Inside the bathroom, Sam leaned over the sink and looked into the mirror.
Really looked.
The face staring back at him wasn't his — and yet it was, now.
Handsome?
Yes.
Black, messy hair that looked like it lost a fight with a bottle of oil.
Eyes dark — not just dark, but void-dark, like someone had carved out light itself and filled the gaps with resentment.
Skin pale, almost sickly, like the sun had filed a restraining order.
There was beauty in it, sure.
But also something… off.
Like this face had been sculpted for a funeral.
His own.
Sam sighed.
"Great. I look like a ghost who haunts poetry readings."
He turned away from the mirror, staring blankly at the marble wall.
A flicker of loneliness passed through his eyes.
Back on Earth… there was no one waiting for him.
No parents. No family.
Just a few friends who might eventually notice he stopped replying on Discord… and then move on.
And honestly?
That helped.
No strings. No guilt. Just forward momentum.
He slapped his cheeks.
Smack!
"Okay. Enough."
Enough self-pity. Enough staring into the abyss and realizing the abyss had better skincare.
He straightened up, eyes narrowed, brain sputtering on its last two rusted brain-gears, grinding like a dying fan.
Think.
The novel started at the Awakening Ceremony.
That's where the first portal appeared.
An unnatural rift in the sky — all glowing cracks and eldritch screaming — spewing monsters, chaos, and general apocalypse flavor into the world.
And amidst that beautiful disaster?
Samuel Nightshade.
The original one.
He awakened a Common Tier Fire element, got publicly humiliated for it.
Sam sighed.
"That's my grand entrance, huh?"
He turned away from the mirror, sat on the marble edge of the tub, and thought.
Two options.
Option One:
Skip the whole mess.
Don't awaken. Don't go. Stay home.
Hide in some dusty library wing, live off inheritance, and become a weird shut-in noble with a tragic past and too many cats.
Tempting.
Exceptionally tempting.
But.
There was a problem.
He knew how this world ends.
And spoiler: it's not with a happy retirement and wine on the balcony.
It ends with everyone dying.
Horribly. Tragically. Poetically, if the author was in a mood.
So… peace?
Not really on the menu.
Which led to Option Two:
Use the plot.
Exploit every twist, every betrayal, every hidden legacy and bugged dungeon drop.
"Be the butterfly that flaps its wings and gives destiny a nervous breakdown."
Sam snorted.
"Yeah. Simple."
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
"Just survive long enough to become important."
Then he laughed.
It wasn't a heroic laugh. It was the tired, slightly crazed chuckle of someone who knew exactly how doomed he was — and was doing it anyway.
"Well. Beats waiting to die."
Sam quickly bathed, scrubbing away the oily war crime clinging to his scalp.
The water turned slightly gray. He chose not to think about it.
After drying off and slipping into a high-collared black coat that screamed "minor villain with rich parents," he paused in front of the mirror.
His hair — still messy.
Still stubborn.
Still one gust of wind away from a disaster.
He frowned. "Nope. Not doing this emo-crow look all day."
Rummaging through the bathroom drawers, he found a small black hair tie.
The gods must be real.
With quick fingers, he pulled his hair back and tied it into a short, sharp ponytail.
The style?
Devil Tail — a classic back on Earth, usually seen on anime bad boys or guitarists with tragic backstories.
Sam tilted his head, inspecting the look.
"...Not bad," he muttered.
"I look like I have at least one traumatic past."
Satisfied, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bathroom.
The room was immaculate — polished floors, dust-free furniture, and not a pillow out of place.
Clearly, the maid had been busy while he was busy... having an existential breakdown in the mirror.
She turned as he emerged, already mid-bow — and then froze.
Her eyes landed on his hair.
She blinked.
He blinked.
Then: "What?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes.
"M-Master… your hair…" she stammered.
Sam instinctively touched the makeshift ponytail he'd tied with a bit of rubber.
It was a lazy attempt at taming the oil-slick mess — something vaguely inspired by that old 'devil tail' look.
Not revolutionary.
But, considering the original Samuel's hair had looked like he styled it with a fork and trauma… this was an improvement.
"Oh, right," Sam muttered.
The old Samuel had a war crime for a hairstyle.
He sighed.
"You don't like it?"
"N-No, Master!" she blurted out, visibly panicking.
"You're the most handsome man alive! Even the statue in the plaza would cry in shame before you!"
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"Even a dumbass would know that's a lie."
She flinched. A tiny pout formed on her lips.
She muttered under her breath,
"Tch… You used to believe me before…"
He studied her now, more carefully.
Brown hair tied neatly, green eyes bright as spring glass, skin pale and smooth like cream.
She was… stunning.
The kind of beautiful that novels usually reserved for tragic backstories or inconvenient love triangles.
"What's your name?" Sam asked suddenly.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"Nyra Ashwell, Master," she said with a formal bow.
Sam nodded. "Cute name."
Nyra's eyes widened just a little.
Then she smiled — a small, surprised smile, like she hadn't been expecting a compliment in this life.
"Thank you."
"Alright, lead the way, Nyra," Sam said, pretending he totally knew where he was going.
She nodded, turned, and began walking gracefully through the corridor.
Sam followed, keeping his pace slow.
Mostly because he didn't want to trip.
Partially because he was still internally screaming.
But mostly?
Because he had no idea where the hell anything was in this manor and would absolutely die of embarrassment before asking for directions.