Mark had always figured he'd die in some pathetic way.
A stress-induced heart attack, maybe.
Or getting run over because he was distracted checking his phone.
He never imagined it would be because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
The night was cold and damp—the kind of night that makes you feel like the universe hates you personally.
He'd just left the office after his boss, wearing that shit-eating grin he probably practiced in the mirror, informed him that "the company was restructuring" and that his services "were no longer needed."
Ten years. Ten fucking years of his life tossed in the trash with a handshake and a cardboard box full of his stuff.
The alley was a shortcut he'd taken a thousand times.
This time, though, a silhouette was waiting for him in the shadows.
"Give me everything you've got."
The voice was young. Nervous. The weapon in his hand trembled enough for Mark to know the guy was a newbie.
Probably his first mugging.
In any other moment, Mark would've cooperated. He would've handed over his empty wallet, his cracked-screen phone, and kept moving.
But that night… that night something snapped inside him.
"You know what?" Mark said, and his voice sounded strangely calm, even to himself. "If you're going to shoot, then shoot already."
The thief blinked, confused.
"What?"
"I just got fired," Mark continued, like he was talking about the weather. "I don't have a girlfriend because my ex left me six months ago for a guy who does yoga. I don't have money because it all went into paying debt. I'm getting kicked out of my apartment next month because I can't pay rent."
The thief lowered the gun slightly, clearly not sure how to process this information.
"Hey, man, I just want—"
"The only decent thing I've got," Mark cut in with a bitter laugh, "is my videogame account. Level 99, legendary gear, a thousand hours invested. That is literally the best thing in my life. Do you realize how pathetic that is?"
"Look, just give me the wallet and—"
"Honestly, I'd be better off dead."
The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable.
Mark could see the confusion in the thief's eyes, the way his brain tried to figure out if this was a trap or if he'd just found the most miserable guy on the planet.
Maybe I overdid it a little, Mark thought, feeling a flicker of regret.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the narrow alley.
Mark felt the impact before he registered the pain—a dull punch to the chest that sent him staggering backward.
Son of a bitch, he actually shot me, was his last coherent thought before the world went black.
The darkness was absolute.
There was no up or down, no cold or heat. Just an infinite void stretching in every direction. Mark floated within it—aware, but bodiless—existing in a state that defied all logic.
Well, shit. Guess this is death.
There was no tunnel of light. No angels. No demons. Just… nothing. A nothing so complete it was almost comforting in its simplicity.
Maybe I went too far with my response, he reflected, feeling something like regret.
Although technically I didn't ask him to shoot. I just said I'd be better off dead. That's not the same as "please kill me." There's an important nuance there.
Time lost all meaning.
Seconds or centuries—it didn't matter.
And then, a voice echoed through the void.
"Well, well, well. Another suicide."
The voice was… strange.
Not male or female.
Not young or old.
It was like the very concept of "voice" had decided to manifest without bothering to pick specific traits.
"Technically it wasn't suicide," Mark protested. "I got shot."
"You deliberately provoked an armed individual after expressing your desire to die. That counts."
"That is a very liberal interpretation of the facts."
"I'm a cosmic entity. I can interpret the facts however I damn well please."
Mark would've sighed if he still had lungs.
"Fine. So what now? Hell? Reincarnation as a cockroach? Eternal nothingness?"
"Hm. Let me check your file…"
A pause followed, so theatrically deliberate it was almost insulting.
"Oh, interesting. You're not particularly bad. Also not particularly good. You're… mediocre."
"Thanks, I guess."
"Mediocrity is boring. Heaven doesn't want you because you did nothing memorable. Hell doesn't want you because you did nothing terrible. You're the spiritual equivalent of a glass of lukewarm water."
"Is there a point to any of this?"
"The point is: I have an opening. A world that needs… let's say, a bit of controlled chaos. And you, my dear accidental suicide, are going to fill it."
"Wait, what?"
"Enjoy your new life. Try not to die quite as pathetically this time."
"Wait! I didn't agree to anything! You can't just—!"
But the voice had already faded, and with it, the darkness began to fracture like shattered glass.
Mark opened his eyes.
The first thing he registered was pain.
A dull, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from every fiber of his being.
The second was the smell: damp, mold, and something metallic he vaguely recognized as dried blood.
He sat up slowly, his joints protesting with every movement. He was in a cave—or something like a cave.
The walls were ancient brick, covered in moss and dark stains he preferred not to examine too closely.
Where the hell…?
His hands. Something was wrong with his hands.
Mark raised them in front of his face and went still. The fingers weren't his. They were longer, paler, with perfectly trimmed black nails.
And on the back of his left hand, a tattoo he knew very well glowed with a faint purple light.
No way.
Heart—did he still have a heart?—hammering, he desperately searched for something reflective.
A puddle of stagnant water near the wall would do.
The face staring back at him wasn't his.
It was his videogame character's face.
Jet-black hair falling to his shoulders, unnatural violet eyes, sharp features he'd spent hours customizing in the character creator.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered—and the voice that came out was deeper, more resonant than his own. "He actually did it."
Mark—or whoever he was now—slumped against the damp wall, processing.
He was in his videogame character's body.
A level 99 necromancer named… well, he'd named him "DarkLord69" because he'd been fifteen when he made the account and thought it was funny.
Please don't let anyone ask my name. Please.
But there was a problem.
A very big problem.
In the game, his character was level 99.
Here, though, when he tried to mentally access his status… what he found was very different.
[Status]
Name: ???
Class: Necromancer
Level: 1
Rank: F
Skills: Wake Up (Lv. 1)
"Rank F?" he blurted. "Level one? What kind of cosmic scam is this?"
The entity, of course, didn't respond.
Mark stared at the stone ceiling, feeling the reality of his situation settle in his gut like dead weight.
He was in an unknown world.
In a body that wasn't his. With the power of an absolute beginner. And his only skill was something called "Wake Up."
"Well," he muttered to himself, in the tone of someone who has accepted the universe hates him personally. "At least it can't get any worse."
Somewhere deeper in the dungeon, something roared.
"…I had to open my mouth."