Theodore had lived twenty-three years in this world before he ever realized something was wrong.
He was born as Theodore von Aster, the second son of a minor noble family in the eastern part of the kingdom. His childhood was not especially tragic, nor was it happy. It was simply… ordinary. He learned how to read, how to write, how to swing a sword badly, and how to obey people stronger than him.
From a young age, Theodore knew one thing very clearly.
He was not special.
His older brother was talented with magic. His younger sister was beloved by everyone. Theodore, on the other hand, existed in the middle—too weak to shine, too useful to discard. His father rarely looked at him, and his teachers often sighed when correcting his work.
Still, Theodore tried.
He trained harder than his body could endure. He studied until his eyes burned. He volunteered for duties others avoided. He believed that effort would eventually be rewarded.
That belief followed him when he joined the Hero's Party.
At the time, he didn't understand how strange that decision was. The hero, chosen by prophecy, was gathering companions to defeat the Demon King. Warriors, mages, healers—people with talent and destiny.
Theodore had neither.
But he was there anyway.
He became the party's logistics handler at first. Then a scout. Then a shield bearer. Whatever they needed, Theodore did. He carried supplies, took watch at night, stepped forward when monsters appeared.
He was injured often.
No one thanked him.
When the mage mocked him for being slow, Theodore lowered his head.
When the hero ignored his warnings, Theodore stayed silent.
When the healer prioritized others over him, Theodore told himself it was reasonable.
After all, he was not important.
Years passed like that.
Theodore watched the hero grow famous. Watched the party gain praise. Watched songs be written about victories he had bled for.
And still, no one remembered him.
When he collapsed from exhaustion, they stepped over him.
When he suggested safer routes, they laughed.
When he was poisoned by a cursed blade, they told him to endure.
"It's fine," the hero once said, eyes already elsewhere. "You're sturdy."
That sentence stayed with him.
Sturdy.
Not valuable. Not precious.
Just hard to break.
Theodore died on a nameless battlefield.
It wasn't dramatic.
There was no final stand, no heroic sacrifice. A monster broke through the frontline, and Theodore moved on instinct, pushing the hero aside. The blow meant for the chosen one pierced Theodore's chest instead.
Pain spread slowly.
He fell.
From the ground, he saw the hero turn back only once. There was surprise on his face—nothing more.
"Noah—" the hero started, then stopped.
Noah?
Theodore tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth. His vision dimmed. The world grew quiet.
And then—
Darkness.
When Theodore opened his eyes again, there was no pain.
There was nothing at all.
He floated in an empty space, neither warm nor cold. His body was gone. Time did not exist.
For the first time in his life, he felt fear.
"What… is this?" he asked.
His voice echoed strangely.
Then words appeared before him, glowing faintly.
[System Notification]
Character: Theodore von Aster
Status: Deleted
Theodore stared.
Deleted?
The words changed.
[Cause: Narrative Redundancy]
The character is no longer required for story progression.]
"What story?" Theodore asked.
The space trembled.
And then, memories not his own rushed into him like a flood.
A book.
A webnovel.
A story he had once read in another life.
The hero.
The Demon King.
The destined companions.
And Theodore—
A background character.
A disposable support.
A name meant to be forgotten.
He saw it clearly now.
Every insult.
Every dismissal.
Every ignored injury.
They weren't accidents.
The story had never planned for him to matter.
He wasn't weak.
He was unnecessary.
"I was… written out," Theodore whispered.
The system responded coldly.
[Correction complete.]
Initiating consciousness transfer.]
"What?" Theodore shouted. "Wait—!"
The space shattered.
Pain returned.
But this time, it was different.
Small.
Sharp.
Constraining.
Theodore gasped—and inhaled air into lungs far too small to be his.
He screamed, but the sound that came out was thin and childish.
Bright light burned his eyes.
Voices surrounded him.
"He's awake!"
"The child is breathing!"
"Thank the gods…"
Theodore tried to move and realized his arms were short. Weak. His hands were tiny fists shaking in confusion.
A mirror was brought close.
Silver hair.
Pale skin.
Wide blue eyes that did not belong to Theodore von Aster.
A name echoed in his mind.
Noah.
He had been reborn.
Not as himself.
But as a child.
For several days, Noah—no, Theodore—could not think clearly.
The body was too young. His thoughts came slowly, broken by exhaustion and hunger. But as time passed, his mind stabilized.
And with it—
The memories returned.
Everything.
His life as Theodore.
The hero's party.
The contempt.
The death.
His small hands clenched.
"They used me," he thought.
At night, when no one watched, Noah stared at the ceiling and remembered faces.
The hero's indifferent eyes.
The mage's laughter.
The healer's silence.
They had walked over his dying body.
And the story had allowed it.
No.
The story had required it.
His heart filled with something dark and heavy.
Anger.
For the first time, Theodore did not suppress it.
"I won't live like that again," he promised himself.
This time, he would not be a disposable character.
This time, he would not serve a hero who saw him as a tool.
This time—
He would survive.
And then…
He would take revenge.
Against the hero.
Against the party.
Against the story that erased him.
The silver-haired boy closed his eyes.
And smiled.