Chapter 1 – The Truck of Countless Worlds
The evening streets buzzed with the familiar chaos of honking cars, hawkers shouting their last calls, and pedestrians flowing across intersections like ants scurrying home. Among them walked a black-haired college student with his head tilted down, earphones jammed in, thumbs furiously hammering his phone screen as if the fate of the universe depended on the post he was typing.
"Ridiculous…" he muttered between clenched teeth making the words muffled under his breath. "This author has completely lost it. Making the protagonist suddenly level up because, what?—the 'system' felt like it? Lazy trash writing! Just because he faces strong opponent and no plot armor can help, the system can't suddenly say 'I have some EXP here, take and level up and beat him!' right?"
A passerby glanced at him with mild annoyance, but he didn't notice. His eyes stayed glued to the glowing text on the cracked screen, scrolling furiously through comments.
"God, the villains are all the same too. Arrogant, spoiled young masters lining up like ducks at a carnival shooting gallery. Why do they even exist? Just so the MC can face-slap them? If I wrote this garbage, I'd die of shame, thousand years old ancestors being toyed with intellectually by MC who is just 20 yea—"
"Kid! Watch where you're going!"
The shout barely registered, drowned beneath the pounding bass in his earphones. He shook his head with his jaw tight, still muttering at his screen.
"No sense of logic. No buildup. Just power-ups and revenge porn. Do authors not understand subtlety anymore? Characters don't grow by stomping on small fry. They grow by struggle! They grow by—"
"HEY!" another voice cried out, sharper and closer, snapping the boy out of his thoughts as he blinked up at last, only vaguely aware that the crosswalk light had long since turned red. A blur of steel and white headlights barreled toward him, horn screaming like a banshee.
…Is that a bus?
The next instant was noise and nothingness. A sickening crunch. The sound of his own playlist cutting short mid-beat.
And then silence.
---
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't lying in a pool of blood on asphalt. He was staring at a ceiling.
Not just any ceiling—a dazzling expanse of carved white marble, polished to a shine that reflected the light of a crystal chandelier dangling from above. Gold-trimmed panels gleamed at the edges. The smell of lavender and polished wood filled the air.
Making his brain lag a bit.
"…What?"
He closed his eyes tight, counted to three, and reopened them. Same ceiling. Same chandelier. Still not a hospital or morgue.
A ragged sigh slipped from his lips.
"…Don't tell me I was isekai'd."
The words felt absurd even as he whispered them. He had laughed at tropes like this a thousand times. Now here he was, lying on a soft bed, wrapped in sheets finer than anything he could afford back on earth, staring at a chandelier like a stunned tourist.
His thoughts tumbled out in messy fragments.
How did I die? Right—the bus. Truck-kun's older brother. Figures. The Truck of Countless Worlds flattened me mid-rant about some hack author. Perfectly ironic. I mocked cliché deaths, and then one became my obituary.
Another sigh left his chest, long and weary. He sat up slowly, legs swinging over the bed.
That's when he noticed his hands.
Slim. Pale. Fingers long and elegant, not the slightly stubby hands of a college kid who lived off instant noodles and typed essays at 3 a.m.
He stumbled toward the tall mirror propped against the far wall. The face that stared back wasn't his.
White hair like freshly fallen snow spilled down to his shoulders. Eyes, a piercing blue that seemed carved from gemstones, glittered with aristocratic sharpness. His skin was pale, features symmetrical, and the jawline so sharp it could slice bread.
The word handsome didn't do it justice. He looked like every fangirl's dream illustration of a fantasy noble.
But he didn't think so as this look alone reminds him of the novel he was just ranting of, making his stomach sink.
"…No way."
A pulse of pain shot through his head, like someone was stabbing memories into his brain with a hot needle.
And it was like he saw himself again, but living a different life, from birth to when he crawl and finally to the current him. It didn't feel like memories from third POV but instead his, it felt like he was the one who experienced them.
He staggered after some few minutes, clutching his temple.
"…Lawrence Von Aenir."
The name tumbled from his lips, foreign yet familiar. He knew it, because the body knew it. The heir of the Aenir family. Spear prodigy. Arrogant noble. Future stepping stone for the protagonist within a mere 50 chapters and not making appearance for more than 10 chapters.
In simpler terms, he's the future corpse.
"…Of course. Out of everyone in that trash novel, I land in the body of the arrogant young master whose only role is to get humiliated and one-shotted." Lawrence barked a short laugh. "I guess the author really wanted me dead for that comment for me to appear in his book, huh?"
A soft knock pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts as he subconsciously answered.
The door creaked open. A maid entered, brown hair tied neatly, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Her shoulders trembled as if she were standing before an executioner.
"Young Master Lawrence," she stammered, voice quivering, "y-your father is waiting for you in the dining hall."
Her bow was quick, her retreat quicker. The door shut behind her before he could even respond.
He rubbed his face wondering if he eats humans for snacks.
"…Right. Everyone's terrified of Lawrence. Arrogant noble who treats commoners like trash. And the protagonist, Cain, is a commoner. Of course. Perfect setup for disaster."
He pushed himself upright, the body moving with an unconscious grace he wasn't used to. His posture, his stride, even the way he breathed—all screamed nobility. He hated how natural it felt.
The dining hall was an intimidating space, dominated by a long table carved from dark oak. At its head sat Leonard Von Aenir, his father—a massive man with white hair, broad shoulders, and the aura of a war god. Beside him, a dignified woman with auburn hair and sharp eyes sipped her tea silently.
He slid into his designated seat, forcing himself to mimic the perfect table manners Lawrence's body remembered. Servants bustled in, serving dishes fragrant with spices and roasted meats.
Finally, his mother set down her cup. "Your father has arranged your bride."
She said with no hesitation, no soft introduction. Just a bomb dropped in the middle of the meal.
He almost choked on his drink. Memories scrambled into place regarding Catalina, the prodigy of fire magic and fist arts. And more importantly, the girl Cain, the protagonist, would later fall in love with.
"... Fuck!"
His mother's gaze narrowed, ready to scold him if he protested. He forced a calm smile.
"Yes, Mother. Thank you, Father."
Leonard's stern face softened briefly, then hardened again. "She is a genius. But so are you. Both of you will complement each other. Don't disappoint me."
Conversations drifted to lighter topics: odd treasures, strange flowers, politics. Yet he barely listened, as his mind screaming beneath the calm exterior. He wasn't just inhabiting Lawrence. He was Lawrence. The memories didn't feel borrowed anymore, they felt like his own.
After the meal, he excused himself and slipped away.
---
His next destination was clear.
If memory served, the novel described an artifact hidden in the Aenir family's prison. A pendant capable of turning its user invisible for thirty seconds, empowering their next strike. Cain, the protagonist, had stumbled across it during his imprisonment here and used it to escape once. But Cain never valued artifacts, relying on his system instead.
Which meant Lawrence could steal it first.
He descended into the basement, where damp stone walls reeked of mold and rot. Prisoners with lifeless eyes stared through iron bars, but he ignored them, pressing forward until he reached the farthest cell.
Garbage piled high in one corner, stinking worse than the rest. He grimaced, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to block the smell. He was about to kneel and dig when his mouth betrayed him.
"Knights! Come here immediately. Search that pile. Now."
The command rang with arrogance he hadn't intended. His voice cut through the dungeon like a whip. The stationed knights exchanged nervous looks, then obeyed without question, sifting through the filth with bare hands.
He wanted to stop them. He wanted to say he could handle it himself. But the words twisted in his throat, coming out wrong.
"Stop dawdling! Do it quickly."
The arrogance wasn't just habit—it was compulsion. This body still carried the pride of Lawrence Von Aenir, and it leaked into his every action.
One knight suddenly exclaimed, holding up a small gem etched with faint runes.
"Young Master, shall we clean it before delivering it to your room?"
He nodded stiffly and left.
Back in his room, a maid delivered the polished pendant. He dismissed her with a flick of his hand, movements too practiced, too dismissive as a headache throbbed behind his eyes.
What the hell is happening? I'm not Lawrence. I shouldn't act like him. But I do. Every word, every gesture. It's like I'm fighting against my own body, I can't even remember the name from my past life that clearly.
He hung the pendant around his neck, feeding it a trickle of mana as light shimmered, and in the mirror his reflection vanished.
A slow smile curved across his lips.
"At least something's going right."
When visibility returned, his face was grim again as he thought of something.
Five years from now, the Chaos Portal opens. If I stay the same Lawrence who gets one-shotted by Cain, I'll be dead before I hit twenty. No choice but to grow stronger. Stronger than the body's arrogance. Stronger than the author's plan.
He clenched his fist.
"Why should I die just because the author wants me to?" Lawrence thought with a light smile, "at least even if he has to die, it wouldn't be according to the author's will.