Death, as it turned out, was anticlimactic.
There was no tunnel of light. No divine judgment. No beautiful goddess offering a second chance with a knowing smile and suspiciously convenient cheat ability.
It was just darkness. Then a headache. Then the sound of birds.
I opened my eyes to a wooden ceiling and immediately knew three things.
First — I wasn't dead.
Second — this wasn't my bedroom.
Third — and most importantly — I recognized this ceiling.
I had read about it. Chapter one, page three. "Sol Dawnveil stared at the ceiling of his modest room in Dawnveil Manor, knowing today was the day his life would change forever." Except in the novel, the original Sol hadn't been lying here having an existential crisis about his entire existence. He'd just been... sad. Quietly, uselessly sad about being born without magic in a family of legends.
I sat up slowly.
The room was exactly as described. It was small for a noble's son. It was deliberately small , the kind of small that said we didn't forget about you, we just don't particularly care. A single window overlooking the manor's eastern courtyard. A worn desk with a candle burned down to nothing. A sword on the wall that hadn't been touched in months based on the dust collecting on the hilt.
The original Sol had given up on swords after his fifteenth failed awakening attempt.
I swung my legs off the bed and pressed my bare feet against the cold stone floor, grounding myself. Aww damn it wasn't a dream, I could feel the chill of the floor and the smell of morning dew coming through the cracked window was real.
I was really here.
I was really him.
"Okay," I said out loud, to nobody. My voice came out younger than I expected. A bit ougher than it was. "Okay. Don't panic."
I was panicking.
In my past life I had spent an embarrassing number of hours reading Radiant Blade: The Dawnveil Chronicles. I knew this story like I knew my own reflection. I knew the magic system, the dungeon layouts, the political factions, the hidden lore that even half the fanbase had missed. I knew every character's backstory, every plot twist, every death flag waving in the distance like a cheerful red banner.
I knew mine too.
'Chapter twelve. The bandit raid on the eastern road. Sol Dawnveil, traveling to the capital alone, is killed before he can arrive. His death serves as emotional motivation for his younger brother Kael's first major power breakthrough.'
I was going to die so my brother could have a character moment.
That was my entire narrative purpose.
"Fantastic," I muttered, standing up and moving to the small mirror propped against the wall. The face staring back at me was young — nineteen, same as in the novel — with dark circles under sharp grey eyes and brown hair that hadn't been properly cut in a while. I was lean. Not weak exactly, but not impressive either.
The face of someone the story had already decided didn't matter.
I pressed a hand to my chest and reached inward the way I had read about a thousand times, probing for my magical core.
Nothing.
It was not dormant. Not sealed. Just... absent. A hollow where power was supposed to live.
Null affinity. The only Dawnveil in three generations born without a drop of usable magic. In a world where strength was everything, I was structurally irrelevant.
"Perfect," I said to my reflection. "Great start."
Then the air in front of me shimmered.
A translucent panel materialized from nothing, hovering at eye level, glowing with soft golden light. Text appeared across its surface in clean, deliberate letters like the universe itself was typing and wanted to make sure I was paying attention.
[Ding!]
[Anomalous Soul Detected In Host Body]
[Initializing Compatibility Scan...]
[Scan Complete]
[NTR System Activated]
I stared at it.
It stared back. Well — it didn't have eyes. But it felt like it was staring.
"No," I said.
[Primary Objective Assigned: Claim The Protagonist's Harem]
[Survival Condition: Complete system objectives to delay canonical death flag]
[Current Death Flag Countdown: 61 Days]
[Host Emotional Status: Denial]
[Recommendation: Move past denial. It won't help.]
"I said no." I jabbed a finger at the panel. "Absolutely not. Kael is my brother. Those women are his. I'm not — I don't — this isn't something I'm going to do just because a floating text box told me to."
[Noted.]
[Logging objection #1.]
[Countdown: 61 Days, 23 Hours, 59 Minutes]
[The clock does not care about your morals.]
I dragged a hand down my face.
This was the cheat system I'd been given. Of all the systems a transmigrator could receive — cultivation systems, crafting systems, combat systems, merchant systems — I had received the one system specifically designed to make my life as complicated and morally questionable as possible.
I looked back at the panel.
[First Harem Member Identified: Lyra Ashveil, Holy Saint of the Radiant Church]
[Current Affection Toward Protagonist: 67/100]
[Current Affection Toward Host: 0/100]
[Quest Available: Encounter Lyra Ashveil before the Eastern Temple incident. Intervene.]
[Reward: Survival extension. Affection increase. Unlock hidden Saint route.]
[Quest Expiry: 3 Days]
Three days.
I knew the Eastern Temple incident. In chapter four of the novel. Lyra had been ambushed by a corrupted dungeon wraith while conducting a solo purification ritual. She'd survived — barely — and Kael had arrived just in time to pull her out of the rubble and carry her back to the city on his back. It was one of the early romance scenes that the fanbase had loved.
It was also entirely preventable if someone had simply warned her ahead of time.
Someone who knew the novel.
Someone like me.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.
I tried very hard to think about this logically and not about the fact that Lyra Ashveil was, canonically, the most breathtakingly beautiful woman in the entire first arc and the subject of approximately forty percent of the novel's fanart.
That was not relevant information.
That was absolutely not swaying my decision at all.
"If I go," I told the system carefully, "I'm going to warn her. That's it. I'll warn her, she'll avoid the incident, and then she'll go back to Kael where she belongs and nothing else will happen."
[Adorable.]
[Quest Accepted.]
"I didn't say I accepted —"
[Host has accepted quest.]
[Tip: Lyra Ashveil enjoys people who actually listen when she speaks. The protagonist has never once asked her a personal question.]
[Good luck. You'll need it less than you think.]
The panel vanished.
I stood alone in the small room that smelled like dust and resignation, staring at the empty air where it had been.
Sixty one days until a bandit arrow found my throat on the eastern road.
Three days to find a saint who had no idea I existed.
One system with absolutely no shame and no respect for my boundaries.
I looked at the dusty sword on the wall. Walked over, pulled it down and ran a thumb along the dull edge.
If I was going to survive this novel I had written off as someone else's story, I was going to need more than a system with questionable taste.
I was going to need a plan.
From somewhere deep in the manor, I heard a crash, followed by my brother's loud, cheerful voice shouting something about morning training.
Kael. Nineteen years old. The chosen hero. Dense as a dungeon wall and twice as hard to move.
He had no idea what was coming for his story.
Neither did I, honestly.
But at least one of us was paying attention.