Dying wasn’t supposed to be part of my morning.
I was just trying to microwave leftover pizza and scroll through comments about my completely unremarkable webnovel when the microwave sparked like Zeus having a tantrum and boom — lights out. Permanent lights out. Exit Cecil Dreggs, age twenty-five, proud owner of no job, no girlfriend, and a stress rash shaped like a continent.
I didn’t see a tunnel of light. I didn’t get a heavenly welcome. No, I got darkness. Pitch-black, sensory-deprived, free trial of the void kind of darkness. Then, I woke up on dirt.
Face-first.
Mouth full of something that tasted like sadness and manure.
"AH! He’s awake!" shouted a voice, sharp and weirdly musical, like a flute that just stubbed its toe.
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain bloomed through my chest, and something in my ribs went crunch. That’s when I saw the horse.
Correction: I saw the horse’s butt, because it was still standing over me like a proud murderer.
A knight — and I mean knight like shiny armor, glowy cape, abs you could park a wagon on — dismounted, walked over casually, and looked down at me.
"Did I hit a child?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to respond, but all I managed was a wet cough and what might’ve been a leaf.
"I’m twenty-five," I wheezed, sounding like a dying accordion.
The knight blinked, clearly disturbed. "Tragic."
Then he picked me up. With one arm. Like I was a bag of laundry. Or a weird, twitching carrot someone didn’t want to touch directly.
He turned to someone off-screen and said, "I think I broke this one. Do we still have those healing beans?"
A girl’s voice replied, "No, you fed them to the unicorn last night because you ’felt gassy and spiritually misaligned.’"
"Ah, yes. That tracks."
Suddenly, a familiar ding echoed in my head.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
Welcome, Cecil Dreggs.
You have reincarnated in the continent of Everia.
⚔️ Please select your starting class:
Hero (Locked)Villain (Locked)Swordsman (Locked)Mage (Locked)Bard (You wish)[UNLOCKED] Civilian – [CONFIRMED]
[Congratulations! You have unlocked Passive Skill: ’Survivor’s Guilt (Lv. MAX)’]
Description: You are not important. You are not special. But you will survive, mostly because no one expects anything from you.
Effect: All enemies ignore you unless you sneeze or make eye contact. All allies assume you’re safe and leave you behind.
The knight nodded to himself like he understood what just happened.
"You’ve got the look of a chosen one," he said with far too much conviction.
"No, no, I really don’t," I croaked, flailing weakly in his grip.
"Yes, you do. That haunted, malnourished glint in your eyes — unmistakable."
"That’s just anemia."
"Nonsense. You’ve clearly been touched by fate."
"I’ve been touched by your horse, and I think it dislocated something important."
He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he swung me over his shoulder like a sack of depressed potatoes and turned toward the treeline. Behind him, two more figures stepped into view.
One was a girl with red horns and a very don’t talk to me unless you want to die aura. She was polishing a scythe the size of a lamppost.
The other was a huge guy in robes, floating three feet above the ground, eyes glowing blue like someone had given him access to the forbidden Wi-Fi.
The horned girl raised an eyebrow. "What’s the new one called?"
"I shall name him... Cecil," the knight said with full dramatic flair.
"That’s already my name," I mumbled.
"Perfect. Destiny confirmed."
The floating guy sniffed me — actually sniffed me — and muttered, "He smells like failure. And mint. I like him."
The horned girl glanced at me, then looked away with visible disdain. "He looks like someone who’d get kidnapped by a salad."
Okay. Rude.
The knight clapped once. "It is settled! He shall accompany us on our quest to destroy the False King and bring justice to the realm."
"Sorry, what now?"
"You’re part of the party, Cecil!" he said cheerfully. "You’re our new meatshield!"
I blinked. "Wait. I’m allergic to combat. And meat."
[New Quest Received: ’Save the World (Optional but Highly Encouraged)’]
Objective: Survive until next Tuesday.
Reward: Continued existence.
Failure: Slight death.
This... was not how I pictured reincarnation.
I had dreams. Goals. I wanted to be overpowered, mysterious, the kind of guy who drinks tea while casually obliterating mountains.
Instead, I was the party mascot with two broken ribs and a character sheet that looked like a tax form.
I tried protesting. Really, I did.
But it’s hard to argue with people who look like final bosses before the tutorial even ends.
Sir Shiny Armor — I still didn’t catch his name, and I was too intimidated to ask — carried me into the forest like he was holding groceries that might explode if jostled. The rest of the party followed, apparently used to this kind of chaos.
The horned girl kept glaring at me like I owed her rent.
I attempted small talk. "So, uh... are we walking into danger?"
"We’re always in danger," she replied flatly. "It’s Everia. You can get stabbed by a duck here."
The floating guy snorted. "You mock the Feathered Legion, but they were a noble race."
I gave up.
We stopped at a clearing that looked suspiciously like an ambush zone from a JRPG. Craters in the ground. Scorch marks on the trees. Bones. Actual bones. One of them still had a hat.
I clutched my ribs.
"Is this safe?" I asked.
The knight dropped me on a rock. "Of course not! But the danger is part of the fun."
I let my face hit my hands. "I don’t like fun."
"We need to make camp," he said, dramatically pulling a tent out of nowhere. Literally. It just poofed into his hands like he was a magician who knew a cheat code.
"Where did that come from?" I asked.
He winked. "Pocket dimension."
Meanwhile, the horned girl sliced a tree down with one swing. No effort. It didn’t even make a sound — it just fell out of respect.
The robed guy floated above a campfire and snapped. Fire erupted. Marshmallows appeared on sticks. A kettle started to whistle like it was late for a meeting.
"What... are all of you?" I muttered.
"Oh, right," the knight said cheerfully, offering me a cup of something suspiciously pink. "Introductions!"
He gestured to himself. "I am Sir Galrik Thundershield, second son of the Stormforged House, Slayer of the Hundred Wyrms, and twice-voted Best Hair in the capital."
His hair was suspiciously perfect, like wind had a crush on him.
The horned girl didn’t look up from her dagger. "Lilith."
"That’s it?"
"You can’t afford the rest."
Fair.
The robe guy floated upside down. "Call me Mister Fog. Or Misty. Or Daddy, if you’re weird."
"Please no," I whispered.
"I’m kidding. Maybe."
Sir Galrik clapped again. "And now we have you, Cecil! Civilian. Possibly cursed. Definitely expendable."
"I’m right here."
"We know."
Lilith threw me a thin blanket made of something that smelled like burnt cheese. "Sleep light. Something always attacks at night."
"Something what now?"
"Could be ogres. Could be mind-birds. Last week we fought a sentient cheese wheel that screamed in Latin."
I blinked. "That last one sounds made up."
"It wasn’t," Mister Fog said grimly. "Still have nightmares. Every time I smell cheddar, I cry."
I didn’t sleep.
I tried. But every time I closed my eyes, I heard a twig snap or a weird growl or something that sounded like a duck practicing necromancy.
Eventually, I sat up and stared at the stars.
They were nice.
One of them blinked back at me.
Nope.
I closed my eyes tighter than ever before and muttered, "I want to go back to my depressing, microwave-exploded life."
But the system wasn’t done with me.
[Hidden Trait Activated: "Plot Magnet"]
Description: You attract trouble. Constantly. Even when you hide under a rock. Especially then.
Side Effect: You now have a 300% increase in being mistaken for someone important.
I sighed and lay back down.
A minute later, a glowing fox with three eyes crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep on top of me.
Lilith peeked at us from her bedroll. "Don’t move. That thing eats spines."
Sir Galrik beamed. "See? Even the forest loves you."
Mister Fog floated by with a cup of tea. "You’re doomed, by the way."
I didn’t respond. I was too busy pretending to be dead.