The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not the kind of cold you get from forgetting your jacket on a winter day.
No, this was the "oh god, I think my spleen just froze" kind of cold—the kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment.
Which, in my case, was literally every life choice.
Because last I checked, I had been Marcus Martin—23-year-old art school dropout, professional overthinker, and victim of a very enthusiastic delivery truck.
One minute, I was crossing the street, wondering whether ramen counted as a balanced meal. The next—BAM.
Lights out.
No heaven. No hell. No glowing RPG menu asking if I wanted to "Respawn?"
Just… black.
And then—
Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Like someone had taken a cheese grater to my nervous system.
I gasped, my lungs burning as if I'd been drowning. My vision swam, shapes and colors bleeding together until—
Crystal chandeliers. High, vaulted ceilings.
And two women in gray robes staring down at me like I'd just crawled out of a grave.
Which, given the circumstances, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
One of them pressed a cold cloth to my forehead.
"He lives," she whispered. "By the mercy of the gods, he lives."
I tried to speak. What came out was more of a "glurk."
The other nurse—a severe-looking woman with silver hair and the expression of someone who had zero patience for near-death dramatics—leaned in.
"Noah? Young Lord Noah, can you hear me?"
My brain screeched to a halt.
Noah?
Young Lord?
Oh, hell no.
This wasn't just some weird coma dream.
This was isekai bullshit.
And not even the fun kind where you wake up as an overpowered hero with a harem and a talking sword.
No.
I'd been reborn as Noah Drakopoulos—the sickly, doomed third son of a noble family in Thorns of the Black Crown, the web novel I'd been reading before Truck-kun decided to yeet me into the afterlife.
And if memory served (which it usually didn't, given my diet of instant noodles and regret), Noah's story went something like this:
1. Cough blood poetically in Chapter 2.
2. Die tragically in Chapter 5.
3. Be forgotten by literally everyone, including the author.
Fantastic.
Over the next few days, I pieced together the delightful mess that was my new life.
House Drakopoulos? Once-powerful, now a glorified noble punchline.
My "condition"? A mana disorder that made my body reject magic like bad sushi.
My family's opinion of me? Somewhere between "disappointing heir" and "why haven't we sold him to a circus yet?"
The only person who seemed mildly invested in my survival was Nurse Vivianne, who alternated between force-feeding me bitter medicines and giving me looks that said,
"I've seen corpses with better prognoses."
"You have soul sickness," she informed me one morning, shoving a cup of what smelled like liquefied despair into my hands.
"Your Astral Veins are unstable. Frankly, you're lucky you woke up at all."
I took a sip.
"This tastes like regret and broken dreams," I croaked.
"That's the elfroot."
"Of course it is."
I slumped back into my pillows, staring at the ceiling.
This wasn't just bad luck.
This was cosmic trolling.
I'd read enough isekai stories to know the rules:
Reincarnated as the hero? Cool.
Reincarnated as the villain? Edgy, but workable.
Reincarnated as the disposable side character who dies to make the hero look good?
Rude.
But fine.
If the universe wanted to play games, I'd play back.
Noah Drakopoulos was supposed to die in Chapter 5?
Not anymore.
A letter arrived on a day that, in any reasonable story, would've been sunny and hopeful.
Instead, it was overcast.
Because of course it was.
"You're to return to Cyran Academy," Vivianne said, dropping the envelope onto my lap like it was a court summons.
"Immediately."
I blinked.
"You mean the place where I, a famously frail and magically inept noble, will be surrounded by prodigies, future warlords, and at least one guy who definitely stabs people for fun?"
"Yes."
"And I'm just supposed to… go?"
"At dawn."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
"...Is this a test?" I asked. "Like, if I say no, do you reveal this was all a prank and we laugh about it over tea?"
She didn't laugh.
Damn.
I cracked the seal.
The letter inside was short, written in elegant script that basically translated to:
"Get your tragic backside to school or your family loses what's left of its dignity."
"Well," I muttered. "At least they didn't say 'please.' That would've been weird."
That night, I stood on the balcony of my too-large, too-empty room, staring at the stars.
They were brighter here.
Closer.
Like they were watching.
"Alright, universe," I said. "You win. I'm stuck here. But if you think I'm going to roll over and die on schedule—"
A gust of wind cut me off, sending a shiver down my spine.
Or maybe it wasn't the wind.
Maybe it was the faintest whisper of something… else.