Drug-Eating Genius Mage (Fanfic)

Every day, he rose before dawn, worked until he was nearly collapsing, and was handed a bowl of gruel barely fit for eating before bed. All day long, he painstakingly assembled scattered metal parts and loaded them onto the conveyor belt. There was no escaping this tedious, exhausting routine. Whenever he tried to ask a question, the other workers simply ignored him, their looks as cold and distant as if he were already dead. Only yesterday had he realized that their stares were no different from the dead weight of a corpse.

In the poorly ventilated room, the mix of sweat and body odor hung thickly in the air. With every labored breath, Asmon felt winded and overheated. Yet nothing pained him more than the alien sensation of inhabiting this feeble body—a far cry from the one he remembered.

The brutal labor dragged on for more than ten relentless hours. The only small mercy was that even when he paused briefly, no one scolded him. Even the foreman, glancing at his pale face, merely clicked his tongue—unwilling to waste energy on a nearly dead worker.

Determined to survive, Asmon began devising small tricks to endure until the workday ended. When the endless hours finally passed and he was given his meager bowl of dried gruel, he devoured it in one gulp before collapsing into bed. Yet even as his eyes closed and he stared up at the dark ceiling, his mind remained painfully alert. Insomnia had taken hold. "Damn it…" he muttered. 

It had been three days since he'd managed a proper sleep. Asmon suspected that the relentless insomnia was one of the many penalties he'd chosen when designing his character—a drawback that had become a part of him. Worse yet, his body was plagued by other congenital ailments that slowly sapped his strength. In this harsh new world, every day was a battle for survival—and Asmon had no choice but to fight on.

How long could he endure this? 

One thing was clear: his time was running out. Asmon doubted that a body weakened to this extreme could survive the brutal work conditions much longer. After three days of restless brooding, the answer had crystallized in his mind, he had to escape.

Whether he perished from starvation or was caught mid-flight, the result would be the same—a premature end. Asmon refused to let this foul-smelling parts room become his final resting place. There was one small advantage, though. Treated almost like a dead man, he attracted far less attention than the other workers. With the overseers barely watching him, if he could learn the factory's layout, there might be a chance to plan an escape route.

More importantly, despite all his penalties—even crippling insomnia—this body wasn't completely useless. The magical potential he had painstakingly infused into himself, along with every negative trait, was maxed out and slumbered within him. If he could somehow awaken that talent, breaking out of the factory might not be entirely impossible. Asmon knew this well. In a situation where grueling labor and endless sleepless nights had pushed him to the edge, the fact that he could calmly gather his thoughts and plan showed how much he had changed. 

Normally, few could keep a clear head under such stress. But the mental strengths he'd invested in when creating his character—calmness, focus, and boldness—were now his lifeline, allowing him to remain rational after three relentless, sleepless days. He never bought into the romantic idea that human intellect sprang from the soul. Rational thought, a cool head, and logical reasoning were all products of his brain—tangible strengths of his body. The mental fortitude that kept him composed now was not just an echo of the character he'd once designed; it was his true talent, the very key to overcoming his predicament.

By the fourth day, the strain of endless insomnia and physical exhaustion had darkened Asmon's face. Even the other workers now avoided him. The foreman had deliberately posted him in a dim, out-of-the-way corner of the parts room, ignoring him completely—his body was so close to collapse that he barely disrupted production.

For Asmon, who had been stirring up trouble in his post to draw attention away from himself, this isolation was a golden opportunity. After casually fidgeting with some parts, he quietly rose from his station and slipped toward the corridor. In passing, he briefly met the tired eyes of another worker, who quickly looked away as if he'd seen something forbidden. While the foreman's face burned red as he lashed out with his whip, Asmon darted out of the parts room. 

Stepping into the open, the stifling air gave way to a spacious corridor and a cool breeze that eased his labored breathing. He knew that lingering in one spot would only give his pursuers more time to catch him. Staggering on his weakened legs, Asmon pressed himself against the cold wall and crept forward as quietly as possible.

The corridor was lined with shabby picture frames, broken window sills, a grimy floor, and a rattling ventilation fan in one corner. Nothing about it was remarkable—and perhaps that was what made it so unnervingly familiar. Asmon recalled that the game he had once played was set in a typical medieval fantasy realm. If this place was any different from the WORLD he knew, things would be even more complicated. Without his gaming knowledge to rely on, his last hope would vanish—and that thought unsettled him deeply. Shaking off his worries, Asmon continued down the grimy corridor, carefully memorizing every turn. His memory was far sharper than most; he could not only recall the path with ease but also gauge every distance, constructing a detailed three-dimensional map of the space. 

Even though he hadn't walked far, the simple act of leaving the parts room had completed the factory's layout in his mind. As he pressed on, a sharp, acrid odor suddenly assaulted his nostrils. It wasn't just a foul smell—it was a potent scent that stirred his senses, like the heady aroma of strong cigarettes or another addictive vice. 

Silencing his footsteps, he moved further until he reached a side door partially open, revealing a small exit from the factory. Through the gap, a pungent haze mixed with low, indistinct murmurs. Finding a safe angle that wouldn't immediately expose him if the door swung wide, Asmon listened intently to the voices beyond. 

"Those new guys are way too slow. How do they expect to meet the deadline at this rate?"

"They keep locking up the city rejects—what can you do? Beat them into shape if you have to. If they lag behind, the boss might even brand your forehead with a cigarette flame."

"Damn… I can't stand that. Last time, it hurt so much I actually shed a few tears."

Their coarse swearing was met with raucous laughter. From the tone, it was clear these speakers were supervisors—figures much like the burly giant Asmon had encountered earlier.

"Why are the union members so picky about time? Every time they start a fuss, the head honcho goes off on us even more."

"Haven't you heard? The stuff we make here is collected by the union and sold off to the black wizards."

"What? Why would a bunch of mages need a crusher?"