Chapter 1: The Coward Who Was Meant to Die
Lucian Valemont.
In Path of the Chosen Hero, that name appeared exactly three times.
Once in a genealogy chart.
Once in a passing remark mocking the Marquis's "shameful bastard."
And once more—briefly—at the moment of his death.
He was a minor villain, if he even deserved that title. A footnote pretending to be a character.
The bastard son of Marquis Valemont, one of the most influential nobles in the kingdom. A man whose word could decide wars, marriages, and executions. Yet Lucian inherited none of that authority—only the danger that came with the Valemont bloodline.
He was known for one thing.
Cowardice.
Lucian Valemont never cultivated.
Not because he lacked talent. The novel made it clear—his talent was average, perhaps even above average. But he was terrified. In a noble family where heirs were decided by strength, cultivating was equivalent to placing a target on one's back.
So Lucian chose safety.
Or rather, what he believed was safety.
He hid. He avoided attention. He refused tutors, delayed awakening ceremonies, and pretended to be sick whenever martial assessments were conducted. He convinced himself that as long as he stayed weak, his half-brothers would see him as harmless.
That delusion killed him.
Before the story even began, before the Chosen Hero took his first step onto the path of fate, Lucian Valemont was challenged to a duel. A formality, really. A ceremonial slaughter disguised as tradition.
He didn't resist.
He didn't even draw his sword properly.
He died kneeling, begging, cut down by his own brother in front of witnesses who barely cared to watch.
The novel described his end in a single sentence:
"The cowardly bastard Lucian Valemont was eliminated during the heir selection, as expected."
And then the story moved on.
That should have been the end.
Except it wasn't.
Because an hour ago—
I opened my eyes in his body.
Cold stone pressed against my back. A foreign ceiling stared down at me, engraved with unfamiliar sigils. My breath came out uneven, my heart pounding as if it were trying to tear free from my chest.
This wasn't a dream.
I knew that instantly.
Dreams didn't have this weight. This sharpness. This suffocating sense of wrongness.
My hands came into view—pale, slender, uncalloused. Noble hands. Hands that had never known real labor.
They weren't mine.
"…Fuck."
The word escaped my lips before I could stop it.
Memories flooded in—fragmented, disordered, incomplete. A grand estate. Whispering servants. Mocking laughter. Eyes filled with disdain. Fear. Endless, humiliating fear.
Lucian's fear.
"No… no, no, no."
I pushed myself upright, breath shallow, vision blurring. This world—this body—it was unmistakable.
I knew this novel.
I had read it.
Not once. Not twice. Enough times to remember how Lucian Valemont died.
"I don't want to die."
The words came out raw, stripped of dignity.
In my previous life, I was nothing special. Just another corporate slave drowning in deadlines and fluorescent lighting. Wake up, commute, work, sleep. Repeat until retirement or death.
An orphan, too.
No parents. No siblings. No one waiting at home. No one who would notice if I disappeared tomorrow.
But I wasn't supposed to die there.
And I sure as hell wasn't supposed to die here.
Because here, I had a timer.
One year.
One year until the heir-selection duel.
One year until Lucian Valemont's execution disguised as tradition.
My breathing grew erratic.
"This is bullshit… absolute bullshit."
Then—
A voice echoed inside my mind.
[Can you hear me?]
Every muscle in my body locked up.
My heart skipped so violently it hurt.
"…Who's there?"
The voice didn't come from the room. It didn't come from outside. It came from inside my skull, calm and detached, as if it had all the time in the world.
[No need to panic.]
"Don't tell me not to panic," I snapped internally. "Are you the bastard who dragged me here?"
[I didn't trap you.]
"Bullshit. If you didn't, then who did?"
A pause.
Not hesitation—calculation.
[You came here because of me.]
Rage surged up instantly.
"Then send me back. Now."
Another pause.
[I can't.]
The word hit harder than expected.
"…What do you mean you can't?"
[I lack the authority to do so.]
My hands clenched into fists.
"You bring me here, shove me into a dead man's body, and now you're telling me you don't have the authority?"
[Your arrival was not intentional.]
"Then explain."
This time, the pause stretched longer.
Long enough for dread to crawl up my spine.
[Once every trillion years, a phenomenon occurs.]
"I don't care about cosmic trivia."
[Dimensional Shrink.]
The words carried weight—ancient, mechanical, absolute.
[While stabilizing it, two dimensions briefly overlapped. Your world and this one.]
My stomach sank.
[Your soul was caught in the convergence and anchored here.]
"So this is… an accident?"
[Yes.]
The confirmation was casual. Cruel in its simplicity.
"And sending me back?"
Silence.
My chest tightened.
"…Answer me."
[Your existence in your original dimension has already been erased.]
The room felt smaller.
My ears rang.
"…Erased?"
[There is no place for you to return to.]
I laughed.
A hollow, broken sound.
"So you screwed up," I whispered. "And I pay the price."
[As compensation, I will provide assistance.]
"Assistance?" I scoffed. "Will it fight my brothers for me? Will it stand in the duel and die in my place?"
No answer.
The presence began to fade.
"Wait," I demanded. "You don't get to disappear after saying that."
Silence swallowed the room.
Minutes passed.
Then—
Reality itself twisted.
The air in front of me warped, folding inward like glass under pressure. A presence emerged—cold, precise, oppressive. Something that didn't belong to flesh or blood.
My instincts screamed danger.
My eyes widened.
"What the hell…?"
Whatever this was—
It wasn't a savior.
It was a tool.