There were days when reality felt more like a cage than a life.
School, sleep, repeat. A cycle so dull it stripped the color from everything. I was just another face in a crowded classroom, just another name on a test sheet.
My dreams weren't ambitious—I didn't want riches or fame. I wanted escape. Some corner of the world where I could just be, without the weight of expectations or the ache of mediocrity.
And I found it—between the pages of a book.
Crown of the Silent Vanguard wasn't just a fantasy novel. It was the fantasy novel. My escape, my anchor. A world that made sense even in its brutality. A story so tragic, so achingly human, it became part of me.
I first read it when I was thirteen. I remember the exact moment: huddled under my blanket, flashlight in hand, flipping through pages as if the words themselves were oxygen.
The story followed Lysander, a boy born of sin—a prince without a crown, a name whispered with disdain. Cast into the slums of Caelmere, raised among thieves and ashes, Lysander clawed his way up through blood and sorrow. He fought not for glory, but for the right to exist in a world that wished he hadn't.
He lost everything. Again and again.
Friends. Love. Hope.
And yet he rose. Each time more defiant than before. His triumph wasn't one of miracles, but of stubborn, painful perseverance.
I wept for him. Cheered for him. Lived through him.
In some strange way, I was him.
Every year, I reread the series. Five volumes. Nearly four thousand pages. Each character felt like an old friend. Each death, a personal loss. And though I knew every twist, every line of dialogue, I never grew tired of it.
Lysander's story was etched into my soul.
Which is why, when I died, he was the last thing I thought about.
It wasn't heroic. I wasn't trying to make a grand statement or defy the gods. I just… moved.
A stranger—a child—frozen in the path of an oncoming truck. I didn't think, didn't hesitate. My body reacted before my mind could process what it meant.
Then came the impact.
The crunch of bone. The sudden cold. A flash of pain so sharp it split the world in two.
And then—nothing.
Not darkness.
Not peace.
Just the absence of everything.
Time lost all meaning. I floated in a place without weight or warmth, where even thoughts drifted like mist. Was this death? A void? Or just the final sleep?
I didn't know.
Until I heard it.
A voice, distant and thunderous, echoing not through the air but through my very being.
⟪System Transferring....⟫
⟪Transfer Complete⟫
༺═════════════════༻
Welcome to the world of Virelia. Reincarnation authorized.
༺═════════════════༻
It didn't make sense. Not at first. The words rang hollow, like static on an old radio. But then the fog lifted, and with it, the world returned.
I gasped.
Air. Sharp and clean. My lungs burned as they filled, as if breathing for the first time.
The scent of lavender. The crackle of a fireplace. The soft rustle of silk sheets.
And the weight of existence.
My body was different—taller, stronger, older. My limbs moved with elegance not my own. My reflection, caught in a polished silver mirror across the room, was that of a stranger: jet black hair that shimmered like moonlight, sharp golden eyes cold and unreadable, skin pale as fresh snow.
A very handsome face with scary aura surrounding it.