The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not metaphorical cold, like the death of ambition or the silent judgment of my Caribbean aunt's Sunday dinner. I mean real cold. Bone-deep. Like someone left me in a freezer and said, "Yeah, he's fine."
The second thing I felt was pain.
Sharp, needle-like, and very much present. It radiated from my ribs, lungs, and — weirdly —my pinky toe. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse gasp. My vision swam. My ears rang. My body ached in ways I didn't even know were medically possible.
Which, frankly, made no sense… because last I checked, I had died.
Hit by a delivery truck. A literal boxy white truck with the words "Express Your Future With Us" plastered across the side. I remember the screech of tires, the flash of light, and then—
Black.
No tunnel. No angels. No "press X to respawn."
Just black.
So why was I feeling anything at all?
I opened my eyes to the blinding light of a crystal chandelier. Real crystals, too — not the dollar-store kind. The ceiling was high, arched, and painted with gold filigree. My first thought: Either I'm in heaven, or someone's about to sacrifice me for royal blood magic.
Then I noticed the nurses.
Two women stood over me in long gray robes, whispering and dabbing my forehead with cold cloths. One was crying softly, the other muttering, "He lives… by the mercy of the gods, he lives."
Well. That was dramatic.
I tried to sit up.
Big mistake.
My body folded like wet cardboard, and I flopped back onto the bed, panting like I'd just run a marathon. Every inch of me felt like it was wrapped in invisible chains — heavy, suffocating.
One of the nurses leaned closer. "Noah? Young Lord Noah, can you hear me?"
My brain stalled.
Noah?
Young Lord?
Was this one of those weird RPG dreams where you wake up in a tavern with amnesia and a wooden sword?
I wanted to ask what the hell was happening, but all I managed was, "Wha…?"
Over the next few hours, the truth crashed over me like waves.
I was no longer Marcus Wright, 23-year-old freelance artist and part-time ramen philosopher. Nope. That guy got flattened by a 3-ton truck and now I was... someone else entirely.
Noah Drakopoulos.
Third son of House Drakopoulos. A noble family known for two things:
1. Their terrifying sigil — a chained serpent (because apparently, they were compensating for something).
2. And a long, tragic history of illness and early deaths.
Lucky me. I'd reincarnated into a side character whose only contribution to the plot was dying before chapter five in the fantasy web novel I'd been reading — Thorns of the Black Crown.
Yeah. That Noah.
Sickly. Forgotten. And oh right, scheduled to die again before the real story even kicks off.
I stared at my reflection in a gilded mirror once the nurses left me alone. The face staring back was pale and delicate, like a Victorian child who coughed blood for fun. Messy silver hair. Hollow eyes. A body so thin it looked like a stiff wind would snap it in half.
"This... can't be happening," I muttered.
But it was. And it had.
The memories came flooding in like a busted dam.
Tears, loneliness, bitter jealousy toward his older brothers. Father's disdain. Mother's silence. And worst of all, Aeron Valestar — the so-called "Chosen Flame," childhood friend turned hero, who Noah admired and hated in equal measure.
I remembered the exact line from the book:
"And thus passed the weakest son of House Drakopoulos, forgotten even by the gods."
Awesome.
Over the next few days, I mostly lay in bed and tried not to die again.
Nurse Vivianne — who had the personality of a kind grandmother and the emotional warmth of a steel blade — gave me a rundown of my condition.
"You have soul sickness," she said one morning, pouring bitter tea into a porcelain cup. "Your magic core is cracked. You're lucky to be alive."
"Lucky," I muttered, sipping the tea and nearly gagging. It tasted like hot dirt.
"You were in a coma for two months. Lord Helios said he'd pull the plug if you didn't wake up by the equinox."
"And yet… here I am. Ruining family plans like a true Drakopoulos."
She gave me a tight smile. "Indeed."
I had a lot of time to think.
About the book. About Noah's fate. About how I'd managed to fall into this world through the least dignified method possible.
Truck-kun. The overpowered god of isekai.
Was this some cosmic joke? A second chance? Or just some messed up glitch in the simulation?
Either way, I knew one thing for sure: If I didn't play this smart, I'd die all over again. And I wasn't interested in speedrunning the afterlife twice.
So I made a decision.
If I was going to live in this world — this cold, cruel, beautifully constructed world — I wasn't going to be a background character.
I would rewrite the story.
My first step was learning to move again.
It took a week just to walk from my bed to the window without collapsing. Another week to dress myself without assistance. My body was like a dying candle — flickering, fragile, but still lit.
The manor was massive, carved from black marble and cold stone, with tapestries of chained serpents and portraits of grim-faced ancestors. Most of the servants avoided my gaze, like I was a ghost they were trying not to provoke.
Honestly, I didn't blame them.
The third son was as good as dead. He had no magical prowess. No inheritance. No lovers. No friends. Just sickness, pity, and the quiet shame of a noble house that preferred to forget he existed.
Until now.
The Next morning, a letter arrived.
Sealed in red wax with the crest of Cyran Academy — the kingdom's prestigious institution for the magically gifted.
"Your summer break is over," Vivianne said, handing me the envelope. "You'll be returning to school tomorrow."
My hands trembled as I opened it. The official parchment bore my name in golden ink:
To Noah Drakopoulos,
We welcome your return to Cyran Academy. Please arrive promptly for orientation. Delays will not be tolerated.
So much for easing into things.
I stared at the letter, heartbeat quickening. In the novel, this was where things started to spiral. Noah returns to school, gets humiliated by his peers, and then dies during a failed expedition.
That was his role: cannon fodder. The sick boy who made the main characters look heroic in contrast.
But I wasn't that Noah anymore.
That night, I sat on the balcony of my tower room, wrapped in a thick cloak, breathing in the mountain air. The stars above this world burned brighter than anything on Earth. Magic hummed in the air like static.
I thought about my family — the ones who hadn't even visited me since I woke up.
I thought about Aeron, the golden boy.
I thought about the chain wrapped around the serpent in our house sigil — bound, restrained, judged.
Maybe it was time the serpent broke the chain.
End of Chapter 1