His head throbbed, the strong scent of lavender lingering in the air and filling his nose. His eyes stung as he opened them, warm bright light overwhelming his sight. His skin felt uncomfortable against the soft fabric beneath him, making his stomach stir.
Once the discomfort settled, his surroundings became clearer. It was a large room — unfamiliar. The bed he lay on was huge, unlike the one in his own room. The blanket felt impossibly soft, like something from a rich hotel.
His attention drifted to the window, where light spilled in and revealed a scene he didn't recognize.
He tried to sit up.
Pain shot through his head like a knife, his vision blurring. He collapsed back onto the bed, heat flooding his body as the fever worsened.
"—ay!"
A voice.
Someone was speaking. He wasn't alone. Shapes swam into focus — two women and a man, dressed in strange clothing.
The voice grew frantic as his consciousness began to slip.
"Young master Cliff!"
'Weird,.' he thought distantly. 'Did I play too many games…?'
Darkness closed in, swallowing the room whole.
-
'Isekai…'
He leaned into the back of his hand and stared at the book resting on his lap.
That genre was common in classic action web novels. Truck-kun. Magic academies. Overpowered protagonists with convenient morals. He flipped the page, his expression blank, boredom settling like a mask over his face.
'I didn't expect I'd experience it too.'
The room was quiet — too quiet. No traffic. No hum of electronics. Only the faint crackle of something burning somewhere nearby, and the soft rustle of fabric when he shifted.
He glanced down at himself.
The sleeves were long, the cloth light and finely stitched. Not hospital white. Not anything he recognized. His fingers flexed, slower than usual, as if his body hadn't fully agreed to obey yet.
"So this is it," he muttered.
No dramatic revelation came. No surge of excitement. Just a dull pressure in his chest, like unfinished business he couldn't name.
He closed the book and exhaled.
If this really was another world, then there were rules. Patterns. Stories loved repetition. The "young master" thing alone was suspicious enough.
Nobility, maybe. A body with status. A life already in motion before he arrived.
The thought didn't comfort him.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open.
"Young master Cliff?" a woman's voice called carefully, as if testing whether he would break. "Are you feeling any better?"
He looked up.
The woman stood at the doorway, hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. Her clothes were simple but neat, eyes filled with something between relief and worry. Behind her, another figure lingered — older, sterner, watching him as one might watch a fragile object.
He met her gaze.
"I think," he said slowly, voice unfamiliar even to himself, "I'm getting better."
Relief flooded her face.
"Thank the gods."
Gods, he noted.
Yeah.
Definitely not home.
He slowly closed his book. The muscles of his face ache as he manage to give a small smile.
"What is the date right now?" he asked, his voice deep yet gentle.
"It's year 735, october 17,." she looks at him, her eyes clear and calm. "No need to worry about going to magic academy tomorrow, you can rest as long as needed, young master."
For a moment, his breath hitch at the title. This was something he wasn't used of. Introvert by birth, he rarely interact with people and being called by something so unfamiliar got in his nerve.
"I see, you may leave now."
The maid bow and diligently followed his order.
After confirming she had left. He breath out the heaviness that formed in his stomach.
He had manage to make his face calm but his heart was racing. It had been a while since he interacted with someone.
Magic academy. He knows that place well, afterall, he was now inside of the novel he had read during his free time.
Right now, he was a side character in the novel who was briefly mentioned after being accused of stealing a high grade item that was meant for the female lead, Cliff Heillion.
Not only that, he was also accused of being a pervert that was stalking her.
That arc was made to make the female lead more saintly and highlight her empathy. She cleared the name of this character but his reputation was ruin, making him have a hard time finding a job in the future nor building a proper reputation.
Knowing the future was comforting in theory.
In practice, it only made the weight heavier.
Cliff Heillion had no hidden bloodline. No dormant talent waiting to awaken. In the novel, he was painfully ordinary—mediocre magic capacity, average grades, a noble name that carried less influence than it should have.
A convenient scapegoat.
The kind of character the story could afford to damage without consequences.
He rested his head against the headboard, eyes half-lidded.
So much for becoming special.
Not only that, he also can't remember how he even die or got in this place. Yet, he can remember fragments of Cliff's memory.
Cliff's life was quiet, almost too peaceful where he doesn't have to worry about a thing except the inheritance he will soon have after cancer fully take his father.
There was no mother nor sibling in sight, just his sickly father who he barely sees.
His head started throbbing.
He rubbed his temples.
His headache was persistent for days, thankfully it was getting better.
He put the book to the table near his bed and lie down. He pulled the blanket and soon sleep arrived.