I wake up tasting soil.
Not metaphorically. Literally. There's grit between my teeth, the faint metallic tang of old earth and crushed leaves stuck to the roof of my mouth like I'd been chewing on the ground all night. My cheek is pressed against damp loam, one arm flung out awkwardly, fingers half-buried in the mulch of what used to be a flowerbed. Something sharp—a thorn, probably—has drawn a thin line of blood across my knuckles.
For a solid three seconds I don't move.
Because if I move, I have to accept that this is real.
Again.
The shack smells the same as always: damp wood, fermenting compost, the faint sweet rot of overripe moonbloom petals I forgot to harvest yesterday. Moonlight spills through the single crooked window in slanted bars, painting silver stripes across the uneven floorboards. Outside, the academy grounds are quiet except for the soft rustle of spirit vines shifting in their sleep. They do that sometimes—dream, I guess. Or whatever passes for dreaming when you're older than the stones they're rooted in.
I push myself up slowly. My back protests with a familiar pop. Nineteen years old in this body, but the curse makes every morning feel like forty. The white streaks in my hair catch the light like frost; I catch my reflection in the dented tin bucket by the door and immediately look away. Golden eyes staring back. Too bright. Too knowing. Too much like they remember things this face never lived through.
I spit out the dirt.
"Another day in the novel," I mutter to the empty shack. "Another dollar I don't have yet."
Yeah. Novel.
I still can't quite believe it myself, even after two years.
Back on Earth—wherever that is now—I read a light novel called Eternal Crest: Heroes of Aetheria. Typical isekai-adjacent academy story: chosen hero, love interests, power-ups, world-saving arcs. I finished it, thought "meh," and moved on.
Then I woke up here.
In the body of Arcus Frey.
An extra.
Not even a named villain or a comic-relief side character—just a background nobody. In the novel, the groundskeeper was so irrelevant he didn't even get a proper death scene; he got trampled during the mid-game Dungeon Breach and was never mentioned again. No portrait, no dialogue, no nothing.
When I first realized where I was, I panicked. Then I got smart.
If the story follows the plot I remember, the safest place to be is as far from the spotlight as possible. So I leaned into it. Hard. I kept my head down, did the bare minimum, volunteered for every menial job that kept me on the fringes. When the old groundskeeper retired two years ago, I was the only one who didn't complain about the pay or the hours. The faculty shrugged, stamped my indenture papers, and forgot about me.
Perfect.
Rule one: Stay irrelevant.
Rule two: Don't fix anything that isn't your job.
Rule three: Don't talk to the main cast. Ever.
Rule four: If rule three fails, lie. A lot.
Rule five: Graduate—or at least serve out the contract. Buy my freedom. Disappear to a mountain somewhere with no heroes, no dungeons, no chosen ones, and definitely no five beautiful women who keep showing up in my herb patches like stray cats.
Simple. Straightforward. Survivable.
I've been doing it for almost two years now.
Today's no different.
I pull on the worn white shirt—sleeves already rolled, collar permanently askew—grab the rake and the pruning shears, sling the satchel with yesterday's harvest over my shoulder, and step outside.
The academy at dawn is almost peaceful.
Almost.
The grand spires of Aetherial rise in the distance like teeth against the paling sky, gold-trimmed banners fluttering lazily. Somewhere up there, the first-years are probably waking up to dreams of heroism. Down here, in the forgotten fringes where the formal gardens give way to wild overgrowth and buried ruins, it's just me, the dirt, and the things that live in it.
I head toward the east grove first. The moonblooms need thinning before they choke each other out, and I've got a buyer waiting in the lower market by noon. Black-market prices are up this week—some alchemist blew up his lab and half the noble houses are desperate for calming draughts. Good timing.
The path is uneven, roots bulging like veins under the moss. I step carefully. One wrong foot and a spirit root will snag my ankle just to remind me who really owns this place.
Halfway there, I hear it.
A soft, feminine sob—muffled, like someone's trying very hard not to be heard.
I freeze.
The sound is coming from the small clearing I've been using as a secondary herb patch. The one hidden behind a curtain of spirit ivy that only parts for me.
Or, apparently, for someone else.
I should turn around. Walk away. Pretend I heard nothing.
But the vines are already shifting, parting just enough to give me line of sight.
Silver-blonde hair catching the first rays of sun. White robes. Knees drawn to chest. Face buried in her arms.
Liora Voss.
The saintess candidate.
The literal poster girl for the main heroine route.
Sitting in my grove.
Crying.
I close my eyes. Count to five.
Rule three. Rule three. Rule—
The vines tug at my sleeve. Gently. Insistently.
I open my eyes.
The ivy has opened wider now, almost like an invitation.
The spirits are nosy bastards.
I sigh, long and suffering.
"Fine," I mutter under my breath. "But if this blows up my retirement plan, I'm blaming all of you. And the author."
I step forward.
The ivy closes behind me like a curtain falling on the worst possible act of a play I never auditioned for.
She doesn't notice me at first.
I clear my throat—quiet, awkward, the sound of a man who would rather be literally anywhere else.
Liora's head jerks up.
Violet eyes wide, red-rimmed, glistening.
For a heartbeat neither of us moves.
Then she scrubs at her face with her sleeve, trying to look composed, failing miserably.
"I—I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to trespass. I just… needed somewhere quiet."
I stare at her.
She stares back.
The silence stretches until it's uncomfortable.
I finally manage: "You're in my herb patch."
Her eyes flick down to the rows of moonbloom and starwort, then back up to me. Recognition dawns slowly.
"You're… the groundskeeper."
"Arcus," I supply, because apparently we're doing introductions now. "And yeah. That's me."
She swallows. "I didn't know anyone came here. It felt… safe."
I glance around at the overgrown clearing, the faint glow of spirit lights drifting like fireflies even in daylight, the way the vines seem to lean protectively toward her.
Safe.
Of course it feels safe.
The spirits like people who are hurting.
They're sentimental that way.
I shift my weight. The rake suddenly feels very heavy in my hand.
"Look," I say, keeping my voice flat, "I'm not going to report you. Just… don't step on the starwort. It's finicky."
She blinks.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Noted."
I nod once. Turn to leave.
"Wait."
I stop. Don't turn around.
Her voice is softer now. Almost fragile.
"Thank you. For… not asking why I'm here."
I shrug, even though she can't see it.
"Didn't seem like my business."
A long pause.
Then, quieter: "Most people would have asked."
"Yeah, well," I mutter, already walking away, "most people aren't trying to stay off the page."
The ivy parts for me again.
Behind me, I hear her exhale—a small, shaky sound that might have been a laugh or a sob or both.
I keep walking.
The sun is fully up now.
The academy is waking.
And I already know, deep in the part of me that remembers how stories like this are supposed to go, that today was the day everything started to go wrong.
I just didn't expect it to start with tears in my herb patch.
The vines rustle behind me, almost smug.
I flip them off without looking back.
Some things never change.