Philip opened his eyes and stared at the castle for the third time. It was his third day in this new world, and he was still trying to make sense of it all.
"Okay… breathe. Maybe it's just a dream," he muttered, recalling the hundreds of transmigration novels he'd read over the years. There was always a powerful hero, always someone reincarnated in a beautiful body or filled with magical powers. Never, ever, did anyone become… the kingdom's technical support.
He moved his arms, still in disbelief."No fancy body, no special powers… just me, with my useless call center experience."
A goblin ran past, tripping over a stack of glowing scrolls filled with magical numbers and forms."First ticket of the day, Mr. Hartwell! It's about the potion that exploded in the alchemy lab again!"
Philip took a deep breath, and for the first time felt the real weight of reincarnation: this had nothing to do with romance, or glorious adventure. It was… work. Work again. Only now with dragons and explosions.
As he walked down the castle's floating corridor, Philip's inner voice started grumbling at every absurd detail."Seriously, I read novels where the person becomes the supreme hero, or a prince, or at least an amazing mage. But no… they gave me… magical spreadsheets and support tickets. Whoever writes these fantasy stories is clearly lying."
An elf passed by, stumbling slightly, invisible to everyone but Philip, and muttered:"Ah, you must be the new support… I heard you even fix stuck spells."
Philip scratched his head, trying to look calm, but all he could do was sigh. The worst part—what made him want to die again, and ironically made him the best technical support in the magical kingdom—was the fact that he was immune to magic.
Yes, immune. No spell affected him, no potion worked on him, no enchantment reacted. For anyone else, this would be an enviable gift; for him, it was a functional nightmare. In a world where even forms were enchanted and doors opened with magic words, being immune to magic was like having the Wi-Fi blocked in a digital office.
"Of course, the universe never gives me an easy job," he muttered, trying to activate a teleportation portal that, predictably, didn't respond. He had to walk. Walk. In a castle where even the crows used teleportation to deliver mail.
The elf, still invisible, kept stumbling behind him."This is… impressive. I mean, you're unaffected by curses, spells, or illusions.""Yeah. I also don't open doors, can't see magical menus, and can't order lunch in the enchanted cafeteria. A blessing."
He noticed the looks of the support creatures turning to him with a mix of curiosity and quiet respect. Some called him "the Untouchable," others "the system bug." Philip preferred "employee who didn't ask for this."
But as the day went on, he started noticing the useful side of his condition. Uncontrolled potions didn't hit him, magical explosions pushed him but didn't harm him, and he could touch cursed objects without turning to stone—something the security department seemed to find miraculous.
The problem was that not being affected by magic also meant he didn't fully understand how it worked. He could only observe, deduce, and improvise. He was a technician fixing a computer without a monitor—just the sound of the gears to guide him. Still, he made it work. He always made it work.
And when night fell over the castle and the floating orbs in the towers began to flicker, Philip leaned back in the floating chair (which, of course, didn't float for him)."Congratulations, Hartwell," he muttered to himself."The only man in a magical world who can't use magic… and yet, the only one who keeps this place running."
For some reason, that irony made him laugh.