Drug-Eating Genius Mage (Fanfic)

For the next two days, Asmon's routine stayed painfully constant. By day, he slipped past the supervisors' watchful eyes to explore the factory and study its layout; by night, he devoted himself to practicing magic. It soon became clear that the magical talent he'd set during character creation was real. In just three days of handling magical energy and testing spells, Asmon had transformed from a gloomy backroom laborer into a bona fide magic user. He even managed to cast a few simple spells besides the one that produced light.

At the same time, while wandering the factory and memorizing its every twist and turn, Asmon identified several potential exit routes from the decrepit building. He occasionally bumped into supervisors, but whenever they saw his pale, fragile face—looking as if he might collapse at any moment—they assumed he was simply on an errand for another worker and paid him no mind. 

Of course, Asmon's body, worn out from non-stop labor, was on the brink of collapse. In this harsh environment, expecting any leniency was a luxury he couldn't afford. He considered himself lucky to have sneaked off unnoticed during the day; the supervisors were so busy in their own zones that they rarely noticed him. Had even one caught him, he'd likely have been beaten so badly he might never wake up again.

Then, finally, the day arrived when the union members were scheduled to visit the factory. After a sleepless night with his eyes wide open, Asmon slowly gathered his magical energy just in time for the other workers to rise. Though he'd never felt this way before, the small reserve of magic within him now obeyed his will without effort. Concentrating that energy around his forehead, he cast a simple charm—a spell to raise his skin's temperature. It was so basic it needed no elaborate incantation or familiar; its only purpose was to keep his body warm. In his current state, it proved extremely effective. 

Before long, the results were obvious. Asmon's skin, now flushed a deep red from the heat, began to sweat heavily. The workers, who had already risen and were waiting for their shift to start, started whispering as they noticed his condition.

"Hey, check him out…" one muttered.

"Looks like his time is almost up."

"But for a weakling like him, lasting this long is something."

"Must be his fate."

Even as they murmured, none of them dared step closer. Intentionally, Asmon groaned in pain, making his suffering unmistakable. "Come on, if you're awake, why aren't you getting out of bed already?!" bellowed a supervisor.

Bang!

The door was flung open by a supervisor's forceful kick. Seeing all eyes fixed on the bedraggled Asmon, the man scowled and approached. After inspecting Asmon's condition and noting his nearly boiling forehead, he shook his head. "Phew… I'm giving you three minutes. Now, get over to the parts room immediately!"

Even though the supervisor knew Asmon hadn't really opened his eyes, he left without further fuss—deciding that Asmon was no longer fit for labor. Besides, today was the day the union members would collect the products, and any extra commotion would only invite trouble. 

As the workers donned their uniforms, they kept discreet glances on Asmon. 

"What are we going to do with him?" one whispered.

"Judging by how frail he looks, he'll probably be dead by the time he comes back. Might be easier to just dispose of him later."

"Ugh… that's a bit unsettling."

"But it's tidier that way. If we bury him while he's still alive, he might thrash about and then we'd have to rebury him."

They chatted as if Asmon were already a lifeless corpse. In this rundown factory, hardly anyone was valued enough to be mourned.

Then, one worker stepped purposefully toward Asmon. Caught off guard in bed, Asmon mustered every bit of strength he had. "Ben, what are you doing?" he croaked.

"There's no time—let's just take care of him later!" Ben snapped back. When the others tried to scold him, Ben waved them off with an annoyed expression. "Quiet down. Let him at least have a cigarette before he kick the bucket." He pulled a neatly rolled cigarette from his pocket.

"If you were hiding that, you should've told us," another teased. "Yeah, you idiot. I've been dying for a smoke."

Ben grumbled, "I snagged a few while cleaning the supervisor's bunk. I'm not sharing with you lot." Ben retrieved a match from under his bunk, lit his cigarette, and passed it straight to Asmon. 

When Asmon unexpectedly took a deep drag and his eyes widened, Ben chuckled. "Isn't that awesome?" he said. Silence followed for a moment. "It's made by mixing hallucinogenic plant leaves with cheap drugs. One puff, and all your pain will vanish." Ben patted Asmon on the shoulder and then disappeared with the other workers. A breeze drifted in through a slightly open window, causing the stained curtain to flutter softly.

In the now-empty room, Asmon slowly hauled himself upright using the doorframe. Normally, he'd have jumped up and rushed out, but today he just sat on his bed in silence, savoring his cigarette. 

That very cigarette—swiped from Ben—had unexpectedly thrown his plans into chaos. The sharp, pungent smoke filled his lungs and, unbelievably, reinvigorated his body. 

Despite all its harmful chemicals, the cigarette made him forget the crushing fatigue and dull pain. For the first time since arriving in this harsh world, Asmon felt a burst of energy—as if his strength had returned to the carefree days he spent gaming. Abruptly, he stood up and swung his arms a few times, convinced that whether the cigarette was laced with drugs or made from a strange plant didn't matter. Whatever side effects it might bring, he desperately needed this boost. "Was it from the foreman's bunk?" he mumbled as he changed back into his work clothes and hurriedly left the dormitory.

After roaming the factory to get a rough idea of its layout—including where the supervisors lived—Asmon now moved quickly, head bowed, while he noted the countless trucks bustling outside the windows. His steps were noticeably lighter and quicker than before. As he passed through the corridors, he encountered several supervisors. But when they saw his pale, fragile face, clearly on the verge of collapse, they dismissed him without a second glance. 

Normally, they might have found petty reasons to harass a laborer, but on a busy day like this, they simply had no time. The supervisors were already swamped with inspecting products and dealing with union members who had come to collect them. In fact, workers in bright blue vests prowled the factory, pressuring the supervisors at every turn. "Product counts aren't matching up. Did I overestimate?" one supervisor grumbled.

"No, sir," another quickly replied.

"Who do you think is making it easy for you to run this place?" he snapped.

"Sorry, sir!" came the hurried response.

"Listen, these workers could easily be hauled in by the Human Rights Commission, but we're cutting them some slack because of our situation. So you'd better pull your weight too."