Intense mental shock and fear, mingled with confusion and incomprehension, roiled my inner self, driving me far too easily into a full-blown panic.
"No, ha, what the..."
My broken, stuttering voice echoed hollowly, perfectly mirroring my drifting emotions.
Looking around, it was a world of utter unfamiliarity.
A room I'd never seen.
Furniture I'd never seen.
Scattered liquor bottles and cigarettes.
Exotic luxury.
"..."
In the center of that needlessly vast and gaudy room, I wiped away cold sweat and desperately tried to pull together my fear-eaten mind, but it was no use.
No matter how closely I examined it, I couldn't tell where I was.
Even the air carried an alien sense of wrongness, and on top of that, an intuition unlike anything I'd ever felt in my life clung to the edge of my mind, stoking impatience and urgency.
And once I noticed the abnormality in my own body, I completely lost it.
"Who the hell is this."
A mirror came into view.
The unfamiliar man reflected inside... had a face drained pale as death, his expression locked rigid, perfectly capturing my current mindset.
Strangely, amazingly, the man moved in perfect sync with me.
Move an arm, and the man in the mirror did the same. Open my mouth, and his opened too.
"Ha... hahaha..."
The unfamiliar breeds unfamiliar fear.
But this was over the top.
Not some shallow scare that jolts and fades—this was a terror that deepened, growing richer with every passing second, every rumination.
The alien horror of something existing that could control my very being at will.
The horror that even now, that something might be watching me, deciding how to toy with me.
The horror of my diligently lived life being erased in an instant.
"Huff, huff... ugh..."
My mind pushed to the brink soon ravaged my body too: severe dizziness, ringing ears, erratic heartbeat, cold sweat, twitching limbs, labored breathing... and soon enough, I blacked out.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
No matter how I denied it, no matter how terrified I was, no matter how many times I fainted, reality refused to budge.
Unfamiliar place, unfamiliar air... unfamiliar body, unfamiliar sensations.
Huddled in the corner of the room, my dazed mind and limp body contemplating it all, I suddenly realized something.
The surroundings looked familiar somehow.
My changed appearance felt like something I'd seen before.
"...Ah, so that's what it is."
I'd been possessed.
Just like some cliché web novel trope.
This was the game world made real, and I'd become one of its characters.
"Ha... fuck. This is absurd..."
Gulp.
I let out a hollow laugh as I took a swig from the strong liquor clutched in my hand.
Why me, of all people?
I hadn't bombarded the devs or GMs with essays, hadn't cheesed glitches or bugs, wasn't some elite ranker.
Just a regular player who'd sunk years into Origin World, enjoying it thoroughly.
"Why... why fucking me..."
Origin World was the one game I'd obsessively played for years without burnout.
Top-tier gameplay, pulse-pounding action, rock-solid lore, intricate details, gripping story... even visual novel vibes.
It nailed every one of my tastes.
So I didn't just play—I collected merch, devoured the short story collections, and pored over all 15 massive setting tomes, each clocking over 3,000 pages.
Every scrap of foreknowledge, backstory, side tales unrelated to the main plot, even axed scenarios—I read it all, remembered it all. That's how hooked I was.
"Don't tell me it's because of that...?"
I mulled it over briefly, then shook my head.
Origin World was popular enough that diehards like me, who'd plumbed its depths, were a dime a dozen.
Plenty knew lore I'd missed, so no sense dragging me here and ignoring them.
"Haa..."
Infuriating, exasperating, rage-inducing—but venting wouldn't change a damn thing.
So, accepting the situation? Doable, even through the bile rising in my throat.
But the real kicker came next.
"'I'... what the hell's my deal."
If my mind and soul got yanked into Origin World, what happened to the real me—Kang Han-gil back in South Korea?
Dead? Or poofed out of existence like some web novel hack? Or did this body's original owner, Starnassila Alzen, swap into my body?
"...Fuck."
The curse slipped out on reflex.
I had zero gripes with my real life.
Parents healthy, siblings on good terms, never wanted for cash.
No mental or physical issues—hell, good job, cute girlfriend, cozy life... pretty damn happy.
"And now... suddenly live in this body? So my whole life before was what—jack shit?"
Never see family, friends, lover again?
A life of hard work and joy shoved aside so pointlessly?
This sudden, this unfair?
No fucking way I could accept it.
"Ha..."
Web novel leads who get isekai'd into this—how the hell did they shrug off the shock and void like it was nothing? No clue.
This... is murder.
I've been killed.
Robbed and erased—life, soul, everything—by some unknowable bullshit entity, absurd and unjust.
Drowning in rage and powerlessness I couldn't bear, I barked a hollow laugh.
"...Kekeke, why the fuck should I live in this body? Why play someone else's life?"
Gulp!
Alcohol-fuzzed mind chugging more rotgut, I flung the window wide.
Midway up the duke's castle on high ground—dozens of meters easy, one glance told me.
Beyond the fortress walls, the capital Terabaon ringed the castle.
"Huu..."
That never-before-felt intuition wailed.
Strange energy pulsing inside and out... mana, probably.
Sensed this body, laced with even a trace, tougher than average.
Still, this drop? Instant death.
Crash!
Bottle tossed back, I hurled myself out.
One heartbeat of boundless freedom, pure release.
Then headfirst: skull splitting, neck vertebrae snapping—felt it crystal clear.
Instinct screamed.
Few seconds, then pain too much to handle.
"Ha, kuh..."
Thank fuck, consciousness went black before the agony hit.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Long story short: failure.
Liberation crushed, freedom just a dream.
"..."
Gulp!
I'd regressed.
Back to first waking in this alien room.
A few more jumps? Same shit.
"Huh, haha... hahaha..."
Read it in a book once: experience murder, go mad. Experience death, go madder.
Dead accurate.
Shattered thoughts tangled into nightmare shapes, sludge-thick feelings mixing in—total clusterfuck, no telling what from what.
Gulp!
Stave off the boiling explosion with hard liquor.
"Haa... what the fuck... do they want... from me..."
Drunken mutter, eyes on the ceiling.
Raw injustice and fury about to snap my sanity.
Guts twisting from stress, sharp cramps half-sobering me.
Gulp!
Another belt, deep in thought.
"..."
Teetering on madness from the negativity, but not zero hope.
Game world real-ified, possessed into a char—hit the ending, maybe bounce back to reality?
"Pu, hahaha..."
Probably up to whatever asshole yanked me here's mood, but if there's a reason, ending's it.
Nothing else fits.
No—better not be.
Gulp!
"Haaa..."
Fine. No drive, no fire, hate it—but let's think serious.
How to see the ending as this cursed sack of meat, Starnassila Alzen.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"...Fuck."
Curse on autopilot.
Didn't take long to conclude: no path forward with this body.
Starnassila Alzen.
Third son of the duke's family—insane backing—but zero talent, sibling comparisons bred inferiority, crashed into wastreldom.
Game-wise: extra, bum cameo once, zero protag ties.
Ironic no-talent wastrel sole... nah, second survivor: hands protag party a quest, coughs up family heirloom 'Sword of the Stars', peaces out.
"Ha..."
Possessed into this guy.
"..."
Time passed, calm settled?
Alzen's memories bubbled up.
Stuff not even in the exhaustive setting books crammed with trivia.
"...Truly a hopeless fucker."
Wastrel boozer Starnassila Alzen.
Memories: booze, beatings, crimes. Only.
Duke's clout for assaults, robberies, scams... murders, rapes.
Every scum deed in the book.
Live his life now?
Gulping every curse under the sun?
Motivation? Vaporized.
"Huu..."
More thought, more despair.
Alzen-mem calc: 3 years to canon start, but duke's family tanks in 1.
Talentless me wants action? Stop the fall.
"...Seriously. Duke's family goes down, we're fucked."
Mulled it.
Let 'em fall canon-style—then what for me?
Merc, adventurer, merchant, mage, alchemist...
"Hmm. Brutal."
Options galore, but no talent? Merc or adventurer tops.
Even then, bottom-feeder forever.
Real play? Dodge the downfall.
"..."
But saving 'em? Problems.
Canon start: duke lands dungeon'd—protag's prime farm/gear spot.
Derails plot hard.
My toolkit? Canon knowledge only, no HUDs. Starts fucked.
"Wow, how's it this shitty...?"
Deep gut-sigh unstoppable—chugged the whiskey.
"Huuu... Fuck it. It'll sort. Save duke's first."
Grinning like a lunatic, pounding liquor nonstop.
Knock knock.
Someone rapped the door.
"St-Starnassila Alzen, sir. C-can I, uh, come in?"
Voice timid, scared shitless.
"What?"
Alzen-mems auto-gruffed my tone.
Smack!
Revulsed, pissed—full-force face-slap, my own.
"Huu..."
Painful.
I smacked Alzen, I eat the hurt—fuming.
Ah, right—from now, I'm Starnassila Alzen?
Bullshit. Eat shit.
"Ex-excuse me..."
"Yeah. What."
Tiny, youngish maid slipped in cautious.
"Th-that... room cleaning..."
"...Yeah. Do it."
"Y-yes..."
"Ah, hold up."
"Eek! Y-yes!?"
Maid overreacted—shoulders shaking, eyes welling.
Alzen's rep in a nutshell.
"Date and time. Now."
"Y-yes...?"
"Date. And. Time. Now."
"Uh, th-that's... March 12th, 9 AM..."
Checked clock, answered. I cross-checked memories.
Origin World spilled everything in those fat setting books—even duke decline timeline, process, fall date.
No main-story link needed.
Lore nut heaven.
(Yeah, I ate it up.)
Lucky break.
Perfect timing... or did the yanker pick this spot deliberate?
"Yeah... got it. Breakfast time, then. Family's all in the dining hall."
"Ah, um..."
Maid's scared hem-haw pissed me off.
"Quit stalling—answer straight!!"
"Eeek! Sorry! Yes! Everyone's at breakfast in the hall nooow!"
"Huu..."
Alzen influence? Snapped without thinking.
...Nah, mems light touch.
Just given up, maybe.
"Clean spotless."
"Y-yesss!"
No sorry for the yell.
Stumbled up, bottle in hand, staggered to the dining hall.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Stepped into the tidy, solemn-yet-opulent dining hall: Starnassila clan, ringed by servants galore, all eyes on me.
Family Head Starnassila Urtega: blank stare.
Duchess Starnassila Pitra: worried glance.
Eldest son Starnassila Berga, second daughter Starnassila Weller: contempt, loathing.
Youngest Starnassila Vivian: pure curiosity, touch of fear.
Wrangled my wobbly vision, scanned 'em.
"Ha, no shame showing your mug. You got no decency?"
Weller's barb stabbed.
Ignored.
Aimed at Alzen.
"Busting house arrest—what's in that thick skull? Forgot your shit already?"
Berga's hate-voice drilled ears.
Ignored.
"Huu..."
Standard wastrel isekai? Polite bow, 'sorry', grovel here.
Family gawks.
'Wastrel apologizing!?'
'Etiquette from him? Pigs fly.'
'Alzen's... different?'
That vibe.
Then grind rep with feats, good deeds, rescues—image washes clean, respect rolls in.
Not me.
Why grind for trash Alzen?
Rep fix = his glow-up, his props.
My sweat, time, grind? Invisible.
Why bother?
Even if I flip, who says the cosmic dick won't yank me elsewhere?
All moot.
Save duke's family. Done.
Rep? Whatever.
Won't? Regress, retry.
So wastrel it is.
"Shut your fucking mouth!!"
My grievance-rage roar boomed the vast hall.
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