I died hungry.
Not metaphorically. Not tragically poetic. Just… hungry.
The last thing I remember before everything went quiet was the smell of food drifting in from the hallway—someone else's dinner tray, warm broth and something fried. My stomach twisted weakly, not with pain this time, but with longing. I had been sick long enough that hunger felt almost rude, like an emotion I was no longer entitled to.
Then the ceiling faded.
Then the beeping stopped.
Then I was gone.
I expected darkness.
Or light.
Or at the very least, something dramatic enough to justify the inconvenience of dying.
Instead, I woke up sitting at a table.
It was long and wooden, the surface smooth and warm beneath my palms. Steam curled lazily upward from a bowl placed neatly in front of me. The scent hit first—rich, savory, unmistakably real.
Food.
I stared at it.
For a long moment, I forgot to breathe.
The bowl held noodles. Proper ones. Thick, pale strands swimming in clear broth, topped with sliced meat and green onions. The kind of food you ate slowly, reverently. The kind I hadn't been allowed to eat for months.
I swallowed.
"Am I hallucinating?" I asked the empty white space around me.
No answer.
My fingers trembled as I reached forward. I half-expected my hand to pass through the bowl, or for everything to shatter into light. Instead, my chopsticks felt solid. Heavy. Real.
I lifted a noodle.
Steam brushed my face.
I laughed—a short, disbelieving sound that scraped my throat.
"Oh," I said softly. "So this is how it is."
I didn't wait for permission.
I ate.
I ate like someone who had been starved by fate and then mocked with restraint. I slurped the broth. I chewed too fast. I burned my tongue and didn't care. Each bite felt like proof—proof that my mouth still worked, that my body still responded, that I was not done.
Halfway through the bowl, a voice spoke.
"Are you finished?"
I paused, chopsticks hovering.
"No," I said immediately. "But you can talk while I eat."
Silence followed.
Then, dryly, "You're unusually calm for someone who has just died."
I frowned, considering that.
"I've been dying for a while," I replied. "This part is new. The noodles are excellent, by the way."
Another pause.
"…There will be more food."
"Good," I said, resuming my meal. "Then we can negotiate."
The white space shifted subtly, like fog being gently pushed aside. Words appeared in front of me—not floating holograms or glowing runes, just simple text, dark and steady.
Designation: Lin Tao
Status: Deceased (non-reversible)
I winced. "That's blunt."
Exception Protocol Activated.
I swallowed another mouthful. "Figures."
The voice spoke again, closer now. Not loud. Not commanding. Just tired.
"You have been selected for a continuance opportunity."
I finished the bowl before answering. Set it down carefully. Then I looked up.
"Is this the part where you tell me I'm special?"
"No."
"Good. I hate pressure."
Another bowl appeared in front of me. This one was rice. With meat. And vegetables.
I felt my eyes sting.
The voice continued, "Your life ended prematurely. Not unjustly—but inefficiently."
"That's one way to put it."
"You may continue existing," it said, "under specific conditions."
I picked up my chopsticks again. "Go on."
"You will enter multiple worlds," the voice said. "Narrative constructs already in motion."
I paused. "Stories."
"Yes."
"And?"
"You will assist designated individuals who are marked as expendable. Cannon fodder. Characters who are written to fail, die, or be erased."
I chewed slowly. "You want me to save them."
"Not save," the voice corrected. "Redirect."
"And what do I get?" I asked calmly.
"Life."
I swallowed.
"Define life."
A pause—longer this time.
"Movement. Sensation. Hunger. Taste. Injury. Healing. Continuation."
I glanced down at my bowl. Then back up.
"Do I get to eat in these worlds?"
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Yes."
"Three meals a day?"
"…Reasonably."
I nodded. "Deal."
The words appeared immediately.
Contract Accepted.
World One Initializing.
"Wait," I said quickly.
The text froze.
"I have conditions too."
The silence stretched, thin but attentive.
"I don't like unnecessary suffering," I said. "I'll help, but I won't martyr myself for bad writing."
"…Noted."
"And I nap when I want."
"…Very well."
"And if someone wastes food, that's grounds for violence."
There was a pause so long I almost laughed.
"…Within reason."
"Good enough."
The world tilted.
The white space folded inward like a closing book, and gravity returned all at once. I felt weight. Real weight. Strength in my limbs. Heat in my blood.
Pain, too—but manageable. Familiar. The kind that meant I was still here.
I opened my eyes.
I was lying on hard ground. Dirt beneath my fingers. The smell of sweat and steel in the air. Shouts echoed nearby—young voices, strained, afraid.
I pushed myself up easily.
Too easily.
My body felt… capable.
Hungry.
I glanced down at myself—rough clothes, calloused hands, no IV lines, no weakness trembling through my bones.
Good.
A memory surfaced, not mine but borrowed.
Wei An. Outer disciple. Loyal. Talentless. Doomed.
I sighed.
"Alright," I muttered, cracking my neck. "Let's see how bad your ending was."
Somewhere nearby, someone screamed.
I stood, brushing dirt from my clothes.
"But first," I added, eyes narrowing as I caught the scent of cooking rice from the camp ahead, "I'm eating."