A man with dark hair and hollow eyes stirred awake. His body felt weightless, yet his mind was burdened with an exhaustion that ran deeper than flesh.

"Huh… Where am I? Who… am I?"

His voice was hoarse, foreign even to himself. He slowly stood, his gaze sweeping the unfamiliar surroundings. Darkness enveloped the space, yet a faint light illuminated a spiraling staircase before him. It wound upwards, endlessly twisting into the void, leading to a lone white door at the very top. The air around it pulsed with an eerie, inviting presence. It called to him, beckoned him.

He took a breath, brushing the dust off his clothes—only to pause. A suit. A neatly pressed black suit, like that of a salaryman.

"…What?" he muttered, his fingers trembling over the fabric. "What is this place? How did I get here?"

A deep sigh escaped his lips. He had no answers, but the door was waiting. With hesitant steps, he placed his foot on the first stair.

A sudden warmth spread through him, seeping into his bones. It wasn't painful, yet it startled him. His foot recoiled, and he stumbled back onto the ground.

"What was that?!"

He sat there, breathing heavily. But there was something… familiar about that warmth. It tugged at the edges of his mind, stirring memories that had been locked away. And then—

He remembered.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, hollow and broken. "I see now… I understand."

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I'm dead."

The realization settled over him like an iron shroud. His name was Akira Kimura, a 30-year-old man from Tokyo. And he had died—tragically, pathetically—due to overwork.

Just like that.

All those years of toil, the endless late nights, the deadlines that never ceased. And for what? A company that would replace him in an instant. A life that amounted to nothing more than exhaustion.

He took a shaky step forward, climbing the stairs with a weary determination.

"Who would've thought," he murmured, voice laced with bitter amusement, "that I, Akira Kimura, would end up like this?"

The higher he climbed, the heavier his heart became. Each step illuminated the memories of his past life, and with them, a deep-seated question clawed its way to the surface:

Why am I doing this?

What was the point? What awaited him beyond that door—another cycle of suffering? Another life where he would break himself for the world's expectations?

His steps slowed. His breath hitched.

No… He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to start over. He was tired. So, so tired.

I don't want to live again.

And yet, before he could stop, a powerful gust of wind surged through the space, whipping around him like a phantom's embrace.

He wasn't alone.

A presence loomed before him. He couldn't see its face, nor its form, but he could hear a voice—a woman's voice, soothing yet laced with something… unnatural.

"Hello, Chosen One."

Akira stiffened. "Chosen… one?"

"Yes, you."

A low chuckle echoed through the void, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Your soul called out to me," she continued. "You're tired, aren't you? You don't wish to continue the cycle of a normal life. So… what if I offered you something else? A new existence. Adventure. Fun."

"…Fun?"

Once, that word might have stirred something in him. But now, it felt hollow. Meaningless.

He narrowed his eyes. He had read enough manga in his past life to know that beings like this—goddesses, angels—were never truly benevolent.

"You will see," she whispered. "I have prepared a body for you, one that will grant you a fresh start. You will awaken with a new identity, and one of my faithful believers will raise you."

Before he could protest, a force slammed into him.

The ground beneath his feet vanished.

He was falling.

The wind howled in his ears as he plummeted into an abyss of darkness. Above, the woman's voice rang out, soft yet deafening.

"Save the world from evil, Savior."

Akira's eyes widened.

"No… I don't want this. I don't—"

The darkness swallowed him whole.

All he had ever wanted was to rest.

But even in death, he was denied his freedom.

BAM!

The impact of the fall sent violent tremors through Akira's body, jolting him awake as if he had just been ripped from a nightmare he couldn't quite recall. Pain surged through him like an electric shock, forcing a ragged gasp from his lips. His chest heaved, his skin slick with cold sweat. Every inch of him ached—but not in a way that felt normal.

Something was wrong.

His body felt off, like a puzzle hastily put together with the wrong pieces.

As the shock faded, his vision adjusted to the dim, golden light streaming through towering stained-glass windows. He found himself in an unfamiliar room—massive, ancient, suffocatingly grand.

It looked like something pulled straight from a medieval castle. The walls were adorned with intricate but faded tapestries, their woven images depicting gods, wars, and forgotten legends. The furniture, though clearly expensive, was coated in dust, as if the room had been abandoned for years. Yet, there was something odd—it wasn't decayed. It was maintained.

Like someone had been tending to a tomb.

Sunlight filtered through the dusty air, casting fractured beams of color across the oversized bed he lay upon, its deep crimson canopy draped like a funeral shroud.

A sense of dread coiled around him.

Where… am I?

"What the hell…?" Akira rasped, his voice hoarse. His fingers clutched at his pounding skull, trying to steady himself against the growing wave of unease.

Then, he noticed.

His hands—they weren't his.

They were too small. Too thin. The veins beneath his pale skin stood out like delicate blue threads. He flexed his fingers, watching how they trembled under their own weakness.

A sickening realization twisted in his gut.

"What… is this?" His breath hitched as he brought his hand to his face.

His voice—it was different. Why was he speaking English?

Before panic could completely overtake him, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Young Master, are you alright?"

Akira's head snapped toward the doorway.

A young woman stood there, dressed in a maid's uniform, her wide green eyes filled with concern. The fabric of her clothes was slightly worn but clean, and she held herself with the careful precision of someone used to serving nobility.

(She's speaking English too… No, this isn't right. This doesn't feel like earth.)

A slow, creeping terror slithered into his chest. He tried to think, tried to remember—but the last thing he could recall was that wretched goddess. The one who shoved him into the abyss.

"…I need a mirror," he said, forcing himself to sound composed. "Bring me a mirror."

The maid flinched at his urgency but obeyed, disappearing for a moment before returning with an ornate, gold-framed hand mirror.

Akira snatched it from her hands.

And what he saw nearly made him drop it.

The reflection staring back wasn't his.

A frail, haunted-looking boy—no older than ten or eleven—pale skin, messy black hair, and red eyes so unnervingly vivid that they looked almost inhuman. His small frame, his thin arms—he looked like someone who had been sick for far too long.

Akira's chest tightened.

Then, suddenly—

Agonizing pain tore through his skull.

A violent flood of memories crashed into him like a tidal wave, dragging him into a life that wasn't his own.

The boy's name was Theodore Vermin Dominick.

The firstborn son of King Henry III, ruler of the Kiran Continent. The only child of Queen Urian, now long dead.

A prince.

But not one who lived in luxury.

A boy cursed. Isolated. Left to rot.

After the death of his mother, Theodore had been cast aside—discarded in this forgotten estate, his existence erased by his stepmother, Queen Bianca, and her father, the ruthless Marquis Donovan.

And worst of all—Theodore had been cursed.

He couldn't use magic. Couldn't wield aura. Someone had cursed him from birth, rendering him powerless in a world ruled by magic.

And because of it—he died.

Sickness had consumed his frail body, and alone, abandoned, he succumbed to death.

Now, Akira was here.

His own breath sounded distant.

"You've got to be kidding me," he whispered.

The mirror slipped from his weak grasp, nearly shattering against the floor.

This wasn't a second chance.

He had been thrown into a corpse.

"Young Master, please calm down!" The maid's voice cut through the haze of horror. "Shall I call the physician?"

Akira's mind raced. He needed to think. He needed answers. But more than that—he needed to do something.

"No," he said quickly. "Take me to the library."

The maid hesitated, her confusion evident. How could someone who had just returned from the dead suddenly want to read?

But she nodded.

"Very well, Young Master."

The walk was slow. Every step was a battle against the frailty of this body. The cane in his grip was both a support and a bitter reminder of his weakness.

The corridors were wide, grand… but lifeless.

Faded paintings of his ancestors lined the walls, their faces dull and long-forgotten. The peeling wallpaper hinted at what this place once was—not a home, but a prison.

Dust blanketed every surface, the air thick with the smell of neglect.

This wasn't a palace.

It was a grave.

When they finally arrived, the sight of the library took his breath away.

The library was vast.

Towering shelves stretched endlessly into the shadows, filled with books long untouched. Some were neatly arranged, others stacked in chaotic heaps.

But neglect stained everything.

Dust coated the furniture, cobwebs hung in the corners, and the scent of mildew clung to the air like decay.

It was perfect.

A place for a forgotten prince.

"You can go now," Akira murmured. "I appreciate you showing me the way."

The maid hesitated. "But this place is quite dusty… wouldn't you rather read in your chambers?"

Chambers? That suffocating prison?

"No," he said. "You don't have to worry."

The maid sighed but nodded. "As you wish, Your Highness."

As soon as she left, Akira turned to the shelves.

His fingers skimmed the cracked leather spines, trailing over the forgotten knowledge of this world.

Then—a sound.

A rustling.

His hand stilled.

The silence around him grew heavier, suffocating. The library, already lifeless, felt wrong.

"…Hello?"

His voice barely rose above a whisper.

No answer.

Then—movement.

A book—floating.

Not gently. Not like an enchanted artifact waiting to be read.

It shuddered.

Its chains rattled, as if something had been trying to keep it contained.

The cover—stitched together with something that looked too much like flesh.

A chill crawled down his spine.

The book trembled—then shot toward him like a predator.

Akira barely had time to react before it slammed into his chest.

Then, the whispering began.

A voice. No—thousands of voices.

Dark mist poured from the book, wrapping around him, burrowing inside him.

His vision blurred.

A thousand thoughts, memories, spells, curses—all forced into his mind.

He tried to resist. Failed.

His knees buckled.

And as the darkness swallowed him whole, one last thought surfaced.

This world doesn't want me to survive.