"The third-rate extra…?! The guy who dies in, like, Chapter Ten?!"
He dropped to his knees in despair.
"I transmigrated… into a doomed novel… as a background corpse?!"
He stared up at the ceiling.
"FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!"
Sam sat there, on the cold stone floor, still processing the very real existential crisis he was now living in.
Then it hit him.
Last night.
That stupid line in Chapter 1000.
"Zelthar om veyrun, kri thal'eth mora."
Some fantasy gibberish that sounded like someone sneezed during a cult ritual.
"Is that why I transmigrated?" he muttered, eyes wide.
"Did I… accidentally accept terms and conditions of a cursed isekai contract?!"
His brain offered no answers. Just a rising wave of panic.
Sweat dripped down his back.
Suddenly—
Footsteps.
Outside the door.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Sam froze.
"Oh shit. Oh shit."
He scrambled to his feet, spun in a circle, looked for weapons, escape routes, a divine undo button.
Nothing.
His heart was thumping like it had a personal grudge against his ribcage.
"What do I do?! What do I do?!"
Then came the brilliant survival instinct of all transmigrated protagonists.
Play dead.
He deadpanned. "Wait—what the fuck am I thinking?"
"Don't think," he muttered to himself, clutching his temples.
"Thinking is what got me here."
Then — like a man possessed — he sprinted toward the bed.
He jumped in, yanked the covers over his body, and pretended to be asleep.
The kind of fake sleep that only idiots and raccoons caught in trash bins attempt — stiff, overly still, with one eye half-cracked open in terror.
Just as he managed to get into position—
Creeeeeeak.
The door opened.
Slowly.
Dramatically.
As if whoever was entering had a PhD in horror movie timing.
Soft footsteps padded across the room.
Sam cracked one eye open.
Just a sliver.
Enough to see her.
The maid.
She was... stunning.
Unreasonably so.
Sam immediately shut his eye again.
Nope.
Not today, Satan.
She stopped near the bed.
Then came the voice. Gentle.
Perfectly polite.
"Master… are you alright? I heard screaming."
Internally, Sam responded:
Your master is dead, bitch. Burn the body. Move on.
But he didn't say it.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe too loudly.
A corpse with opinions.
She spoke again, softer this time:
"Master Samuel?"
No answer.
Just Sam lying there, breathing like he was auditioning for a zombie role in a post-apocalyptic period drama.
The maid paused for a moment longer — enough time to make him question every life choice that led to this — then gave up.
She must've assumed he'd passed out from exhaustion, or arrogance, or both.
And just like that, she started cleaning.
Because that's what beautiful maids apparently did while their possibly-dead masters fake-slept in cursed fantasy bedrooms.
Sam remained still.
Eyes closed.
Mind screaming.
Inside, he was spiraling.
What do I do? What do I do?
What the hell is the etiquette here?
Do I greet her? Bow? Summon a magical breakfast from a ring?
Then—
WHAM.
Memories.
Like a freight train made of plot summaries and character sheets.
Slamming into his skull without warning.
Visions. Flashbacks. Emotions he didn't consent to.
He was Samuel Nightshade.
Sam thought, Wait… Sam? Samuel?
Is that why I got this trash character?
Because my real name is ....slightly similar?
He clutched the sheets tighter.
No, no—don't think about that.
Focus. Focus!
He was Samuel Nightshade now.
Heir of the Nightshade House.
Noble family.
Aristocratic bloodline.
Prestigious.
Terrifying.
And an absolute asshole.
His reputation? Abysmal.
To nobles: a spoiled brat.
To commoners: a nightmare in human form.
To women: repulsive.
To readers of the novel: comic relief who dies by Chapter 10 after awakening a mediocre element and insulting the wrong protagonist.
Sam clenched his fists under the blanket.
I'm not just in a doomed novel.
I'm in the body of the designated early-game humiliation target.
The maid hummed softly as she dusted a bookshelf.
Unaware. Unbothered.
Sam thought,
Calm down. Calm down.
You've read this whole novel, right?
You know everything. Right?
...Right?
A long pause.
He cursed.
"Not at all."
Let's be real — who remembers every plot point in a novel that dragged on for a full year just to end with a sky-laser and a faceplant?
Sam barely remembered what he had for breakfast most days.
Then — a spark.
A memory, faint but clear:
Every character inDivine Prophecyhad a system.
Sam's eyes widened. His pulse spiked.
He whispered, hoarse with hope:"System?"
Nothing.
Silence.
He tried again.
"Status?"
A soft chime.
Then—A glowing panel blinked into view.
###
[STATUS]
Name: Samuel Nightshade
Title: None
Race: Human
Bloodline: Nightshade
Physique: None
Elemental Affinity: Unawakened
Elementalist Rank: 0
###
He thought, That's it. This is my life now.
Then—
A voice.
Soft. Polite. Dangerously punctual.
"Master, please wake up.
You'll be late for the Awakening Ceremony."
Sam's eyes shot open.
"...Awakening Ceremony?" he whispered, voice dry.
Then it hit him like a brick made of plot progression.
"Shit."
The Awakening Ceremony.
That was today.
Chapter One.
The official start of the novel.
The part where everyone gets their elements, their powers, their fates.
Sam sat up with a groan.
The maid called again, cheerfully unaware she was triggering his existential meltdown.
"Master Samuel, if you don't rise now, you'll miss the ceremonial call!"
He took a deep breath.
It was time.
Time to become Samuel Nightshade — an elite bastard among bastards.
Sam threw off the covers with flair, stretched dramatically, and muttered,
"Tch. Do you enjoy nagging ? Or is your empty head just echoing the schedule again?"
The room fell silent for a beat.
Then he strutted across the chamber like he owned the plot (he didn't), opened the bathroom door, and slammed it shut behind him with aristocratic flair.
Click. Locked.
The maid blinked at the door, tilting her head slightly.
Something was off.
Her master usually slurred commands, threw things, or snored through breakfast.
Today... he stretched.
Spoke clearly. Almost didn't insult her with enough venom.
"Strange," she murmured. "He seems… different."
Then she shrugged and returned to her cleaning.
A little personality change? As long as he stayed out of her way and stopped throwing cups at the wall, she wasn't complaining.
Not her problem !!!