Not a dramatic Tuesday, mind you. Not a Tuesday with birds singing in slow motion, or a last conversation with a loved one that hit like lightning. Just a normal Tuesday. He had been late for work, grumbling about the slow line at the coffee shop. He'd stubbed his toe on the corner of the kitchen counter, spilled lukewarm coffee on his only clean shirt, and now… now he was dead.
The truck didn't care about any of that.
Headlights flashed. The horn blared. He had time for one thought: I should have worn a brighter jacket.
Then black. Nothing. Not even the comforting tunnel of light so many movies promised. Just black.
And then, ping. A noise he couldn't describe. Somewhere between a notification and a heartbeat. Not loud, not insistent, just… there. He inhaled, and for the first time, realized he could inhale.
Air burned his lungs. Cold, stale, wet air. His body spasmed, muscles twisting as sensation surged back like a tidal wave. Gravel dug into his palms. Stone pressed against his back. He rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting up dirt.
"…What the hell," he rasped.
There was a soft glow in front of him. A window. Pale blue, hovering a few inches away. No fanfare, no dramatic flair. Just a floating rectangle of light that hummed quietly.
WELCOME, PLAYER.
WORLD: AETERNIS.
STATUS: REINCARNATED.
He blinked. The window didn't flicker. Didn't pulse. It simply existed. Five seconds passed. Ten. His mind tried to rationalize. Maybe this was a hallucination. Maybe his brain was dying again. Maybe… maybe he had been hit harder than he thought.
He waved a hand through the light. Nothing. It passed through like air. He blinked, slowly, in disbelief.
"…I'm dead," he said flatly. The voice sounded strange to him, like it belonged to someone else. And maybe it did.
Another panel slid into place, text appearing beneath his gaze.
PLEASE SELECT A CLASS.
A vertical list of familiar archetypes appeared: Warrior. Mage. Ranger. Paladin. Artificer. Safe choices. Predictable. Clean. Balanced. Then, at the very bottom, in muted crimson text, almost sneering:
Necromancer (Hidden Class)
High Mortality Rate. Extreme Social Penalties. Soul Stability Required.
Ethan laughed. Short, humorless, bitter.
"Of course," he said. "I finally get reincarnated and it's straight to villain."
He hesitated. Not because he was afraid. Not really. But some quiet, stubborn part of him recognized the pattern: always pick the hard option. Always pick the weird build. Always choose the thing that punishes mistakes but rewards understanding. He didn't want easy power. He wanted to earn it. Or, more accurately, he wanted it to cost him something.
He selected Necromancer.
Agony bloomed, like icy needles through every nerve. Not sharp, stabbing pain, but the kind that seeps into your bones, twists, reshapes. Black lines flared across his arms, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His chest felt hollowed out and refilled with ice.
CLASS CONFIRMED: NECROMANCER.
SUBTYPE UNLOCKED: GRAVEBOUND.
SOUL AFFINITY: HIGH.
He collapsed to a knee, gasping, vision swimming. Memories not his own—not yet, anyway—flickered: coffins, graveyards, bones that remembered weight, death waiting patiently. When the wave passed, he was trembling.
He forced himself upright. Stone coffins lined the walls of the crypt. Names worn smooth by age. The air smelled of damp and the faint tang of iron. And then he felt it: something else. Awareness. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just watching.
SKILL UNLOCKED (PASSIVE): Grave Sense.
You perceive nearby remains, lingering souls, and usable death-aspected resources.
He swallowed.
One coffin rattled. A scraping groan. The lid slid aside. A skeletal hand emerged, clawing uselessly at the stone. Every survival instinct screamed at him to run.
Instead, a new panel appeared.
SKILL AVAILABLE: Raise Lesser Undead (Rank I).
He hesitated one heartbeat. Then extended a hand. Darkness, obedient and quiet, flowed from him. The skeleton pulled itself free, standing tall, empty sockets staring. It didn't attack. It waited.
UNDEAD CREATED: Skeletal Minion (Temporary).
Ethan laughed again, breathless, unsteady. "…I have a skeleton."
The skeleton tilted its head.
"Don't get attached," he told it. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
Morning light spilled across the hillside, revealing a small village below. A bell rang. Then shouting: "Undead!"
"So soon," Ethan muttered.
A pitchfork sailed past his head. He turned and ran.
Dirt and dust in his lungs, adrenaline in his veins, heart hammering. He felt a thrill he didn't recognize. Fear and exhilaration mixed with the system's cold logic ticking in his mind: Command Slots: 6 total. Permanent Undead consume ongoing slots. Temporary are free. Evolution exists. Risk exists.
He ran until he could see no one, then leaned against a tree, sweating, hands shaking. The skeleton followed silently. Faithful, obedient, eerie. He didn't feel safe. He didn't feel powerful. He felt… alive. And that, for someone who had just died, felt dangerously optimistic.
"I'm going to need a plan," he whispered to the skeleton. "And a bigger pack of command slots."
The skeleton tilted its head, like it understood. Or maybe it didn't. That was fine. Ethan didn't trust his own instincts yet either.
He allowed himself a short, humorless laugh. Dry, dark, and entirely his own.
"Welcome to your new life, Ethan," he said. "Welcome to being the villain."