The current existence of Mark Miller was a masterclass in self-destruction. When he had first awakened in this world roughly 43 days ago—the darkness made time a mere guessing game—he had been intoxicated by a fool's hope. Hearing the System speak of magic, levels, and floors felt like a scene from an anime. He had naively assumed that in a world of mana, being blind and crippled were just minor hurdles that a "god-level" cheat code would eventually erase.
But the reality of the Butterfly Cage was a cold, indifferent machine.
The System did not grant power; it only offered cold strings of information. The grandiose fantasies of using the Library to master high-level sorcery and sweeping through the dungeon floors had withered almost instantly. In his current state, Mark could barely move. Even the Safe Zone, partially modeled after his old apartment, was a minefield. To navigate, he had to lean his entire weight onto his 1.8-meter-long Blind Staff, taking agonizingly slow, rhythmic steps. Any attempt at a confident stride inevitably ended in a bruising collision with the invisible walls.
Beside the Gate leading to the first floor, he had found a Starter Kit: short swords, daggers, a flint, and a shovel. None of these felt as vital as his staff—his third leg and his only feeler in the dark. Yet, he hadn't dared to cross the threshold for weeks. Instead, he retreated into the Library, desperately searching for a miracle cure.
The result was pure despair. Through the Library's data, he learned the bitter truth: his eyes were destroyed beyond repair. He attempted to learn "Mana Sense," hoping Thaddeus von Lightborn's muscle memory would save him. He practiced for agonizing hours, but his progress hit a brick wall. When he demanded an explanation, the System's answer was a cold jab to his already bruised ego:
— [Answer: This body is capable of performing magic. The failure lies within the Host.]
This logic ignited a silent, seething rage. He had cursed Thaddeus, but at least the noble had been a genius. Mark was just a man who had brought his old habit of escapism into a new world. Eventually, he gave up on magic and turned back to fiction. He found web novels in the Library, and soon, reading became his entire world. He stopped trying to heal; he stopped trying to learn. He even discovered adult picture novels, sinking into a hollow cycle of eating, sleeping, and indulgence.
A week later, a self-appraisal revealed a final, crushing humiliation: his sexual functions had completely failed due to constant stress and neglect. He was now weak and infertile—a hollow shell of a man. Even the novels lost their flavor, and the daily rations of porridge began to taste like cold ash. The days flowed by like slow-moving blood. "There's still five years," he would lie to himself. "Plenty of time."
But on Day 51, the thread finally snapped. Mark woke and immediately sprained his already broken left leg. The pain was a white-hot flash that forced a silent, jagged scream from his throat. When he tried to eat, his body violently rejected the bland porridge, and he spent the next few minutes vomiting bile until his throat burned.
The fragile shell of his sanity finally cracked. The horror of spending another day in this "Safe Zone" was now greater than the fear of death itself. Driven by a surge of pure, unbridled rage against the Gods, the System, and the self he loathed, Mark grabbed his 1.8-meter staff, strapped a short sword to his waist, and limped toward the Gate.
He didn't give himself a second to think. He knew if he hesitated, he would sink back into the quagmire of his own cowardice. Without a word, he stepped through the Gate and into the unknown.