Mark had always imagined he'd die in some pathetic way — a stress-induced heart attack, or getting hit by a car while distracted scrolling through his phone.
But he never imagined it would be because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
…
The night was cold and damp. Mark had just walked out of the office after his boss — with 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 goddamn years of his life thrown in the trash with a handshake and a cardboard box full of his stuff.
The alley Mark was cutting through was a shortcut he'd taken a thousand times.
This time, however, a silhouette was waiting for him in the shadows.
"Hand over everything you've got."
The voice was young. Nervous. The gun in his hand trembled just enough for Mark to suspect that the person in front of him was a complete amateur.
Under any other circumstances, Mark would have cooperated. He would have handed over his empty wallet, his cracked-screen phone, and gone on his way.
But that night…
"You know what?" said Mark, his voice unnervingly calm. "If you're going to shoot, just shoot."
The mugger blinked, thrown off.
"What?"
"I just got fired. I don't have a girlfriend because my ex left me six months ago for some guy who does yoga. I'm broke because everything went to paying off debt... and next month I'm getting kicked out of my apartment because I can't make rent."
The mugger lowered the gun slightly, clearly unsure how to process any of that.
"Hey man, I just want—"
"The only decent thing I've got," Mark interrupted with a bitter laugh, "is my gaming account. Level 100, 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 and uncomfortable.
Mark could see the confusion in the mugger's eyes, the way his brain was trying to decide whether this was some kind of trap or whether he'd just stumbled upon the most miserable man on earth.
'Maybe I took it a bit too far,' Mark thought, feeling a small flicker of regret.
Bang!
The sound was deafening in the narrow alley.
Mark felt the impact before he registered the pain — a dull thud in his chest that sent him stumbling backward.
'Son of a bitch… he actually shot me,' was Mark's last coherent thought before the world went black.
…
The darkness was absolute.
No up, no down, no cold, no heat. Just an infinite void stretching in every direction.
Mark floated in it — conscious, but without a body, existing in a state that defied all logic.
'Well, shit. I guess this is death.'
No tunnel of light, no angels… no demons.
Just… nothing.
A nothing so complete it was almost comforting in its simplicity.
At least until a voice echoed through the void.
"Well, well, well. Another one who pulled the trigger on himself."
"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's a very liberal interpretation of events."
"I'm a cosmic entity. I get to interpret events however I like."
Mark would have sighed if he still had lungs.
"Fine. So what now? Hell? Reincarnation as a cockroach? Or do I just float in this void for eternity?"
"Hmm. Let me check your file…"
The voice went quiet for a few seconds.
"Oh, interesting. You're not particularly bad. Not particularly good either. You're… mediocre."
"Thanks, I guess."
"Mediocrity is boring. Heaven doesn't want you because you never did anything memorable. Hell doesn't want you because you never did anything terrible. You are, spiritually speaking, a lukewarm glass of water."
"Does any of this have a point?"
"The point is: I have an opening. A world that needs… let's call it controlled chaos. And you, my accidental little self-destroyer, are going to fill that slot."
"Wait, what?"
"Enjoy your new life. Try not to die in such a pathetic way 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 broken 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 body.
The second was the smell: dampness, mold, and something metallic he vaguely recognized as dried blood.
Mark 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 froze.
The fingers weren't his.
They were longer, paler, and on the back of his left hand, a tattoo glowed with a faint violet light — one he knew very well.
'This can't be.'
Heart hammering, Mark desperately searched for something to reflect his face until he found a pool of stagnant water.
The face staring back at him wasn't his.
It was the face of his video game character.
Jet-black hair, unnatural violet eyes, sharp features he had spent hours tweaking in the character creator.
"That bastard…" Mark muttered, and the voice that came out was deeper and more resonant than his own. "He actually did it."
Mark slumped against the damp wall, processing.
He was in the body of his video game character.
A level 100 necromancer named… well, he'd named him "DarkLord69" because he was fifteen when he made the account and thought it was hilarious.
But there was a problem.
A very big problem.
In the game, his character was level 100. Here, however, when he tried to mentally access his status… what he found was very different.
[Status] Name: Mark Class: Necromancer Level: 1 Rank: F Skills: Wake Up (Lv. 1)
"Rank F?" Mark snapped. "Level one? What kind of cosmic scam is this?"
The entity, of course, didn't answer.
Mark stared at the stone ceiling, feeling the reality of his situation settle into his stomach like a dead weight.
He was in an unknown world, in a body that wasn't his, with the power of a complete beginner.
And his only skill was called: Wake Up.
"Well…" Mark muttered, in the tone of someone who had fully accepted that the universe hates him personally. "At least things can't get any worse."
From somewhere deeper in the dungeon, something roared.
"…Had to open my mouth."