?
He stepped toward the mirror and examined his temple under the moonlight.
The wound was horrific. Burn marks ringed torn flesh. Blood stained his skin. Gray-white matter pulsed faintly within.
He stumbled back.
How was he alive?
The flesh began to move. Slowly, deliberately, it closed. New tissue formed. The wound shrank until only a faint scar remained.
"The restorative effect of transmigration," he muttered.
The room fell silent.
Then something pressed against his thoughts.
A whisper brushed his ears. Words appeared in the air, floating like a projection.
[INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[HOST STABILIZED]
WELCOME TO THE "FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT" SYSTEM.
The text glowed faintly. He blinked. It remained.
[SYSTEM PURPOSE: Survival through perception.]
[GROWTH THROUGH SUSTAINED DECEPTION.]
[CORE RULE: Strength must be earned.]
So this was real.
The system continued.
[WARNING: Weakness attracts death.]
[INCONSISTENCY ATTRACTS SUSPICION.]
He clenched his jaw.
[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: Act as though you belong.]
[ALLOW OTHERS TO FILL IN WHAT YOU LACK.]
[FAILURE CONDITION: If deception collapses before ability matures—termination likelihood is high.]