---
The first thing I notice is the sound. A low, mechanical hum, constant and grating, like a distant engine that never stops running. Then the air—stale, metallic, thick with something unpleasantly organic, like sweat and recycled breath.
My eyes open to a dim, flickering light overhead. The ceiling is metal, rusted in spots, condensation dripping from exposed pipes. The walls are the same—dull gray, corroded at the edges, patched with bolted plates.
This… isn't my room.
I sit up too fast, and a wave of dizziness slams into me. My limbs feel sluggish, my head heavy, like I've been drugged or sleeping for far too long. My fingers grip the edge of the cot—thin mattress, metal frame, uncomfortable as hell. A set of rough, gray robes hangs from a hook on the wall. A small metal locker sits at the foot of the bed.
I don't recognize any of this.
Where am I?
Panic bubbles up, but I force myself to breathe. Think. Remember.
And then—I do.
It hits like a hammer to the skull. Two sets of memories, tangled together, clashing, overlapping.
One part of me remembers my old life. A normal life.
Waking up every morning to the same routine—groggily shutting off my alarm, dragging myself to the bathroom, scrolling through my phone while half-asleep. Breakfast was whatever was quick—instant coffee, maybe some cereal if I wasn't too lazy. Then came the daily grind. School, then later, work. Long hours spent in classrooms, then offices, staring at screens, typing, listening, waiting for the day to end.
Evenings weren't much different. A few hobbies to pass the time—reading, gaming, watching videos. Some occasional time with friends, but nothing deep. No grand ambitions, no real struggles. Just existence. Predictable, safe, mundane.
And now, all of that is gone.
The other part of me? Fourteen years in a hive city. Born into the Imperium. Raised in squalor, trained to be a cog in an unfeeling machine. Waking up every day to the same routine, the same grueling work, the same prayers muttered out of obligation rather than faith.
Two lives. Two versions of me.
One of them shouldn't exist.
I swallow, my throat dry. My heart is pounding. The old me—the real me—was never supposed to be here.
This isn't fiction anymore. This is real.
The realization is suffocating. This world… I know what it is. I know what the Imperium is. The hellish dystopia where life is meaningless, where billions die nameless, where the only escape is death or power.
And I have neither.
I grip my head, my breath coming in short gasps. No. No. This isn't right. There has to be some way out. Some way to wake up from this nightmare.
But even as I think that, I know the truth. This is my life now.
I force myself to focus. My hands are still shaking, but I need to move. Get up. Get dressed. Follow the routine ingrained in this body's memories. I pull on the gray robes, rough and worn, boots scuffed from years of use. My satchel leans against the wall, its leather strap cracked. Inside, I find a few tattered papers, a simple stylus, and a dented metal flask filled with stale water.
And then—
A flicker. A glow at the edge of my vision.
Words, appearing out of nowhere.
---
Status Page
Name: [Cassian vale]
Age: 14
Race: Human (Imperium)
Affiliation: Imperium of Man
Occupation: Imperial Scribe
Physique: F (3/10)
Dexterity: F (3/10)
Intelligence: F (6/10)
Wisdom: F (7/10)
Affinity: F (3/10)
Perk Points Available: 0
Skills:
Basic Literacy (Low Gothic) - Level Max
---
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
A status screen?
I blink, but it doesn't disappear. It lingers at the edge of my vision, waiting, responding to my focus.
This… this shouldn't be possible.
A game-like system? In Warhammer 40K?
I stare at my stats. Everything except Intelligence and Wisdom is barely above rock bottom. No special abilities. No magic. Just numbers.
I exhale slowly. It's something.
Not an escape. Not a miracle. But an advantage.
I don't know how it works yet, but if this world is as brutal as I know it is… I'll need every edge I can get.
A distant chime echoes through the corridor. Work cycle starting.
No time to figure this out now. I shoulder my satchel and step outside.
---
The corridor is suffocatingly narrow. Cramped metal walls lined with flickering glow-strips. The air is thick with incense from the nearby shrine, barely masking the sweat and machinery stench. The floor vibrates with the distant thrum of industrial machines deep within the hive.
Dozens of other scribes shuffle past me in silence. Gray robes, tired eyes, hunched shoulders. None of them look at me. None of them speak. Just another day in the Imperium.
I move with them, feet following a path I don't need to think about. Down three levels. Past the shrine. Through the east corridor. My mind is racing, but my body moves on instinct.
The scriptorum is a vast, windowless hall lined with endless rows of cogitators. The air is filled with the rhythmic clatter of keys, the low murmur of servitors maintaining the machines. Overseers in red-trimmed robes pace between the aisles, their bionic eyes scanning for slackers.
I take my seat at my assigned cogitator. The screen flickers to life, loading endless lines of text. Tithe reports. Logistics. Endless, meaningless data.
My fingers hover over the keys.
And I feel it again. That hollowness.
This is my life now. Typing numbers. Pushing buttons. A slow, inevitable march toward an unremarkable death.
I feel frustration clawing at my chest. I was stripped from my world. My life. Thrown into this nightmare.
And worst of all…
I don't even know what I want to do.
Escape? How? This isn't a world where you just run away. Every road leads to death—outside the hive, there's nothing but wasteland, radiation, and mutant-filled ruins.
Survival? How? I have nothing. No connections. No power. No place in this world beyond being a disposable worker.
I clench my fists.
What am I supposed to do?
For the first time, doubt creeps in. What if I don't have a choice? What if I'm just… stuck?
My vision flickers. That glow at the edge of my sight.
Status Page.
My only advantage.
I swallow. Right now, it's weak. But it can grow.
If I get stronger… if I figure out how this works… maybe, just maybe, I'll have a chance.
I exhale, steadying myself. My hands are still shaking as I start typing. The work is mindless, the same repetitive drudgery that will fill the rest of my life.
But now, something is different.
Because for the first time since waking up in this world…
I have something to work toward.
---
The cogitator hums softly, its screen flickering as I begin typing. The data scrolls endlessly, a wall of numbers, records, and reports that mean little to me. The motions are familiar—this body knows what to do. My fingers move on instinct, pressing the same few keys over and over, shifting documents, cross-referencing figures.
Minutes pass. Then an hour. My mind drifts as I work, thoughts swirling in the background. The sheer monotony of it all is suffocating, but it gives me time to think.
This system—my Status Page—it has to be my way forward. The only real advantage I have.
But how does it work?
Can I level up? Gain new skills? Will it reward effort, or is it something else entirely?
No answers. Not yet.
My eyes flick toward the overseers patrolling the rows. There's no room for distractions here. Slacking off leads to punishment, and I have no desire to test exactly how cruel they can be.
So, I work.
The sounds of typing and shuffling papers blend into white noise. The hum of the cogitators, the distant chanting from the shrine, the occasional cough or sniff from another scribe.
It feels endless.
But eventually, the chime rings again.
Break cycle.
I push back from my station, stretching out my stiff fingers. My back aches from hunching over the cogitator for so long. The other scribes rise in unison, filing out into the corridor. I follow, keeping my head down.
Lunch is the same as always—a metal tray, a grayish nutrient paste, and a cup of lukewarm water. The food is tasteless, a thick, gelatinous mass that sticks to the roof of my mouth. It isn't meant to be enjoyed. Just fuel to keep us working.
The dining hall is cramped and loud, filled with rows of scribes eating in near silence. Conversation is rare. The only sounds are the clatter of trays and the occasional murmur of prayers to the Emperor.
I sit alone. Not because I want to, but because I don't know these people. The memories in my head tell me their names—Reymar, Orlan, Saria—but they're little more than passing acquaintances. None of them would care if I dropped dead at my desk tomorrow.
I take another bite of the paste, chewing slowly.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
Just survive? Keep working, keep my head down, live out this miserable existence until I inevitably die like the rest of them?
No.
No, I refuse to accept that.
I need to get stronger. I need to understand how this system works.
I glance down at my hands. Weak. Calloused, but not strong. My status page said my Physique is a 3 out of 10. That number probably means I'm barely above malnourished.
If I want power, I'll have to start somewhere.
A group of overseers pass by, their red-trimmed robes swaying as they move toward the far side of the hall. I watch them carefully, memorizing their movements. Their posture. The way the other scribes avoid looking directly at them.
Power.
In this world, it means everything. And right now, I have none.
But if I can change that…
The chime rings again, signaling the end of our break. I stand, tray in hand, and move toward the collection bins. The rest of the scribes shuffle back toward the scriptorum in quiet resignation. Another cycle of meaningless work awaits.
But this time, I don't just go through the motions.
This time, I test something.
As I walk, I focus on my Status Page again. It appears instantly, hovering at the edge of my vision, responding to my thoughts.
I stare at Physique (3/10).
Does it increase through effort?
I clench my fists. There's only one way to find out.
---
By the time the final work cycle ends, my fingers are numb, my back aches, and my eyes burn from staring at the cogitator screen for so long. The walk back to my hab is slow, my limbs heavy. The corridors are dimly lit, the glow-strips flickering erratically. The scent of oil and burning incense lingers in the air, mixing with the ever-present stink of sweat and metal.
The streets of the mid-hive are a chaotic mess. Narrow walkways crammed with people, hab-stacks rising high above, their walls lined with rusted metal and exposed wiring. Tech-priests march through the streets, their mechanical limbs clicking against the ground, while enforcers patrol in their black armor, batons at their sides.
I keep my head down as I walk. Avoid drawing attention. Just another faceless worker in a city of billions.
When I finally reach my hab, I shut the door behind me and let out a slow breath. The room is as small and miserable as I remember. A cot, a locker, a cracked mirror on the wall. No windows. No decorations. Just a space to sleep before another day of endless work.
I sit on the cot, rolling my shoulders. My body feels weak. I'm weak.
That needs to change.
I bring up my Status Page again. My stats are the same. No changes.
So just working doesn't increase them.
Then how do I improve?
I need to test this.
I push myself up and drop into a squat. My legs burn almost immediately. I force myself through the motion, gritting my teeth as I push up and go again. And again. And again.
Thirty isn't enough. I keep going.
By the time I hit fifty, my legs shake with each repetition. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts, sweat dripping from my forehead onto the cold metal floor. My muscles scream at me to stop, but I grit my teeth and force another set.
One hundred.
My legs buckle, and I crash onto the cot, chest heaving. My entire lower body is on fire. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, my arms shaking as I try to wipe the sweat from my face.
I'm not done.
I roll onto the floor, pressing my palms against the cold metal. Push-ups. My arms feel weak, but I force them to work. One. Two. Five. Ten.
By twenty, my arms tremble under my weight. By thirty, my muscles are locking up, every inch of my body begging me to stop.
But I don't.
I push through.
When I hit fifty, I collapse, my vision swimming. My lungs burn, my muscles twitch uncontrollably. I lay there, staring at the rusted ceiling, gasping for breath.
It's been years since I've pushed my body like this. No—this body has never been pushed like this.
A flicker at the edge of my vision.
I focus.
---
Physique (3 → 3.1/10)
---
A rush of exhilaration shoots through me. It worked.
Effort increases stats. Not instantly, not by much, but it does.
I wipe the sweat from my face, my heart still pounding. This changes everything.
It means I have a path forward.
It means I can grow.
I can't stay weak forever. If I do, I'll die just like the rest of them.
I exhale slowly, staring at my Status Page for a long moment.
This is my only chance. My only way out.
Tomorrow, I'll push harder.
Tomorrow, I'll get stronger.
Because if I don't…
I won't survive this world.
---
(Word count: 2,367)