Vol 1 Chapter 0 – Prologue

【Munchkin】

A player who, like an unruly child, bellows selfish demands to give his own PC an advantage.

A player who, rather than enjoying the narrative, pursues his character’s strength strictly according to the rules—a rule supremacist. In other words, a munchkin.

It was only when my ego began to sprout that I started to wonder if having to first question my own sanity was, in itself, a profound curse.

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My name is Erich. I have no family name.

That is because I was born as the fourth son in a manor on the outskirts of the Triple Rhine Empire. As a mere independent farmer, I was not permitted to use a family name; even if I tried, I had no choice but to call myself Erich of Königsstuhl Manor. Elsewhere, I was known simply as the youngest son of my father, Johannes.

In the spring of my fifth year—when my mother, overwhelmed by caring for my newborn little sister, ended up neglecting me—my emerging ego began to churn out such thoughts.

And all of this can be attributed, if you will, to what might be called my previous life—or rather, to the fact that I seem to possess an ego detached from my own experiences.

Normally, a five-year-old is, for better or worse, an innocent and foolish creature. It is only natural for them to run about with a runny nose, to toy with small animals or insects, and to dash around covered in mud. In a rural farming village—so inconvenient, one might say—even more so.

And yet, as soon as I became self-aware, I found myself oddly endowed with a jaded, almost enlightened way of thinking. Along with that came an experience which, although it should have been unrelated to me, could only be interpreted as pertaining to myself.

That experience revealed that I have another memory—a memory of a man in his early thirties named Saku Fukemachi, who perished from early-onset cancer.

In truth, the self and the experiences that might properly be called my previous life were no different from those of any ordinary man in his thirties. He was born into a normal family and, despite having been blessed with a measure of happiness, ended his solitary life all too quickly due to hereditary cancer.

He worked at a trading company, rose to a managerial position, and I imagine he led a life without regrets—enjoying his hobbies to the fullest. The only lingering regret was that, being a bachelor, his parents never got to hold a grandchild; though, thankfully, his elder sister took care of that, so it wasn’t such a big issue.

The problem is: why am I here, in a land so utterly unfamiliar, fully aware of my status as a five-year-old?

I had one theory. Having quickly given up on treatment for my rapidly progressing early-onset cancer, I often immersed myself in meditation during my terminal care. Deep spiritual discipline—sitting in the lotus position—helped ease the terror of my creaking body.

In the midst of that meditation, I encountered God.

To put it simply, even I can only chalk it up to some sort of extreme delusion, yet that is truly all I can say. After all, the one I met—seated upon a lotus—introduced himself as the bodhisattva of the future Buddha.

He declared that among the three thousand worlds under his care, there are many in which humanity is destined to crumble. He explained that a god, entrusted with managing those worlds, had pleaded for help—not by intervening directly but by casting into them souls capable of eventually resolving, or at least staving off, the impending collapse.

I thought, if he were a god, he could simply sort it out with his divine power—but apparently, circumstances make that impossible.

He said that if the gods were to intervene too directly, humans would often cease their own efforts, ultimately leading to decline. Therefore, essentially, the gods correct the course of events by offering indirect assistance so that the people within the world can set things right on their own.

According to him, even the prophets from various mythologies—the very ones who laid the foundation for our ethics—received offers similar to mine and became, as it were, enlightened beings or children of the gods.

It was an utterly grandiose and far-reaching tale—a tale nearly impossible for someone like me, a petty commoner who considers buying expensive, hefty rulebooks and thin supplemental volumes the height of luxury, to fully comprehend.

Yet, it seems that his decision was final, for here I stand: the fourth son of a farming family, Erich of Königsstuhl Manor.

However, after all that preaching, he stopped short of assigning me any particular role.

He bestowed upon me no teaching or prophecy—only an oracle that sounded remarkably familiar: “Do as you please.”

An evil god, perhaps?

Jokes aside, it is likely that in the realm of the gods there exists a profoundly intricate and complex plan—at a strategic level far beyond my comprehension. Surely, whatever whims I indulge in will somehow play conveniently into that divine being’s plans.

Yes, for better or worse.

Perhaps the very fact of my being here has meaning. Then, as long as I am alive, I have no choice but to live.

Now, there was one piece of evidence enough to make me believe in the existence of gods.

At the close of our encounter, that divine being said he would bestow upon me a blessing.

He said it was the authority to act entirely according to my own will.

I had no idea what he meant at the time, but now—now that my consciousness is fully formed in this world—I understand.

In other words, it means that I can develop my abilities as I see fit.

When I focus, what unfolds before me is a blueprint—a bird’s-eye view of myself as a human being. It shows what I can do, what my strengths are, and what I can eventually accomplish. Every detail is laid bare, and I can tweak it just as I wish.

Aren’t these intricately intertwined, mutually influencing, and infinitely extending elements exactly like the game I loved in my previous life?

The ultimate game—where I build myself as I please and traverse the world—was unfolding right before my eyes.

I was immediately captivated by this simple yet flavorful system. A basic, three-dimensional cylinder representing the body, along with numerous other cylinders intricately arranged around it, forms the very components that make up a character—be it their occupation, special skills, or traits.

At that moment, I thought:

This is a TRPG.

The interface might be that of a consumer game, but isn’t the underlying structure exactly like the pastime I once knew—gathering expensive, hefty rulebooks? It’s just like a pen-and-paper role-playing game character sheet, where one sculpts a character’s life on a single sheet of paper and, with friends, creates a story as if it were a play.

Ah, how wonderful it is. For before my eyes stretches an expanse of infinite possibility.

Normally, every living creature gains proficiency exactly in line with the tasks they perform. If you pull weeds or attend to everyday chores, your proficiency in those tasks increases; if you swing a sword, your swordsmanship proficiency accumulates.

That’s entirely natural—no matter how many weeds you pull, you won’t suddenly master the subtleties of the sword.

But this blessing is different.

All proficiency can be stockpiled and then allocated wherever I wish. It’s as if a TRPG adventurer, after a spree of hack & slash and burglary, ends up acquiring the skills of a scholar.

In other words, I realized that if I so desired, by continuously pulling weeds, I could even attain the status of a Sword Saint.

Isn’t that truly delightful? This system is remarkably similar to a TRPG. Just as one gains experience points from adventures, one can also learn skills entirely unrelated to the adventures undertaken—it’s exactly the world I loved.

With something this advantageous granted to me, it’s no wonder that my enlightened ego began to question its own sanity.

And yet, here I am, and indeed, the authority works just as I had envisioned.

The simple divine statuette clutched in my hand stands as undeniable proof.

I won’t say much about my previous life, but I was clumsy. My plastic models were barely assembled, and yet I repeatedly ended up fitting the wrong parts or breaking them—resulting in a truly dismal state.

But look at this: by allocating my stockpiled proficiency into dexterity, I was able to learn a novice-level woodcarving skill—and with nothing more than a single knife and a piece of wood, I could craft something like this.

Ah, I am Erich of Königsstuhl Manor. I am a man who can do as he pleases…

【Tips】Proficiency is a common element for base stats, traits, and skills.