The steady beep of the heart monitor had become my metronome—a cruel reminder that even my heartbeat wasn't entirely my own anymore. It needed supervision, mechanical assurance that it wouldn't just... stop.
I lay in the king-sized bed of my room—my prison—staring at the vaulted ceiling with its hand-painted frescoes of angels and clouds. Ironic, really. My parents had commissioned it when I was eight, back when they still believed money could fix anything. Including me.
Spoiler alert: it couldn't.
Type 1 diabetes. Brittle diabetes, they called it. The kind that didn't play by the rules, that laughed at insulin pumps and continuous glucose monitors. The kind that turned your body into a ticking time bomb, where every meal was a calculated risk and every tomorrow was a maybe.
I was twenty-three years old, and I was dying.
The door to my room creaked open—not the main door, but the side entrance that connected to the family wing. Only one person used that door.
"Jake, you awake?" Marcus's voice cut through the silence, followed by his lanky frame slipping inside. My younger brother, twenty years old, carrying his ever-present laptop and wearing that ridiculous gaming headset around his neck like a fashion statement.
"Do I look asleep?" I rasped, my voice sandpaper-rough. Even talking exhausted me these days.
Marcus grinned, unbothered by my tone. He'd developed immunity to my particular brand of asshole over the years. "Fair point. You look like death warmed over, but definitely conscious."
"Your bedside manner needs work."
"Good thing I'm not going to med school then." He dropped into the leather armchair beside my bed, the one that had molded itself to his shape over countless hours of him camping out in my room. "Besides, you'd hate it if I started tiptoeing around you with fake sympathy."
He wasn't wrong. I'd take Marcus's brutal honesty over Mother's tearful visits or Father's stoic disappointment any day.
"What are you playing today?" I asked, because it was easier than talking about the fact that my latest blood work had come back worse than before, or that Dr. Harrison had pulled Father aside for a "private conversation" that everyone knew meant prepare for the worst.
Marcus's face lit up—it always did when anyone asked about his games. "Oh man, you're going to love this. Or hate it. Probably hate it, actually, since you think all games are a waste of time."
"I don't think they're a waste of time. I think you waste time on them when you could be—"
"Living my life? Enjoying my youth? Not being a workaholic like Father?" Marcus interrupted, his grin widening. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard the lecture. But seriously, this game is different. It's called Advent of the Six Disasters, and it's insane."
Despite myself, I felt a flicker of curiosity. Marcus had cycled through hundreds of games over the years, but he rarely used the word "insane" unless something genuinely impressed him.
"Insane how?"
He leaned forward, that manic energy he got when talking about his obsessions crackling around him. "Okay, so the premise is that the world—Cyna, it's called—is ruled by these six beings called Disasters. Not ruled, exactly. More like... they exist on a level so far beyond everyone else that they're basically walking apocalypses. Each one has an affinity so powerful that just their presence can reshape reality."
"Sounds original," I said dryly.
"Shut up, I'm getting to the good part. So you play as this hero, Arielle De Luna, and you're basically climbing from nothing to godhood, taking down villains, saving kingdoms, the whole power fantasy thing. But here's the twist—the world is actual dark fantasy. Like, the game doesn't pull punches. Characters die. Permanently. Your choices matter. And the power scaling is brutal. You're not just fighting bandits and goblins; you're dealing with demonic cults, fallen noble houses, corrupt kingdoms, and eventually, you have to contend with the Disasters themselves."
"Mmm." I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. This was nice, in its own way. Normal. Marcus talking my ear off about some game I'd never play.
"There's this one character in the first arc," Marcus continued, "Leon De Stellis. He's from the Lourven Domain, this disgraced ducal family that's in bed with demons. The guy is supposed to be this genius swordsman, total prodigy, but he's also the arc's villain. You fight him at the Astral Academy entrance exam, and when you beat him, you absorb his potential and unlock your first major power spike. He's textbook cannon fodder—looks cool, talks big, dies to make the protagonist stronger."
Leon De Stellis. Even the name sounded like it belonged to some tragic anime villain.
"Let me guess," I said, "he's got tragic backstory reasons for being evil, but the game doesn't care because protagonist needs their power-up?"
Marcus laughed. "Basically. Though the game hints that if he'd lived, he could've been something special. His potential was off the charts according to the lore entries. But nah, he dies in the first arc, and Arielle moves on to bigger threats."
"Waste of a character."
"Right? That's what I said! The forums are full of people wishing he'd been a recruitable ally or something. But the devs were pretty clear—Leon dies. That's his role. He's an extra who happened to have a name and a face."
An extra. I knew something about that. Being an extra in your own life, watching from the sidelines as your body betrayed you, as your family's vast wealth and connections meant nothing against the fundamental injustice of bad genetics.
"You should see his character design, though," Marcus pulled out his phone, scrolling through screenshots. "Dude looks like he walked out of a high-fashion magazine. Long black hair, violet eyes, that whole tortured pretty-boy aesthetic. Very different from Arielle's whole 'sunshine hero' thing."
He showed me the screen. And yeah, Leon De Stellis was objectively stunning in that unreal, video game way. Sharp aristocratic features, an expression of cold arrogance, dressed in black and silver like he was attending a funeral. His own, probably.
"He looks like an asshole," I observed.
"He is! That's part of his charm. He treats everyone like they're beneath him, has this whole 'I'm a fallen noble but still better than you peasants' attitude. Makes it extra satisfying when Arielle puts him in his place."
I snorted, which turned into a cough. Not a bad one—not yet—but Marcus's expression shifted immediately from enthusiastic to concerned.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I lied, because what else was I supposed to say? No, Marcus, I'm not okay, I'm dying and we both know it and there's nothing anyone can do about it?
He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. Instead, he spent the next hour walking me through the game's lore—the six Disasters and their domains, the magic system based on mana pools and affinities, the various kingdoms and factions of Cyna. He talked about Arielle's journey, the companions she gathered, the epic boss fights.
I listened, absorbing details I'd never use, about a world I'd never see.
It was better than thinking about tomorrow's appointment with the specialist. The one Mother had scheduled with that desperate edge to her voice. The one that everyone knew was a Hail Mary.
Eventually, Marcus left, promising to visit again tomorrow. He said it casually, like it was guaranteed. Like tomorrow was a sure thing.
I wanted to believe him.
---
The next day started badly.
I woke up at 3 AM, my body screaming alerts I'd learned to decode over years of practice. Blood sugar crashing. I fumbled for my glucose meter with shaking hands, pricked my finger, waited for the readout.
47 mg/dL.
Shit.
I reached for the glucose tablets on my nightstand, my movements sluggish, uncoordinated. Chewed four of them, their chalky sweetness coating my tongue. Then I waited, counting seconds, willing my body to cooperate.
By 4 AM, I'd stabilized at 110 mg/dL. By 5 AM, I was at 250 mg/dL, because of course my body had overcorrected. I administered insulin, did the math that had become second nature, and tried to go back to sleep.
I couldn't.
So I lay there, watching the sunrise paint my ceiling in shades of gold and rose, thinking about Marcus's game. About Leon De Stellis, the cannon fodder villain with wasted potential. About Arielle De Luna, the hero who got to be strong, who got to matter.
About how unfair it was that some people got to be protagonists, and others were just... extras.
Background noise in someone else's story.
By noon, I felt worse. That deep, bone-level exhaustion that meant something was wrong beyond the usual daily crisis. My chest hurt. My breathing felt shallow.
Dr. Harrison came. Ran tests. Spoke in that carefully neutral tone doctors used when the news was bad but they didn't want to cause panic.
"Jake, your kidney function has declined significantly. And your latest labs show—"
I stopped listening. I'd heard enough medical jargon over the years to know when they were dancing around the core truth: my body was shutting down.
Father stood by the window, his back rigid, hands clasped behind him like he was surveying his corporate empire instead of his dying son. Mother sat beside my bed, holding my hand, her perfectly manicured nails digging in just slightly too tight.
Marcus wasn't there. He had class. They'd tell him later.
That was probably better.
"—several treatment options, though I'll be honest, at this stage, we're looking at management rather than cure. The transplant list is—"
"How long?" I interrupted.
Dr. Harrison paused. He'd always been straight with me, respected that I preferred brutal truth over comfortable lies. "Hard to say. Could be months. Could be weeks. Your condition is... volatile."
Volatile. Brittle. Unstable. Just different words for the same thing: broken.
They left eventually, after more discussions about treatments I was too tired to follow. Mother kissed my forehead, her tears warm against my skin. Father squeezed my shoulder, the most affection he'd shown me in years.
Then I was alone.
The afternoon bled into evening. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body a distant, malfunctioning thing I barely recognized as my own. I thought about Leon De Stellis again, for some reason. Thought about how at least he got to go out in a blaze of glory, defeated in combat by a hero.
There was something almost dignified about that.
Better than drowning slowly in your own failing body.
Around 10 PM, I felt it. That shift. That fundamental wrongness that went beyond pain or discomfort into something deeper, more primal.
My chest tightened. Not like usual. Worse.
I tried to reach for the call button, but my arm wouldn't cooperate. Everything was becoming distant, wrapped in cotton. The heart monitor's beeping changed pitch, turned erratic.
Then the coughing started.
It came from deep in my chest, violent and uncontrollable. I tasted copper—blood—hot and thick in my mouth. I couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe. Each cough tore through my lungs like they were being shredded from the inside.
Blood splattered across my pristine white sheets, shocking red against virgin white.
No.
More coughing. More blood. My vision started to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges.
Not like this.
I heard shouting. Footsteps. The door slamming open. Mother's scream. Father's commanding voice barking orders. Medical staff flooding in.
But it was all so far away now.
The coughing reached a crescendo. I felt something fundamental tear inside my chest—a wet, horrible sensation of things collapsing that should never collapse.
My lungs.
Oh.
The pain was exquisite and distant all at once, like it was happening to someone else. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't cough anymore. Couldn't do anything but drown in my own blood.
I saw Marcus's face swim into view, younger than his twenty years, terrified. He was saying something, but I couldn't hear it over the roaring in my ears.
Sorry, little brother. I tried to stick around.
Darkness rushed in, and I stopped fighting.
---
Cold.
That was my first sensation. Not the sterile cold of a hospital, but something else. Natural. Like stone and earth.
I opened my eyes.
Wrong ceiling.
Not my ceiling with its angels and clouds. This ceiling was rough-hewn stone, ancient and weathered. Torches flickered in sconces, casting dancing shadows.
What—
I sat up.
No tubes. No monitors. No pain.
I looked down at my hands. Pale skin, elegant fingers, not the slightly swollen, bruised things I'd gotten used to from constant needle sticks and IVs.
My hands.
But not my hands.
Panic spiked through me. I scrambled up—and I could scramble, my body responded with a fluid grace I'd never possessed, not even before the diabetes—and found a mirror hanging on the stone wall.
The face staring back at me was not Jake Cornelli.
Long raven-black hair fell past shoulders that were broader than mine had been. Sharp, aristocratic features that could've been carved from marble. And eyes—violet eyes—that gleamed with an intensity that was both beautiful and slightly unsettling.
Leon De Stellis.
No. No, that's—that's not possible. This isn't—
Memories that weren't mine flooded in. Growing up in Lourven Domain. Training with the blade. The weight of a disgraced family name. The cold political calculations of a noble house dealing with demons. Seventeen years of a life I'd never lived.
But also: Jake Cornelli. Twenty-three years. Diabetes. Marcus. Mother and Father. Death.
Two sets of memories, two identities, crashing together in my skull like tectonic plates.
I staggered, pressed my hand against the cold stone wall to steady myself. My breathing—easy, effortless, my lungs working perfectly—came in rapid gasps anyway as my mind tried to process the impossible.
I died.
I died, and I woke up in Marcus's game.
As the cannon fodder villain.
This is insane. This isn't real. I'm hallucinating. This is some dying brain fever dream, or I'm in a coma, or—
A sound cut through my spiraling thoughts. Not a sound, exactly. More like a sensation. Like reality itself was... opening.
And then I saw it.
Text. Hovering in the air in front of me, glowing with a soft blue light that had no visible source. Words that shouldn't exist, in a format I recognized from countless RPGs Marcus had shown me.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[DETECTING HOST...]
[HOST DETECTED: LEON DE STELLIS]
[ANALYZING SOUL SIGNATURE...]
[ANOMALY DETECTED: FOREIGN SOUL MERGED WITH HOST]
[DESIGNATION: TRANSMIGRATOR]
[CALCULATING SURVIVAL PROBABILITY...]
[CURRENT SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 0.003%]
[REASON: HOST SCHEDULED FOR TERMINATION IN FIRST STORY ARC]
[SOLUTION: SYSTEM INTEGRATION]
[PURPOSE: ENSURE HOST SURVIVAL AND EVOLUTION]
[ULTIMATE QUEST INITIALIZED: BECOME THE SEVENTH DISASTER]
[DO YOU ACCEPT SYSTEM INTEGRATION?]
[WARNING: REFUSAL WILL RESULT IN DEATH AS PER ORIGINAL TIMELINE]
[YES] [NO]
I stared at the floating text, my mind still reeling.
Original timeline. Termination. 0.003% survival probability.
Leon De Stellis died in the first arc. Killed by Arielle De Luna at the Astral Academy entrance exam. I—he—we—had maybe weeks. Maybe days.
I'd already died once. Drowned in my own blood, my body finally giving up after years of fighting.
I wasn't doing that again.
Even if it meant accepting this insanity. Even if it meant becoming something called a "Disaster"—those world-ending beings Marcus had described with awe and terror.
I'd take anything over dying again.
I reached out with a hand that still didn't feel entirely like mine and touched [YES].
The text flared brilliant white, and I felt something fundamental shift inside me. Not painful, but profound. Like someone had reached into the core of my being and rewired it.
[SYSTEM INTEGRATION COMPLETE]
[WELCOME, LEON DE STELLIS]
[DISPLAYING STATUS]
And then, hovering before me in crisp, glowing text, I saw myself:
---
[STATUS DISPLAY]
NAME: Leon De Stellis
AGE: 17
RANK: Mortal (Low, 0%)
POTENTIAL: Paradox
[The highest tier of potential. Your growth defies conventional limitations. Where others see ceilings, you see stepping stones.]
AFFINITY: [??????]
[Your true affinity is currently locked. Progress through the system to reveal.]
ATTRIBUTES:
- Strength: 12
- Agility: 15
- Endurance: 13
- Mana Pool: 10
- Mana Control: 8
- Intelligence: 18
- Wisdom: 16
- Charisma: 14
TALENTS: [NONE]
[Complete quests and training to acquire skills and techniques.]
SYSTEM FEATURES:
- Quest System [ACTIVE]
- Status Display [ACTIVE]
- Inventory [LOCKED - Unlock at Initiate Rank]
- Shop [LOCKED - Unlock at Adept Rank]
- [ADDITIONAL FEATURES LOCKED]
CURRENT QUEST:
[SURVIVE THE ASTRAL ACADEMY ENTRANCE EXAM]
- Difficulty: A-Rank
- Time Limit: 15 Days
- Reward: Advancement to Initiate Rank (Low, 10%), Basic Combat Skill
- Failure: Death
ULTIMATE QUEST:
[BECOME THE SEVENTH DISASTER]
- Difficulty: EX-Rank
- Time Limit: None
- Reward: Transcendence, Immortality, Power Beyond Mortal Comprehension
- Failure: Permanent Death
---
I stared at the display, my mind racing.
Fifteen days until Arielle De Luna killed Leon De Stellis.
Fifteen days to become strong enough to survive.
And beyond that, an impossible goal: become a Disaster. Transcend all mortal ranks, reach a level of power that only six beings in all of Cyna had achieved.
The old Jake Cornelli would've called it insane. Would've looked at those odds and despaired.
But Jake Cornelli was dead.
I was Leon De Stellis now. A disgraced noble from a demon-dealing family, a cannon fodder villain with paradox potential and a system that promised survival in exchange for evolution.
I'd spent twenty-three years as an extra in my own life, watching from the sidelines as my body failed me.
Not anymore.
If I was going to exist in this world, I was going to matter. I was going to survive. And if that meant becoming a Disaster—a being of such overwhelming power that reality itself bent to my will—then so be it.
I'd died once already.
This time, I was going to live.
A cold smile spread across Leon De Stellis's perfect aristocratic features, and I felt it—felt the merger of Jake's sardonic determination and Leon's arrogant pride settling into something new.
Something dangerous.
"Alright, System," I said aloud, my voice carrying that same raspy quality but stronger now, backed by functioning lungs and a body that didn't betray me with every breath. "Let's see what you've got. Show me how to survive."
[DISPLAYING FIRST QUEST DETAILS...]
The text shifted, revealing my path forward, and despite everything—the impossibility, the insanity, the sheer weight of what lay ahead—I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
And beneath it, sharper and more familiar: the arrogant certainty that I could do this.
That I would do this.
After all, I'd already survived the impossible once.
What was one more miracle?