The blue glow of three monitors painted shadows across Daniel Chen's hollow cheeks as he leaned back in his ergonomic chair, fingers steepled, eyes scanning columns of data that most people would find incomprehensible. The digital clock in the corner read 3:47 AM, but time had lost meaning somewhere between his fourteenth cup of coffee and his third consecutive all-nighter.
His apartment was a study in controlled chaos—empty takeout containers stacked like a cardboard monument to his neglect of basic human needs, energy drink cans forming a aluminium graveyard around his desk, and towers of printed reports that served as makeshift furniture. The only signs of life beyond work were the dozens of bookmarked webnovel sites glowing on his second monitor and the impressive collection of light novels stacked precariously on every available surface.
Daniel Chen, Senior Data Analyst at Morrison Strategic Consulting, was what his colleagues politely called "dedicated" and what his few remaining friends bluntly called "obsessed." At twenty-eight, he had built a reputation as the man who could extract patterns from chaos, who could predict market fluctuations three steps ahead, and who never, ever missed a deadline.
He also had perfect recall.
Not photographic memory—that was a myth. But Daniel possessed something far more useful: the ability to absorb, categorize, and retrieve vast amounts of information with surgical precision. Every case study, every data trend, every variable in a complex equation remained accessible in the organized filing system of his mind. It made him invaluable at work and, unfortunately, made him equally addicted to the escapism of fiction.
When Daniel wasn't drowning in spreadsheets and probability matrices, he was reading. Voraciously. Obsessively. He had consumed over three thousand webnovels in the past five years—cultivation stories, system novels, transmigration tales, strategic protagonists who rose from nothing through careful planning and calculated risks. His favorites were always the analytical MCs, the ones who won through intelligence rather than luck or righteousness.
He understood their appeal. In fiction, smart planning always paid off. In reality, being the smartest person in the room often meant working alone.
Tonight's project was a nightmare—a client who wanted to predict consumer behavior across fourteen different market segments while accounting for seasonal variations, economic uncertainty, and the ripple effects of a potential trade war. Daniel had been hired because three other consulting firms had declared it impossible.
Impossible was just another word for "requires more variables."
"Probability of Q3 collapse in sector seven," he muttered, fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Cross-reference with historical patterns from 2018, adjust for current political climate, factor in social media sentiment analysis..."
His phone buzzed. A text from his sister: "Haven't heard from you in two weeks. Still alive?"
Daniel glanced at the message, then at the wall of data surrounding him like a fortress. He typed back: "Busy. Talk soon." He didn't specify when "soon" might be.
The analysis was beautiful in its complexity—hundreds of interconnected variables forming a web of causality that most people couldn't even comprehend, let alone manipulate. But Daniel saw it clearly: the patterns, the pressure points, the elegant mathematics of human behavior reduced to predictable algorithms.
He saved his progress and switched to his second monitor, where the latest chapter of "Shadow Monarch's Ascension" waited. Fifteen minutes, he told himself. Just long enough to clear his head.
The protagonist was making the same mistake they all made—trusting allies too quickly, revealing power too early. Daniel shook his head as he read. "Rookie error," he typed in the comments. "Never show your full capabilities unless survival is at stake. Information asymmetry is your greatest weapon."
Other readers argued with him—they wanted the hero to be noble, trusting, inspiring. Daniel understood the appeal but found it strategically unsound. Real power came from being underestimated. Let others chase glory while you built foundations they couldn't see.
He had read this story before in a thousand variations: ordinary person gains extraordinary power, faces escalating challenges, gathers loyal companions, defeats great evil. The execution varied, but the patterns were constant. Systems that rewarded grinding. Cultivation levels that required balance. Political intrigue that could be navigated with careful observation and strategic thinking.
If Daniel ever found himself in such a world, he knew exactly how he would play it. Low profile. Careful alliances. Maximum information gathering. Never the hero—heroes had targets on their backs. Better to be the one who stood beside the hero, sharing their benefits without their burdens.
His phone buzzed again. His boss: "Client wants preliminary results by 8 AM. Can you make it happen?"
Daniel checked the clock: 4:23 AM. Three and a half hours to polish a presentation that synthesized two weeks of work. Most people would panic. Daniel just cracked his knuckles and switched back to his analysis.
"Variables 069 through 696 require recalibration," he muttered. "Account for weekend shopping patterns, adjust the social media sentiment weighting, cross-check against consumer confidence indices..."
Hours blurred together. Coffee became his primary food group. The apartment's silence was broken only by the clicking of keys and the hum of overworked computers. Daniel's eyes burned, but his mind remained sharp, cutting through data like a scalpel through flesh.
By 7:30 AM, he had it—a complete predictive model that not only answered the client's questions but anticipated five follow-up analyses they didn't even know they needed. It was beautiful work, the kind that would cement his reputation and probably earn him a promotion he didn't want.
Success, he had learned, was just another form of prison.
He submitted the report with two minutes to spare, then slumped back in his chair. His body ached from sitting, his eyes felt like they were full of sand, and his stomach cramped from too much caffeine and not enough food. But the work was done.
One more chapter, he decided. Just one, then he would sleep.
The latest update of "Reincarnated as the Villain's Shadow" had posted while he worked. Daniel clicked it open, settling deeper into his chair. The protagonist was finally learning to hide his true abilities, building power in secret while letting others take credit for victories. Smart. Sustainable.
Daniel's eyelids grew heavy as he read. The familiar comfort of fiction wrapped around him like a blanket—worlds where intelligence was rewarded, where careful planning led to victory, where the quiet ones could shape destiny from the shadows.
His last conscious thought was admiration for a particularly elegant bit of strategic maneuvering. The protagonist had just turned three separate enemies against each other with a single carefully placed rumor, achieving victory without anyone realizing he had been involved.
That, Daniel thought as consciousness faded, was how you played the game.
Daniel Chen died as he had lived—alone at his desk, surrounded by the fruits of his intellect and the fantasies that sustained him. His heart, weakened by years of energy drinks, stress, and eighteen-hour days, simply stopped beating at 9:47 AM on a Tuesday morning.
His body wasn't discovered for three days. His final project earned his company a multi-million-dollar contract. His apartment held over four thousand bookmarked webnovels, detailed notes on cultivation systems, strategic guides he had written for fictional worlds, and a half-finished analysis of optimal protagonist behavior patterns.
In his final moments, as synapses fired their last signals, Daniel's perfect memory catalogued everything—every story he had read, every pattern he had observed, every strategic principle he had learned. Three thousand novels' worth of knowledge compressed into pure understanding: how systems worked, how power grew, how to survive in worlds where the stakes were life and death.
His last analysis was simple and complete: if consciousness persisted beyond death, if reincarnation was possible, if he found himself in a world of magic and conflict, he would not repeat the heroes' mistakes.
He would stay in the shadows.
He would gather power quietly.
He would never let anyone see his true capabilities until the moment of absolute necessity.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he would finally find a world where being the smartest person in the room was enough.
The monitors gradually dimmed as his computers entered sleep mode, casting Daniel's still form in darkness. Three days later, when his sister finally convinced the landlord to check on him, they found a man who had died doing what he loved—analyzing, calculating, and dreaming of worlds where intelligence could reshape destiny.
But death, as Daniel's favorite novels had taught him, was not always the end.
Sometimes it was just the beginning of a more interesting story.
In a realm beyond the boundaries of Earth, where magic flowed like rivers and cultivation determined fate, a child was about to be born to House Morgen—a child who would carry within him the accumulated wisdom of three thousand stories and the perfect memory to recall every lesson they contained.
The first thread of a new destiny was about to be woven.