A man wakes up in a small, dimly lit room, the only light coming from a flickering candle. He glances around, taking in the emptiness of the space. There is only a wardrobe in one corner and a dusty mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.

He tries to sit up, but an excruciating pain shoots through his tailbone, forcing him to stay still.

"What the hell is happening to me? Where am I? Who am I?" He mutters, then clicks his tongue. "Tsk, I'm being too dramatic."

With a deep sigh, he scans the room again.

"Haa... it's so stuffy here. Am I in prison?"

Attempting to stand, he notices a stick leaning against the cupboard in the corner of the room. With some effort, he grabs the stick and uses it to push himself upright.

"Thank goodness for this stick... But seriously, what is this? Isn't this supposed to be the modern era? Why am I here?"

He pauses, furrowing his brow.

"I'm talking too much. I should focus on getting out of here."

As he takes his first shaky steps, a sudden, searing pain explodes in his head. The intensity of it makes him collapse, groaning in agony.

"Ugh... damn, this hurts so much. It feels like my head is about to explode."

Out of nowhere, fragmented memories begin to flash through his mind, vivid yet fleeting, like annoying ads popping up repeatedly.

"What the hell is this...? Eryndor Vornhart? That's... me?"

He sat in silence, trying to process everything that was happening.

"What kind of life is this? I'm not Vornhart. I'm Kai. A piece of trash who should've graduated with a degree."

He clenched his fists and muttered bitterly. "Damn it... all my money went into college, and now I end up here."

Using his cane, he paced around the small room, its tip tapping the floor with each step. As he moved, his gaze fell on the mirror hanging on the wall.

Stopping in front of it, he studied his reflection.

His emerald-green eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, contrasting with his jet-black hair.

"Wait... Eryndor Vornhart... he's trash, just like me. But, well, he's a bit more handsome and rich."

A bitter chuckle escaped him as fragmented memories resurfaced. "Why do I only remember the name?"

He paused, a thought forming in his mind.

"But why is he here?"

Lost in contemplation, he accidentally kicked something. Looking down, he saw a book lying on the ground. Bending down, he picked it up.Flipping through the pages, recognition struck him.

"Ah yes, this is the final ending of that novel... but wait. Does that mean I've entered the story?"

Panic surged through him as realization dawned.

"I don't want to die! I haven't even bought my dream mansion yet. I have to get out of here."

Without hesitation, he opened the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

"In the novel, Vornhart hid money here..."

Inside, he found a cloth-wrapped bag. Unwrapping it, his eyes widened at the sight of gleaming gold coins.

"Haha, this must be heaven's blessing!"

He stuffed the novel into the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and limped toward the door. He noticed a key wedged in the crack of the wall and used it to unlock the door.

Peeking out, he froze. Guards were stationed everywhere.

"Ah, crap. I forgot I'm in a dungeon."

A question suddenly popped into his mind.

"How did Eryndor manage to hide this much money without anyone noticing?"

He smirked as an idea struck. Picking up a coin, he tossed it sideways with a spinning motion, causing it to roll noisily across the floor.

The guards, startled, turned toward the sound. His heart raced as he slipped ducking into another room.

"Damn, that was close."

From his hiding spot, he watched as the guards began checking each room one by one. His breathing grew heavier, and his heart pounded in his chest.

"I have to survive. No matter what. Even if I'm trash, even if this world burns to ashes, I will live."

His gaze fell on the novel in his hands, and he flipped it open. To his surprise, new text appeared on the previously blank pages.

"Eryndor bets his fate with the gods."

"What the hell is this? Is this novel rewriting itself as I move?"

Before he could ponder further, the sound of footsteps approached his hiding spot. He panick.

"Damn it, I forgot I'm still here! Why are their steps so slow, like some Bollywood drama scene?"

He quickly stuffed the book into his bag. Looking around the room, he began studying the prison's layout—the ventilation shafts, sewers, and potential escape routes.

Finding a wooden match under the bed, he lit it and set the wardrobe on fire. As flames roared, he climbed into the ventilation shaft. Tossing his cane out as a distraction, he watched the guards scramble to extinguish the fire.

Crawling through the shaft with the bag, he realized it was too bulky. In a panic, he grabbed only the novel and left the rest behind. Sliding out of the vents, he fell into the sewer below.

Climbing out of the drain, he found himself in the heart of a late medieval city. The stares of disgust from the passersby reminded him of his shabby, reeking clothes.

"Spare some change, sir... spare some dignity, madam..."

Rising to his feet, he wandered aimlessly until a thought struck him.

"Wait. Ivan. He hid money in an abandoned bar on the outskirts of town."

Finding the bar, he used a fork and nails to pry open a chest, revealing a bag of gold coins.

"Sorry, Ivan. But I need this to save the world—or at least survive."

He looked to the sky and muttered sarcastically, "Why did the Greeks even invent money?"

Shaking his head, he slung the bag over his shoulder and left. But trouble found him soon enough. A group of thugs gave chase, and he ran, limping as he clutched the bag.

"I take it back! I want to live!"