Mark died once…
However, it wasn't even glamorous. Levias hadn't saved a child from a runaway truck or taken a bullet for his country.
He just… stopped breathing and died.
The next time he opened his eyes, he wasn't in his room.
He was in a hotel lobby...
"Levias Alistair," that was the name scribbled on the top of the page. His name...
Unfortunately, he knew it well.
Levias was not a hero. He wasn't even a proper side character.
In the novel Mark remembered reading, he had been the background furniture…some would call him a receptionist, forgotten after a handful of appearances.
His only memorable moment was the day the ceiling of the Alistair Grand Hotel collapsed on him. And that, as far as the book cared, was his entire existence.
And now Mark was him…
In the story, the Alistair Grand Hotel was the pride of the family.
The family was investing into huge golden chandeliers, and the floors were just glowing as if servants cleaned them with their own tears.
Levias, however, was working behind the counter in a red uniform jacket that fit poorly at the shoulders.
He'd been placed here not because of any skill, but because his father, who was the great and terrible head of the Alistair family had decided there was no better use for a son who was so painfully mediocre.
Lord Alistair was a man carved out of marble and frost, his eyes were colder than his wine cellar.
Levias had seen that look many times: the look of a man wondering why his son had bothered being born.
"Levias," his father had once said across a long dining table that every syllable felt like a knife. "You are… not suited for the family's affairs."
Translation: you're a disappointment, and I can't have people noticing.
The man didn't even try to hide his favoritism…
His daughter, Levias's sister, could do no wrong. She was brilliant, amazing, destined for greatness.
Levias, meanwhile, couldn't hold a fork properly without making dinner awkward.
He still remembered the night his father announced his fate. The family hall just had to be filled with important people.
"Levias," Lord Alistair stated, "will be… assisting at the Grand Hotel."
The pause after that "be" was longer than the speech itself. Levias had wanted to crawl under the table and die on the spot.
But instead, he'd been shipped here, to work as a receptionist.
Of course, Levias knew how the story went. He knew where this ended too, with rubble and screaming and his name forgotten in the wreckage.
So the first thing he tried was running.
On his very first night, he stuffed his uniform into a sack, stole a loaf of bread from the kitchen, and bolted into the city.
He slept under bridges, begged for food, even hitched a ride with a caravan once.
But every attempt ended the same way: broke, hungry, and crawling back to the hotel.
It was as if the world itself refused to let him escape.
By the fourth attempt, he gave up pretending. He decided he'd bide his time, save enough money, maybe steal a little from the hotel registers when nobody was looking, and buy himself a shack in the countryside.
Somewhere far away, with chickens. Chickens didn't care if you were useless. Chickens didn't judge.
That was the dream…
One quiet evening, as Levias was reorganising guest cards at the counter, the bell dinged.
A man was waiting in a long black coat, collar pulled high, and hat was hiding his face.
Levias noticed the man's spotless gloves…he bent on the desk with a tired sort of face.
"Checking in," he mumbled smoothly.
Levias offered his best polite smile. "Certainly, sir. May I have your name?"
The man hesitated for a second too long. "…Daniel."
Levias wrote it down without blinking. "And how many nights will you be staying?"
"Just one." The man slid a few gold coins across the counter. More than Levias earned in a week.
"Very good, Mr. Daniel," Levias replied with a smile, clearly pocketing the coins. "Your key."
The guest accepted it, his eyes stayed on Levias a moment too long before he turned and disappeared into the hall.
Levias exhaled through his mouth slowly.
"Assassin…"
The kind of assassin who slipped in through the side door, stayed one night, and vanished before the government's dogs could sniff him out.
Wonderful! Just what the doomed receptionist needed.
The rest of the shift went on as usual guests whined about soup being too cold, or curtains not blocking enough sunlight.
Levias smiled, bowed, apologised, and wondered which day of his life would be the last.
At midnight, the lobby finally emptied. Levias was just preparing to douse the lanterns when a sound of aggressive footsteps reached his ears.
He frowned. That was the assassin's room.
Every instinct told him to ignore it, but curiosity was a different type of master. Levias went down the hallway, squeaking as silent as it was possible.
When he reached the room, Levias furrowed his eyebrows after seeing the door was half opened.
'What now?' He asked himself.
"Room service?" he whispered, pushing it open.
Daniel or whatever his real name was, clearly fell and then collapsed on the floor. His chest didn't rise, and his skin was whiter than a cloud.
Levias's eyes widened and feet felt glued to the floor. The man hadn't lasted one night.
"Great," Levias muttered, rubbing his temples. "First guest I check in by myself, and he goes and dies on me."
But his complaint trailed off when he noticed that a man had a small purple sphere near his pocket.
It pulsed, as if it was alive, glowing with a strange inner light.
Levias crouched, staring at it. He should have run for the guards. He should have asked for help. He should have done anything except what he did.
He pried it from the man's fingers.
The sphere was warm like a well nurtured egg.
But then a faded-blue light came from the thing, blinding, like lightning in his palm.
Levias's breath was trapped in his throat, his heart lurched, and the entire room dissolved into white.
"Is this heaven?" Levias asked, closing his eyes, finally being able to die and escape this world.
"Master."