Fate.
Some people question the real meaning behind this seemingly simple, yet life-altering word.
Fate, you see, is probably the cruelest thing that can happen to someone.
The idea that your life is already decided from the moment you're born by these invisible strings called fate… it's not exactly comforting.
It's like being told you have no say in anything. No matter how hard you try to change, to fight back, to shape your own destiny—you'll still end up the same.
For some, fate means suffering endlessly in poverty, with no hope of escape. No matter how hard they work, they can't afford even the most basic needs of life.
For others, it means being born with a disability or cursed with a disease that no amount of money or care can cure. They wither away, pitiful and forgotten, like stray dogs left in the rain.
Funny thing, though—those who live in misery often outlive the rich.
But hey! That wasn't my story.
No, my fate was different.
I was destined to become one of the highest-paid authors alive. No joke—even when I scribbled complete nonsense, people lined up to read it. A thousand dollars per page? They'd still buy it.
I lived a life of luxury and freedom, soaked in ecstasy and endless luck, all just from writing stupid plots.
I mean, what more could I ask for?
But now… what the hell is this?
The great author, who was supposed to live a life free of pain or suffering, was now drowning. In his own goddamn bathtub.
My arms refused to respond, slumped uselessly against the porcelain. My body sank deeper into the lukewarm water. I cursed, over and over, as the liquid filled my nose and blurred my vision.
Was this how it ended?
Was it truly my fate to die like this? In such a ridiculous, disappointing, anticlimactic way?
I refused to believe it. I—who had been favored by fate—betrayed like this?
And yet… sure enough, everything went dark.
I died.
I died, I died, I died, I really fucking died!
In this endless void of black, something gnawed at my sanity—like claws scraping down my soul. All I could think about was how the thing I once cherished—fate—had betrayed me.
Hell, if I had to die, couldn't it have been more dramatic? A truck, a collapsing mansion, an assassination by a jealous fan? Something befitting a man of my legend!
But no. I drowned in my bathtub.
The actual fuck?
How does one just… lose control of their body without warning? One moment I was planning dinner. The next, I was sinking like a corpse.
There was no explanation. Just this blank, echoing silence. I floated in it for what felt like centuries, until...
Earth.
The scent of soil somehow pierced the void.
How could I smell anything? I didn't even know if I had a body anymore. But it was there. Fresh earth. Grass. And—
"Eyaaaaa!!"
A scream—female, raw, panicked.
"Pin that stupid bitch down and shut her damn mouth!" a voice snarled.
The harsh bark of a man followed by the clatter of footsteps and rustling leaves.
Then another voice: "Find that fucking Valecross kid and drag him back here—NOW!"
Valecross?
That name tickled something at the back of my mind.
Suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. The rustling grew louder—closer. My breath hitched. I couldn't tell if it was real, or if my mind had finally snapped.
And then—
Light.
I opened my eyes.
Green. Not heaven. Not the underworld.
Just grass.
Thriving, fresh grass beneath me.
I was alive?
I sat up slowly, my back leaning against a tree. My head spun, but my senses were on high alert. In the distance, a half-naked brute of a man—bald and muscled—was marching into the woods. I shrank back instinctively.
Peering carefully from behind the tree, I saw a chilling scene: a cluster of armored corpses lay scattered across the clearing. Guards, likely. And then—two women.
Pinned. Struggling. Both were dressed like maids, when one of them suddenly turned her head towards me.
She looked straight at me. Eyes wide. Pleading.
Then, as if realizing the danger, she looked away and struggled harder—a distraction.
Telling me to run.
And honestly? That was exactly what I had planned to do.
But something in her eyes struck me.
It didn't feel right.
Not this time.
I clenched my fists.
I turned.
And I followed after the brutish man.
My footsteps were calm and quiet as I held my breath, not daring to breathe too heavily for fear the man might notice me.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to stop, to flee, to forget what I had just seen—but I couldn't.
I wasn't trying to be a hero. This wasn't some noble act of righteousness. Hell, even if I wanted to save someone, the moment I learned I had no mana, I would've chickened out without shame.
But my body moved on its own.
This world—though unfamiliar—felt almost... familiar. I didn't know who the maid was. I didn't even know who I was supposed to be right now. But I knew two things:
One—I was alive.
Two—she looked at me like I was her last hope... but didn't want to drag me into it.
That made it my problem. It felt like I owed her something.
The brute stomped ahead, unaware that a probably barely-reincarnated corpse was stalking him—zero mana, zero training, zero clue what the hell he was doing.
And yet... I didn't feel helpless.
My eyes scanned him quickly, instinctively.
His gait—heavy on the right. Limp on the left. Old injury, maybe a torn ligament. Weapon on his hip—broad-bladed axe. Rusted edges. Probably dull from overuse.
He turned slightly.
I dropped low, hiding behind a patch of brush, my breath stilling. My heart pounded against my ribs like war drums. No mana meant no magic. No enhanced strength. No backup.
But it didn't matter.
My fingers curled into a fist.
I could learn.
He barked something over his shoulder toward the clearing and turned his back.
My legs moved before my brain could catch up.
Crack!
My elbow slammed into the back of his knee. He grunted, stumbling—but didn't fall. He swung his fist. I ducked—barely—and drove my knee into his ribs. Still, he didn't go down.
Shit—
He roared, swinging his axe. I dropped, rolled forward, and jabbed two fingers into the wounded leg I'd seen earlier.
He screamed—and finally collapsed.
I didn't wait. I grabbed the axe—heavier than I expected—but I had no time to hesitate. I raised it with both hands and brought it down, burying it deep into his shoulder.
Splash!
Warm blood splattered across my face. His body tensed, then fell still.
Silence returned. Heavy. Suffocating.
I stared down at the corpse, panting, eyes blank.
I had killed someone.
Not with spells.
Not with plot armor.
Not on a draft I could rewrite on my PC.
This was real.
And I did it on instinct.
Something stirred in me.
Like a spark igniting behind my eyes.
Then it happened—a flash of light pulsed through my vision. My head snapped back slightly. For a moment, I saw everything—his movements before they happened. Every twitch of muscle. Every shift in weight. Every opening.
I had copied him.
Not just his movements.
His flaws.
That feeling—detailed and sharp—it was the Valecross Eyes.
A unique trait of the Valecross bloodline in my novel. A gift that allowed its wielders to copy magic techniques, disarm spells, and see the structure of battle with terrifying clarity.
But something didn't add up. I had no mana.
And still... they activated.
Just a flicker, but it was enough.
I didn't just see the fight. I understood it.
My body tingled like something ancient had awakened.
"I see," I whispered.
The system was still there.
My body might be weak. My mana nearly nonexistent.
But my eyes…
They could analyze aura movement.
Even without enough energy to cast spells, they reflected what they saw.
This meant I wasn't as useless as I thought.
I could adapt.
I could learn.
Not magic—at least not yet.
But martial arts?
That... I could steal.