The words hung in my vision like a death sentence written in cheerful blue text.
[STATUS: CRITICAL - HP 2/245]
Two. Two hit points out of two hundred and forty-five. In game terms, that was a rounding error away from a corpse. In real terms, and God, this was real, the mud was cold, the pain was searing, the blood was warm and sticky, it meant I had seconds.
Maybe less.
"System!" I tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze. Blood bubbled at my lips. "System, help! What do I do?!"
For a terrible moment, nothing happened. Just the wind and my ragged breathing and the sword lodged in my gut like some kind of sick joke. Then:
[OPENING STATUS INTERFACE]
And suddenly, my vision was filled with information. Not overlaid on reality, not transparent, it was like someone had opened a window in my mind and everything was just there, crystal clear despite the tears and the dying.
```
═══════════════════════════════════
NAME: Bram Carillon
LEVEL: 3
RACE: Human
CLASS: [Locked - Conditions Not Met]
═══════════════════════════════════
HEALTH: 2/245 [CRITICAL]
STAMINA: 8/180 [DEPLETED]
MANA: 45/45 [SEALED]
═══════════════════════════════════
STATUS EFFECTS:
▪ [Severe Bleeding] -1 HP every 30 seconds
▪ [Impaled] Movement impossible
▪ [Shock] Mental clarity reduced
▪ [Pain] All actions require extreme willpower
═══════════════════════════════════
ATTRIBUTES:
STR: 12 | VIT: 8
DEX: 14 | INT: 16
WIS: 13 | LUK: ???
═══════════════════════════════════
SKILLS:
▪ [Guide] - Unique
▪ [Swordsmanship] - Lv.2
▪ [Pain Resistance] - Lv.1
═══════════════════════════════════
INVENTORY: [3/12 slots occupied]
▪ Worn Leather Armor (equipped - damaged)
▪ Iron Sword (equipped - currently impaling user)
▪ Minor Health Potion x1
═══════════════════════════════════
TITLES: [None Acquired]
QUESTS: [!] URGENT - Survive [0:04:21 remaining]
═══════════════════════════════════
```
My eyes, Bram's eyes, whatever, locked onto one line.
Minor Health Potion x1
"The potion," I gasped. My vision was darkening at the edges. "How... how do I..."
[HP: 2/245 → 1/245]
Oh God. Oh God, no.
"POTION!" I screamed in my mind, desperate, terrified. "GIVE ME THE POTION!"
[MENTAL COMMAND ACCEPTED]
[RETRIEVING: MINOR HEALTH POTION]
There was a shimmer in the air beside my hand, like heat distortion, and then suddenly there was weight. Cold glass. I nearly dropped it, my fingers were slick with blood and shaking so badly I could barely grip anything, but somehow, somehow, I held on.
A small vial. Red liquid inside, glowing faintly even in the gray light. The cork was sealed with wax.
My hands wouldn't cooperate. I tried to pull the cork and my fingers just slipped. Tried again. Nothing. The world was going gray and distant and I could feel myself fading, actually feel consciousness slipping away like water through my fingers.
No. No, not like this. Not when I'm so close.
I brought the vial to my mouth and bit down on the cork. Tasted wax and blood and dirt. Pulled with my teeth, jerking my head back.
The cork came free.
I spat it out and tilted the vial to my lips, and that's when everything changed.
"Notice. Current HP critical. Recommended immediate consumption of health potion."
I froze.
That wasn't text. That was a voice. In my head. Clear and calm and utterly, impossibly real.
"You, " I choked, ", you can TALK?!"
"Affirmative. I am the Guide System assigned to user Bram Carillon. Query: Will you consume the potion?"
The clinical tone, the structured speech, the complete lack of emotion, it reminded me of those AI assistants you'd find in sci-fi games, except this one was in my brain and I was still actively dying.
[HP: 1/245]
[WARNING: CONSCIOUSNESS FADE IN 10 SECONDS]
"Right! Yes! Drinking it now!"
I tilted the vial back and the liquid hit my tongue.
It tasted like... I don't even know how to describe it. Liquid starlight, maybe. Spring water mixed with lightning. Cool and electric and alive. It slid down my throat and I felt it immediately, a warmth that started in my chest and exploded outward.
[HP: 1 → 18 → 35 → 53...]
The numbers climbed in my vision, and with them came sensation. Not the absence of pain, God, the pain was still there, but something else. Energy. Life. My heart, which had been fluttering weakly, suddenly beat strong and steady. My lungs expanded fully for the first time since I'd woken up.
"Notice. Healing effect active. Optimal window for foreign object removal: 7 seconds. Commencing countdown."
Foreign object. It took my brain a second to process that clinical terminology.
The sword. The sword in my stomach.
"Oh no. No, no, no, "
"Six seconds. Recommendation: Remove impaling object while healing factor is active. Failure to do so will result in prolonged recovery time and increased infection risk."
[HP: 53 → 70 → 85...]
My hands, steadier now but still shaking, moved to the sword handle. The leather grip was slick with my blood. The blade was iron, crude, the kind of mass-produced military issue that you'd arm conscripts with. It had punched through the leather armor, through skin and muscle, and,
I couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about what it had gone through or where it was sitting or what would happen when I pulled it out.
"Four seconds."
"This is going to hurt, isn't it?"
"Correct. Estimated pain level: Extreme. Probability of user screaming: 97.3%."
"Oh, that's just, that's NOT HELPFUL!"
"Two seconds."
I gripped the handle with both hands. Took a breath.
"Fuck it."
I pulled.
"..."
The scream that tore from my throat wasn't human. It was animal, raw, the sound of every nerve ending in my body firing at once. The blade scraped against bone, I felt it scrape against bone, and blood gushed hot and terrible, and for one horrible moment I was certain I'd just killed myself, that this was it, that I'd die here with a sword in my hands and mud in my mouth.
But the warmth kept spreading.
[HP: 70 → 85 → 102 → 118...]
[STATUS EFFECT CHANGED: SEVERE BLEEDING → MINOR BLEEDING]
The sword came free with a wet, sucking sound that I'll probably hear in nightmares for the rest of my life, however long that turns out to be. It clattered to the ground beside me, dark with blood. I collapsed back, gasping, sobbing, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
But I was alive.
The wound was still there, I could feel it, a horrible aching void in my abdomen, but it was closing. Actually closing. I watched in horrified fascination as the torn edges of flesh began to knit together, slow but steady, the flow of blood reducing to a trickle.
"Report. Survival achieved. Quest complete. HP stabilized at 124/245."
[QUEST COMPLETE: SURVIVE]
[REWARD: 50 EXP]
[ADDITIONAL REWARD: SKILL GAINED - PAIN RESISTANCE LV.1 → LV.2]
I lay there in the mud, trembling, staring up at the gray sky. Clouds drifted past, utterly indifferent to the fact that I'd just experienced the worst pain of my life. Lives. Whatever.
"You..." My voice was hoarse, wrecked. "You're really sentient. You're not just... you're not just a game interface."
"Affirmative. I am Guide System. My function is to assist user Bram Carillon in navigating the world of Teluca. Though I note your designation appears to be subject to modification."
There was something almost... curious in that last part. As clinical as the voice was, that felt like a question.
"I'm not Bram," I said quietly. "I'm Viktor. Viktor Chen. I was... I was someone else. Somewhere else."
"Acknowledged. Analysis indicates soul transference event. Current designation: Viktor Chen inhabiting vessel of Bram Carillon. Updating user preferences. Query: How shall I address you?"
The question was so unexpectedly considerate that I almost laughed. Almost. Everything hurt too much for actual laughter.
"Viktor. Just... just Viktor."
"Understood. Preference recorded. Welcome to Teluca, Viktor."
I closed my eyes. Opened them. The gray sky was still there. The pain was still there. The impossible system voice in my head was still there.
"This is real," I whispered. "This is actually real."
"Correct. Initial scans suggest full sensory integration. Pain receptors functioning at 100%. Temperature regulation normal. Proprioception calibrated. Conclusion: This is not a dream, hallucination, or simulation. This is material reality."
"Great. That's... that's just great." I pressed my hands to my face. They came away bloody. Everything was bloody. "Do I have his memories? Bram's memories?"
"Negative. Soul transference resulted in complete consciousness replacement. No memory integration detected. User retains only Viktor Chen's original memories and knowledge. Note: This presents significant challenges for social integration."
Of course. Of course it did. I was wearing a stranger's body in a medieval fantasy world where I knew the overarching plot but nothing about the actual lived details. No family history. No personal relationships. No idea what Bram's life had been like before today.
Before I took it over.
The thought made me nauseous.
"Why do I have you?" I asked the sky, the system, the universe. "Why a system? Is this normal? Do other people have this?"
"Answer: Insufficient data to provide complete explanation. However, analysis of skill list indicates unique skill [Guide] manifested upon soul transference. Working theory: [Guide] is survival mechanism, possibly triggered by dimensional translation event. No records exist of similar phenomena in Teluca's documented history. Conclusion: You are an anomaly."
"An anomaly. Right. Because my life, lives, weren't weird enough already."
I sat up slowly. Every muscle protested. The wound in my stomach was closed now, reduced to angry red scar tissue that looked weeks old rather than minutes. The Minor Health Potion had been earned its "minor" designation, it had kept me alive, but it hadn't fully healed me.
[HP: 124/245]
[STAMINA: 45/180]
[STATUS EFFECT: BATTLE FATIGUE - Recovery rate reduced by 30%]
For the first time, I really looked at my surroundings.
I was on a battlefield.
Not the middle of active combat, but the aftermath. Bodies lay scattered across the churned mud, some in the simple leather and iron of common soldiers, others in the darker armor of... what? The enemy? I didn't know. Weapons littered the ground, swords, spears, a shattered shield with an emblem I didn't recognize. Smoke rose in thin columns from several points across the field. The smell of blood and worse things hung heavy in the air.
I'd read about battlefields. Seen them in movies and games. Read descriptive passages in dozens of fantasy novels, including Rise of Hero.
None of it had prepared me for the reality.
The sheer waste of it. All these people, dead. Just gone. And for what?
"Where am I?" I asked quietly. "When am I?"
"Report. Current location: Disputed Border Region, Northern Reach, approximately 40 kilometers south of the Kaldrin Pass. Current date: 3rd of Emberfall, Year 1247 of the Third Age. Time until Hero Beckham Morwen's prophesied awakening: 18 months, 3 days, 7 hours."
My heart stopped.
Eighteen months.
Eighteen months until the story actually began. Until Beckham Morwen, peasant farmboy, would touch the Sword of Covenant and be revealed as the Chosen One. Until the Rise of Hero I'd read began in earnest.
Which meant...
"I'm in the pre-story," I breathed. "The setup phase. The world before the hero arrives."
"Correct. Current timeline exists prior to documented narrative events. Note: This provides significant opportunity for preparation and positioning."
I almost laughed. Preparation and positioning. Like this was a strategy game and not actual life and death. Except... except maybe that was exactly how I needed to think about it.
I knew this world. Not intimately, not the daily details, but the broad strokes. I knew the major events. I knew which kingdoms would fall and which would rise. I knew where the dungeons were, the powerful artifacts, the key players.
And I knew how the original Bram Carillon died.
"System, Guide, " I caught myself. "What should I call you?"
"Designation is user preference. 'System' is acceptable. 'Guide' is acceptable. Alternative suggestions: 'Assistant,' 'Interface,' 'Companion.'"
"Guide," I decided. Something about it felt right. "Guide, what do you know about Bram Carillon's fate? His original fate?"
"Accessing records. Information is limited. Source: User Viktor Chen's memories of reading 'Rise of Hero.' Relevant passage: Chapter 347, brief mention of casualty report. Citation: 'Among the fallen was Bram Carillon, a soldier of the third battalion.' Context: Minor skirmish during the Demonic Incursion's early phase. Death occurred approximately 18 months, 2 days from current date."
So today wasn't supposed to be my death day. Bram's death day. Whatever.
Bram was supposed to survive this battle, serve for another year and a half, and then die in some forgotten skirmish that didn't even get a full scene. Just a name in a casualty list.
"Timeline divergence," I murmured. "I already changed things just by surviving this."
"Correct. Survival of this encounter constitutes deviation from documented narrative. Butterfly effect probability: High. Recommendation: Proceed with caution. Unknown variables increasing."
I looked down at my hands again. Younger than Viktor Chen's hands. Too smooth for a soldier.
This was my body now. My life. My chance.
"Guide," I said slowly, standing up on shaking legs. "What do you know about Beckham Morwen?"
"Answer. Beckham Morwen: Prophesied Hero. Current status: Unawakened. Occupation: Farmer's son in the village of Millhaven, Western Reach. Destiny: Unite the fractured kingdoms against the Demonic Incursion. Defeat the Demon King. Known attributes: Exceptional swordsmanship, light affinity magic, tactical genius, plot armor, "
"Wait, did you just say plot armor?"
"Affirmative. Analysis of narrative structure suggests protagonist Beckham Morwen possesses improbable survival and success rates. Classified as 'plot armor' in metafictional analysis. Note: As an anomaly, user Viktor may possess similar protection. Data insufficient to confirm."
I couldn't help it. I laughed. It hurt, everything hurt, but I laughed anyway. Here I was, standing in a field of corpses, talking to an AI system in my brain about plot armor in a world that used to be fiction.
What the hell was my life?
"I read this story," I said, more to myself than to Guide. "I know what happens. I know who dies. Who suffers. Who gets wasted by lazy writing and shock value deaths."
"Acknowledged. User possesses metaknowledge of major narrative events. Strategic value: Extremely high. Query: What is user's intention?"
I looked out across the battlefield. At the waste. At the casualties. At a world that would spend the next several years being torn apart by demons and human politics while a farmboy slowly leveled up to save everyone.
How many people would die in that time? How many characters with potential would be cut down for drama? How many Bram Carillons would become single lines in casualty reports?
"I'm going to change it," I said quietly. "All of it. If I'm stuck in this world as a throwaway extra, then I'll rewrite the whole damn story."
There was a pause. Then:
"Acknowledged. Proposal: Generate quest [Rewrite Fate - Rank: Unknown]. Warning: Success probability cannot be calculated. Variables exceed computational capacity. Risks include but not limited to: Death, catastrophic timeline collapse, universal narrative destabilization, paradox cascade, angering potential divine entities governing story structure. Query: Does user accept?"
I stared at the prompt that appeared in my vision:
[QUEST OFFERED: REWRITE FATE]
[RANK: UNKNOWN]
[REWARD: UNKNOWN]
[FAILURE PENALTY: CATASTROPHIC]
[ACCEPT?] [DECLINE?]
It was insane. Absolutely insane. I was level 3. I had half my health. I was standing in a body I'd inhabited for maybe ten minutes. I didn't know the language, the culture, the daily realities of this world. I was one wrong word away from being exposed as an imposter.
But I knew the story. And the story was wasteful and cruel and so many people deserved better.
People like Bram Carillon, who'd been a throwaway line.
"Yeah," I said. "I accept."
[QUEST ACCEPTED: REWRITE FATE]
[OBJECTIVE: CHANGE THE STORY]
[PROGRESS: 0.01% - YOU SURVIVED]
"Understood. Quest parameters recorded. Note: This is likely the most ambitious quest in Teluca's history. Additional note: User should be proud. Final note: User should vacate area immediately. Enemy patrols detected approaching from northwest. Estimated arrival: 12 minutes."
My eyes went wide. "What?! You're telling me this NOW?!"
"Affirmative. Survival took priority over tactical information. Time spent discussing narrative theory: 4 minutes, 17 seconds. Time remaining before hostile contact: 11 minutes, 43 seconds. Recommendation: Begin movement immediately. Addendum: User may wish to acquire weapon and supplies before departure."
"Oh, you think?!"
I grabbed the sword that had been impaling me, ironically, it was the best weapon in reach, and looked around frantically. There had to be something useful here. Supplies. Equipment. Something.
[QUEST UPDATED: SURVIVE]
[NEW OBJECTIVE: ESCAPE THE BATTLEFIELD]
[TIME LIMIT: 11:38]
"I hate you sometimes, you know that?" I muttered, limping toward the nearest body, trying not to look at the dead man's face.
"Noted. However, hatred is not conducive to survival. Recommendation: Focus on looting efficiency. Enemy approach detected from multiple directions now. Revised time limit: 10 minutes."
"WHAT?!"
I started running, well, limping quickly, and Guide's calm voice provided a soundtrack of cheerful disaster updates.
"Notice: User stamina depleting rapidly. Notice: Additional enemy scouts detected. Notice: Probability of successful escape decreasing. Recommendation: Run faster."
"I'm TRYING!"
And that's how my second life in Teluca really began: sprinting away from an army, half-dead, arguing with a sarcastic system, with absolutely no idea what I was doing.
But I was alive.
And I was going to stay that way.