Chapter 8 — Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, 1
The name still rang in his skull like a hammer striking iron.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis.
Jin's lips peeled back in a snarl. The void pulsed faintly around him, as though savoring the weight of that revelation. His throat burned, and before he even realized it, he was screaming into the endless black.
"FUCK THIS! FUCK YOU! FUCK EVERYTHING!" His roar tore across the emptiness, but the void only echoed it back, distorted, like a chorus of his own rage mocking him. "Out of all the names, out of all the miserable bastards in that trash heap of a game, you stick me with him?! A background corpse?! A goddamn stepping stone?! The joke character who dies so the heroine can shed a few fake tears and move on to her harem parade?"
His fist cut through the air, but it struck nothing, connected with nothing. Still, the void shivered like a struck drum. He threw another punch, then another, screaming with every swing, his voice shredding.
The plague doctor did not move. He stood there, tall and still, cloak unmoving, mask gleaming faintly. Silent. Detached. Watching.
Jin's chest heaved. Spit clung to his lips. His throat was raw, his body trembling with the violent release. And yet… it didn't change a damn thing. The mask was still there. The name was still etched into the silence.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis.
He bent over, hands braced on his knees, sucking air like a drowning man. His voice dropped to a rasp. "Why… why him…? Out of everyone… why not a lead? Why not someone who mattered?"
The mask tilted slightly. No answer.
Jin's laugh came broken, cracked. "Of course. Of course it's him. My whole life's been a string of cosmic jokes—why not make me him?!" He staggered a step back, then barked out another bitter laugh. "I should've known. This is exactly the kind of trash roll I'd get if the afterlife was gacha."
He dragged a hand down his face. His nails dug into his skin until it hurt. The soldier in him wanted to collapse, to give in to the despair curling in his gut. But the gamer in him—the one who'd spent sleepless nights cursing the very code of Love and Chains—felt something else stirring.
He knew this script.
Every line, every beat, every death flag.
He knew exactly when Sylan Kyle Von Noctis was supposed to fall. How he was betrayed. How his family's power meant nothing in the end. How the heroine's tears sanctified his death while the male leads used his corpse as a ladder.
And if he knew it, if the timeline was etched in his memory like a scar—
Then maybe… he didn't have to play along.
The thought struck him like a knife of ice. His eyes widened. His breathing slowed.
"…Wait," he muttered, lips curling into a humorless smile. "Wait, wait, wait. I know how he dies. I know every mistake he makes. Every smug word, every duel, every trap. I know the goddamn script better than the author. Which means…"
He straightened, dragging his shoulders back. His pulse hammered, but now it was sharp, focused. "Which means I don't have to fucking die."
The void whispered at the edges, like it disapproved. He ignored it.
"All my life, every fight was a battlefield. And that's what this is, isn't it?" he murmured, more to himself than the mask. "A scripted battlefield. But I've walked through real ones. I've seen comrades gutted and bled dry in the mud while some prick general called it a glorious sacrifice. You think I'll let some goddamn dating sim outmaneuver me? Hell no."
His eyes burned. He began pacing, muttering faster now, piecing together shards of soldier's logic and gamer's fury into something jagged but sharp.
"Step one: survival. That's all. Forget glory. Forget revenge. Forget proving anything to anyone. I know when the death flag triggers. I know who pulls the strings. Avoid it. Disarm it. Turn every flag into a dead end. If the story wants me to die—then I'll make the story choke."
He stopped, grinning now, a savage curl of lips that had nothing of humor in it.
"Of course, it won't be simple. Nothing ever is. But I know the rules of this trash world better than the characters trapped in it. That makes me the one with the loaded dice."
His laugh was low, bitter, curling like smoke. "You hear that, bird mask? You wanted me to play? Fine. I'll play. But I won't dance for your heroine, or your leads, or your goddamn script. I'll survive. Even if I have to twist every single scene into a nightmare."
For the first time, his fury didn't feel like it was eating him alive. It burned, yes—but it burned clean. Directional. Purposeful.
He leveled his gaze at the mask, breathing hard. "So go ahead. Drop me in your shiny little cage. Call me Sylan Kyle Von Noctis. Hand me your chains of silk and gold. I'll wear them. I'll smile. And then I'll strangle the whole damn world with them."
The void gave no applause, no answer. The plague doctor remained still, calm, detached. But the shadows rippled faintly, stretching and retreating, like the cosmos itself had heard his declaration.
Jin Soowhi—Sylan Kyle Von Noctis—smirked, though his teeth were bared. His voice was low, venomous, final.
"I won't die the way you wrote it. I'll live. And I'll make this world choke on it."
And then the void split open beneath him.