The words burned themselves into my eyes, cruel and merciless.
YOU DIED.
Red letters blazed across the black screen, mocking me with their finality.
"Goddammit!" I cursed, slamming my controller against the desk so hard it rattled the cheap wood. The vibration made the soda can beside me topple over, spilling a dark puddle across a half-finished pile of instant noodle wrappers. None of it mattered. My chest burned with the sharp sting of defeat.
My trembling hands clenched into fists. "Why the hell is this boss so overpowered?! What is this—Dark Souls on steroids?"
The answer, of course, was that this was The Strongest Hunter's Legacy.
A game I had sunk more than a hundred hours into, sacrificing sleep, meals, and sanity. A brutal RPG where humanity had awakened to mana—mysterious energy that could turn weaklings into gods—and where demons lurked at the edges of existence, waiting to rip the world apart.
I had grinded endlessly. I had studied builds, tested skill trees, optimized equipment. And still, I failed. Again.
Leaning back, I rubbed my temples, muttering, "I swear, if I lose one more time, I'll uninstall…"
But before I could finish the thought, something strange happened.
The room blurred.
At first, I thought it was just my tired eyes. Maybe I had pushed myself too far again. Maybe I needed sleep. But then the walls began to ripple like water, the ceiling stretching and bending in impossible ways. The hum of my computer faded, swallowed by silence.
Then—blackness.
Not the kind of black you see when you close your eyes. This was different. Deeper. Endless. A void that pressed down on me from every direction, suffocating and infinite.
I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
And then—light.
Warm. Golden. Almost gentle.
I gasped, my lungs dragging in air that felt heavier than what I was used to. My eyes snapped open, and the scent of polished wood and aged parchment filled my nose.
Above me stretched a ceiling I didn't recognize, carved with intricate floral patterns and painted with colors that time had dulled but not erased. The faint ticking of a clock echoed through the stillness of the room.
I sat up sharply, my heart pounding.
Gone was my cramped, messy apartment. In its place stood a spacious, vintage-style bedroom straight out of a nobleman's mansion. Heavy velvet curtains shielded tall windows. A chandelier glittered dimly overhead, throwing faint reflections on polished oak furniture. Shelves stuffed with old tomes lined one wall, while a desk sat in the corner, neat and orderly except for a stray quill and some parchment.
"What the…?" My voice sounded small against the stillness.
Was I… dreaming?
I swung my legs off the bed and planted my feet on the wooden floor. The texture felt real, solid, grounding me. Too real to be an illusion.
My eyes swept the room.
A closet. A bookshelf. The desk. And then—something that made me freeze.
A mirror.
It hung directly opposite the bed, tall and ornate, framed in gold leaf. I approached slowly, dread curling in my gut.
When I finally looked into it, my breath caught.
The face staring back at him was unfamiliar—frail, malnourished, and much younger. But the sharp, elegant features stood out, despite the lack of nourishment.
He had silvery-white hair different from his usual black hair.
His eyes were now sky blue color, rather than usual black color.
But most important of all he felt small, gone was 20 year old self and was replaced by a 14 Year old boy staring at him from the mirror with a dumbfounded gaze.
"That's… not me." My voice cracked.
The reflection tilted its head in sync with mine. Raised a hand. Blinked. The realization hit me like a hammer.
"This is me?"
I stumbled back, heart racing. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. That face was impossible to mistake. I had seen it dozens of times before, not in real life, but on my computer screen.
Desperate, I turned toward the desk. Something glinted faintly on its surface.
A card.
I picked it up with trembling fingers. The words printed on it made my blood run cold.
Arthur Glaiz
The name hit me like ice water down my spine.
Arthur Glaiz.
Of course I knew that name. Anyone who had played The Strongest Hunter's Legacy knew it. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even a supporting character. He was a villain—worse, an extra villain.
An idiot who envied the protagonist, tried to sabotage him, and when pushed into desperation, made a deal with a demon for power he never earned. In the end, he became nothing more than a steppingstone—humiliated, defeated, and killed like the trash he was.
And now… I was him?
"No. No, no, no." The words spilled from my lips in denial. "This isn't real. This has to be some kind of sick joke."
But the room remained unchanged. The weight of the card in my hand was undeniable. The cold sweat trickling down my spine was all too real.
Slowly, the truth sank in.
I hadn't just blacked out. I hadn't fallen asleep.
I had been… transmigrated.
Into the world of the game.
Not as the hero. Not as some hidden powerhouse or secret chosen one.
But as Arthur Glaiz—the villain doomed to die.
I laughed weakly, the sound hollow in the vast room. "Why me? I didn't even get hit by a truck. Isn't it supposed to be Truck-kun? Isn't that how people gets transmigrated.At least that's how it works in anime…"
My voice trailed off into silence. No one was listening.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at my pale hands. "Haa… Whatever. What's happened has happened. Crying won't change it."
My mind whirled.
This world wasn't just a fantasy setting. I knew it. I had played it. Lived in it, virtually, for hundreds of hours.
The Strongest Hunter's Legacy .
That was what the players called it. The game's lore was as rich as it was merciless.
Five hundred years ago, humanity had awakened to mana. At first, it had been chaos. People manifested powers without control—some leveling entire cities by accident. But over time, humans adapted. They learned to harness mana, forge weapons, and rebuild.
Just when humanity had clawed itself back from the brink, the demons arrived.
Monsters from another realm, drawn to mana like moths to flame. They tore open rifts in reality and spilled into the world, bringing slaughter and ruin. They were stronger, faster, more resilient than any human. Civilization trembled on the edge of extinction.
But humanity did not perish.
Through centuries of blood and sacrifice, they endured. They built institutions to train warriors who could stand against the demonic tide. And none were greater than the Hunter Academy—an elite sanctuary where the strongest were forged.
That was where the story began.
That was the world I now inhabited.
I clenched my fists, the memory of the game's plot swirling in my head.
Arthur Glaiz.
The extra villain.
The steppingstone.
The man who reached for power he couldn't control and was crushed for it.
That was my role. My destiny.
Unless… I changed it.
"No," I whispered, staring into the mirror once more. "Arthur was destined to die as a villain… but that doesn't mean I will."
My reflection's blue eyes glimmered with a strange fire.
I wasn't the protagonist. I wasn't a hidden hero.
But I had something Arthur never did.
Knowledge.
I knew this world's story. I knew who would rise, who would fall, where treasures lay hidden, and when calamities would strike.
Arthur Glaiz may have been doomed.
But me?
I refused to die so easily.