WTH…
How did I end up in this author-forsaken body?
One moment, I was heading home for a well-earned bath. The next—bam—truck meets body, and now here I am, stuck in a world I only ever read about.
Let's start from the top.
I'm Krish, 19 years old. Orphan. My life was simple: wake up, work a part-time job till sunset, and cram for entrance exams till dawn. My only escape? Novels—especially those overpowered-regressed-MC-type fantasy ones.
Ironically, that's exactly what dragged me here.
Yes, just like in those cliché stories, I got isekai'd.
But not into a fantasy paradise, or as some overpowered chosen one.
Nope. I landed in the worst possible scenario.
Welcome to Nobel Ascension, a novel I was halfway through. Sounds noble, right?
It's anything but for me.
The protagonist had just regressed—meaning he's on his second run through life, armed with memories and a mission to seize every opportunity before anyone else can.
And me? I didn't get dropped into a side character. That would've been merciful.
I've been shoved into the body of Brandy—yes, the author really named him that.
He's not even a real character. He's the "friendly neighborhood bully"—basically, a tutorial-level punching bag designed solely to mark the MC's rise. He doesn't even make it to the academy, where the real story begins.
Ha! Fate's a comedian.
Anyway, Brandy's around 15. Physically, he's got a solid build—muscular, athletic, the kind who spends more time swinging wooden swords than reading. Black hair, red eyes, and an annoyingly above-average face. Son of a baron, just like the MC.
And yeah, I've got his memories too. No pain, no weird merging—just there. Like they've always been mine.
And thank the gods—there's no system.
No status screens. No forced missions. No shady voice whispering "Kill ten goblins to unlock plot armor." I've read enough to know systems always come with fine print: mind control, hidden penalties, or worst of all—fattening me up as a sacrifice for some eldritch god.
Still... if I remember correctly, the MC has just regressed. That means the prologue's wrapping up, and Act One is about to kick off.
Knock knock.
"Young Master!" a voice called from behind the door.
Great. Here we go.
"Enter," I said, masking my irritation with practiced calm.
The door opened, and in walked a maid—brown hair, green eyes, and a figure drawn by a very generous artist. One of Brandy's personal attendants.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The family head has summoned you to his office."
Of course he has.
"Tell him I'm coming," I said with a wave, dismissing her.
As the door closed behind her, I leaned back with a sigh.
The game has begun.