"System," he murmured under his breath.
As if responding to his voice, a faint hum filled the air, and a translucent blue screen materialized before his eyes. Its appearance was as mundane as ever—no flashy animations, no awe-inspiring golden effects like the cheat systems in novels he used to read. Just a simple interface that displayed his progress in understanding the roles he played.
At the top of the screen, a single line of text caught his attention:
Goon (Extra) - 63%
(Do you want to add this to your slot?)
He scoffed, his lips curling into a wry smile. "At least I have this," he muttered.
This system wasn't the miraculous tool he had hoped for when he first discovered it after transmigrating. No ability to memorize scripts in an instant, no skill upgrades, no direct path to stardom. Its sole function was to track how deeply he immersed himself in a character. Once his progress in understanding a character surpassed 60%, he could "add" it to one of his three slots. These slots were the system's only real advantage—they allowed him to seamlessly embody a character without effort, as if the role were an extension of himself.
But there was a catch.
He'd never added any characters to his slots. Why? Because every role he had played so far was insignificant—a goon with a single line, a bystander who barely appeared on camera. They weren't worth preserving.
His eyes lingered on the words "Goon (Extra)." It felt like an insult, a slap in the face, yet it also served as a reminder of how far he still had to climb.
"This world might be different, but greed and status are the same everywhere," he muttered bitterly, leaning back against the wall.
Without connections or money, his dreams of becoming an actor had been met with rejection after rejection. The auditions he managed to attend felt like a cruel joke—half the time, they didn't even let him through the door. Still, he refused to give up.
This role, this insignificant "goon," was his stepping stone. It wasn't much, but it was a chance. And after this, he planned to pivot. No more chasing after big studios or mainstream productions. He'd focus on indie films—low-budget, high-risk projects where people cared more about passion than connections.
"I don't care about the money anymore," he whispered. His voice carried a desperation that mirrored the burning desire in his chest. "I just want to act."
The original owner of this body had wanted the same thing. A young man who dreamed of stardom, who fought against his father's expectations, and who ultimately paid the price. In a fit of anger, he'd been thrown out of his family home, disowned, and left to fend for himself.
And he had tried. He'd fought for his dreams, attending audition after audition, only to face rejection after rejection. Slowly, despair had consumed him, until one day, he couldn't take it anymore. He'd died in this very apartment, his dreams unfulfilled, leaving behind nothing but a battered body and an empty room.
"And then I woke up here," he murmured, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for traces of the original owner.
The weight of those memories lingered in his heart, not as a burden, but as fuel. The previous owner might have given up, but he wouldn't. He couldn't.
"After this role, everything changes," he declared, his gaze fixed on the blue screen. His fingers hovered over the "Add to Slot" option for a moment before pulling back. Not yet. This wasn't the role to lock in. Not for someone who dreamed of standing at the pinnacle of acting.
He folded the system away and stood tall, his reflection in the mirror staring back at him. There was no fear now, no despair—only resolve.
"Let's see what this world's got," he muttered, grabbing his bag. The next audition wasn't going to wait for him.