Seven opened his eyes.
'Finally, I'm awake.'
He knew he wasn't dead. If he were, there's no way he would have dreamt of seeing all his seven stepfathers dance in a maid outfit.
Pft.
A laugh escaped his lips, but he stopped when he saw a system window hovering in front of his eyes.
Ding!
[Name: Seven Hart (Yoon Seojin)]
[Main Talent: Highly Unpredictable]
[Characteristics: Seventh Reader]
[Gift: Protagonist's System]
Seven rubbed his eyes and read the text again to be sure. But the words didn't vanish, nor did they change; the system window remained still.
[Protagonist Progression: 1.7%/100%]
"This... is real."
He didn't have time to dwell on it back then; all he wanted was to survive his fated death.
But now, staring at the system window, he couldn't believe it.
Possession.
He had read about it so many times in webtoons—the unlucky reader, or sometimes the author, waking up in the body of someone doomed to die in a fictional world.
It was a trope, something that felt almost too ridiculous to be true. Yet here he was.
Step.
Seven took a step toward the mirror.
Though he already saw his reflection on the fountain's reflection, a mirror felt different.
It made everything more real.
He leaned in closer. His blackish-brown hair was slightly messy but in a way that looked purposeful, like he just got out of bed but still looked put together.
His dusty-blue eyes had a cold, distant gleam to them.
"I… I really am handsome, aren't I?"
A half-smile tugged at his lips.
It was strange, standing in someone else's skin, but at least this body had its perks.
Sharp features.
Flawless skin.
Natural elegance.
"I'm really not Yoon Seojin anymore."
He leaned closer until his breath fogged up the mirror, and scrutinized the face that no longer felt like his—or was it the other way around?
"That Seven Hart… is me."
He glanced down at his body, taking in the tightly wrapped bandages around his torso. Even beneath the layers, he could feel how thin he was.
Instinctively, his hands moved to his abdomen, then to his long, lean arms, which lacked any sign of real muscle.
"Skinny."
For someone who had always struggled with a bit of belly fat in his old life, the stark difference was surprising.
"This body's in better shape than mine ever was… but it feels so... fragile."
Seven glanced around the room, taking in its clean and orderly appearance. His eyes landed on a peeled apple resting on the desk.
Without hesitation, he reached for it and took a bite.
Munch.
His gaze drifted back to the glowing system window. It seemed to mock him, daring him to act, to prove himself worthy of this so-called "gift."
"Protagonist's System…"
A dry, humorless laugh escaped his lips.
"What are you going to do? Guide me to be the hero who saves the world? Then make me choose—sacrifice myself or my loved ones? Classic."
Seven shook his head, and the faint smirk on his face faded as he recalled the final chapter of the novel.
"Fudge. I wish I saw the protagonist's decision."
The sarcasm didn't bring much comfort either.
Possession, as he knew from countless stories, didn't come with an instruction manual.
The new owner of the body was always left to piece things together: fragmented memories, cryptic systems, and whatever overpowered "gift" they had been handed.
His gaze settled on the Protagonist's Progression bar again. After all the pain, the near-death situation, and even claiming the seventh artifact, he only achieved...
"1.7%? That's barely anything."
Letting out a slow breath, he stepped back from the mirror.
The reflection of Seven Hart stared back at him, as though the face itself dared him to rise to the challenge.
Seven ran a hand through his dark hair.
"Listen, Seven Hart. I don't know how you lived your life before, but if I'm stuck in your shoes, I'm doing this my way."
Tilting his head slightly, he smiled.
"If the system wants a new protagonist…"
The smile he had widened.
"Then I'll be the protagonist."
As if responding to his 'I don't know how you lived before' words, the system flooded memories into his mind.
Seven stumbled, gripping his temples as images, sensations, and emotions that weren't his own poured into him.
A grand ballroom, glittering with golden chandeliers and the laughter of nobility.
Seven, still a kid, stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands trembling as he held a goblet of untouched water.
Several noblemen glanced his way.
The scene shifted into the second memory.
A glimpse of a younger boy, hands clenched into fists as his older siblings walked past without sparing him a glance.
Then came the third memory.
A duel in the courtyard. Seven staggered to his feet, bruised and battered, as a smirking opponent the same age as him lowered his weapon.
The fourth memory.
Seven sat in a library piled high with books.
"If I mix these two herbs, maybe I can make it… or maybe it'll blow up. Either way, it'll be fun."
Moments later, a loud bang echoed, and smoke poured out of the room.
Fifth.
Seven laughed loudly, standing atop the dining table during breakfast, juggling bread rolls while reciting poetry in a sing-song voice.
Then came the sixth.
Darkness.
Seven alone in a sprawling garden under the moonlight, speaking to the stars as if they were old friends.
"They don't understand, do they? No one does. But it's fine. Who needs them when the stars listen?"
Lastly, the seventh.
The final scene.
Seven lying in bed and stared at the ceiling with a blank expression.
"Am I the problem? Or is the world just broken?"
His hands clutched the sheets.
"I wish someone would… take my place."
Then, he laughed. A hollow, haunting sound that echoed in the silence of his lonely room.
This boy—this original Seven—was a whirlwind of contradictions.
Miserable.
Jolly.
Erratic.
Defiant
And fragile all at once.
He didn't fit into any mold, and yet he had been crushed by the expectations and cruelty of his world.
Seven—the new seven—stumbled back into reality, gasping. The memories felt too real.
"Was this your life?"
Seven clutched the edge of the desk for balance. His voice was tinged with something between disbelief and pity.
He wasn't sure whether to scoff or feel sorry for the boy whose life he now took over.
"Well, no wonder the system picked me."
One thing was certain: this original version of Seven Hart wasn't anyone's idea of a protagonist.
"Because this… this is one pathetic backstory."