Interesting.
That was the first word that drifted through the void of my consciousness. Not "Help," not "Mom," and certainly not a scream of terror. Just a cold, detached observation.
I died.
It was a fact, as simple as gravity or the rising sun. I had died in a dirty alleyway, lungs crushing in on themselves, ribs shattered by the boots of people who considered my existence an inconvenience. But why didn't I feel bad about it? Why was there no welling of tears, no raging fire of grief for a life cut short?
I had died without taking revenge. I had died powerless, a punching bag for the strong. By all rights, I should be screaming in the afterlife, clawing at the walls of hell in frustration.
Sigh.
I let out a long, mental breath, suspending my thoughts in the darkness for a moment.
I died... but why am I not dead? Like, actually dead?
Logic dictated that corpses didn't ask questions. Corpses didn't analyze their own emotional state. And most importantly, corpses didn't possess the ability to smell.
Hum...
I inhaled deeply. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood or the rotting stench of wet mud and garbage that had filled my nose when they were kicking me.
It was... lavender? Old parchment? And beneath it all, a faint, sweet scent of burning wax.
Siddhartha opened his eyes.
The transition was jarring, not because it was violent, but because it was so terrifyingly peaceful. The grey, smog-choked sky of my world was gone. Instead, my vision was filled with an unfamiliar, yet strangely nostalgic ceiling.
An antique chandelier, the brass tarnished to a dull gold, hung above me, its crystals catching the dim light. The walls were covered in a deep, decorative crimson wallpaper, embossed with patterns of thorns and roses that screamed "high-end aristocracy."
I shifted my weight. I wasn't on cold asphalt. I was sinking into a mattress so soft it felt like a cloud, my head cradled by a pillow made of silk.
Where... am I?
My hand instinctively shot to my right pocket, a reflex drilled into me by years of struggling to breathe. I was reaching for my inhaler. The panic of an asthma attack was a ghost that haunted me even here.
But my hand met only the smooth fabric of a nightgown.
And then I realized: I don't need it.
My chest rose and fell with a rhythmic, powerful ease. The wheezing whistle that had been the soundtrack of my life was gone. My ribs didn't ache. My finger wasn't broken.
Interesting, I thought again, pushing myself up to a sitting position.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing a white, frilled nightgown—the kind Victorian nobility wore to bed in those cheesy period dramas. My hands were pale, the fingers long and slender, calloused not from labor, but from holding a pen.
Then, the pain hit.
It wasn't physical pain. It was a deluge of information, a tidal wave of data crashing into my skull.
Arthur Dantes... History Teacher... Royal Academy... The Vampire Council... The Blood Tax...
Memories that weren't mine flooded my neural pathways, overwriting the trauma of Siddhartha Shah. I saw faces I didn't know but recognized instantly. I saw the layout of a city I had never walked in but knew like the back of my hand.
Wait.
The headache subsided, leaving behind a crystalline clarity.
Vampires. A lost love story. An industrial empire trapped in twilight.
Isn't this... the novel I was reading?
The title flashed in my mind like a neon sign: "Do You Feel Déjà Vu?"
It was that trashy fantasy romance novel. The one where the Male Lead is a brooding Vampire Prince, the Female Lead is a naive human with special blood, and they both die tragically at the end to satisfy some cosmic horror plot twist.
I remembered hating it. The story was a mess of clichés, the romance was toxic, and the ending was derivative.
So... I am not in the novel?
I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet touching the cold, polished wooden floor. I walked toward a tall, oval standing mirror in the corner of the room.
I am in this stupid body.
Reflected in the glass was a handsome young man. He had messy dark hair that fell over his forehead, sharp cheekbones, and dark circles under his eyes that gave him a scholarly, slightly exhausted look.
Arthur Dantes.
I knew him. He wasn't even a villain. He was a mob character. A background extra. A history teacher at the Academy who exists solely to deliver exposition to the main characters and then die in Chapter 3 during a "lab accident" meant to target the Protagonist.
This stupid novel, I thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. Of all the worlds, fate sends me to the one destined to reset?
But then, another thought occurred to me.
Wasn't I just thinking that if I had power, I would kill everyone? Fate truly has a twisted sense of humor.
The problem, however, remained. I was Arthur Dantes. I had no magical bloodline. I had no "System" cheat (or so I assumed). I was a normal human in a world where vampires could snap steel beams like twigs. Even if I knew the plot, surviving past Chapter 3 in this frail body seemed mathematically impossible.
Well, it's better than being dead in an alleyway, I reasoned.
My gaze drifted from my face to the small wooden table beside the mirror.
There, resting on a velvet cushion, lay a single object.
A Crystal Monocle.
It was shining brightly, catching a stray beam of moonlight from the window. It wasn't just reflecting light; it seemed to be holding it. It beckoned to me. It pulsed with a silent rhythm that matched my own heartbeat.
Wear me, it seemed to whisper.
I felt a strange, magnetic connection to the thing. It wasn't fear. It was... ownership. It felt like finding a limb you didn't know you were missing.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold crystal. I picked it up. The weight was comforting.
Without thinking, guided by pure intuition, I lifted it to my face. I bypassed my left eye entirely—it didn't feel right—and placed it firmly over my right eye.
Click.
The moment the glass settled over my eye, the world shifted.
It wasn't a metaphor. The reflection in the mirror cracked.
Spiderwebs of fractures appeared in the air around me, splintering the image of the room. It looked like the reality itself was made of cheap glass, and I had just thrown a rock through it.
And then, a single word echoed in my mind.
[ERROR.]
[GLITCH DETECTED.]
A translucent blue screen popped up directly in front of my face, hovering in the air.
[Welcome to the world of "Do You Feel Déjà Vu?"]
Name: Arthur Dantes
Race: Human (Civilian)
Class: Scholar (Tier 3 Academic Knowledge / Basic Combat Alchemy)
Then, the text flickered violently.
Analyzing Narrative Weight...
Error... Error...
System Initialization Failed.
The Will of the World cannot determine the Host.
[ERROR 404: FATE NOT FOUND]
The screen fizzled out and vanished.
Damn, that was anti-climactic, I thought, tapping the rim of the monocle. Even the System doesn't recognize this body.
I stared at the empty space where the screen had been. So, I was a ghost in the machine. A glitch. The world had a script, but my name wasn't in it.
This body is healthy, I mused, clenching and unclenching my fist. But how am I supposed to survive?
Wait. I realized something. The memories of Arthur Dantes weren't just names and faces. They were skills. I knew how to mix basic gunpowder. I knew the chemical composition of vampire sedatives. I knew the history of the Sanguine Edict.
I don't have to explain myself as a Professor, I whispered to the empty room. I already am one.
Suddenly, the silence was broken.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, followed by three distinct, polite knocks on the heavy oak door.
"Master Arthur? Are you awake?"
It was a female voice. Young, perhaps in her early twenties. Soft, subservient, but with a hint of fatigue.
A maid? My mind raced, cross-referencing Arthur's memories. Right. The dormitory maid.
"I have brought your morning tea, Master," the voice came again, muffled by the wood. "May I come in?"
A normal person would panic. A normal person would scramble to act like the old Arthur—timid, quiet, boring.
But I wasn't normal anymore. And I certainly wasn't boring.
My hand went to the monocle. I pinched the rim between my thumb and forefinger, adjusting it slightly. A wave of unnatural calm washed over me. It wasn't just composure; it was a cold, aristocratic indifference to the concept of fear.
"Please," I said, my voice smooth and deeper than I expected. "Do come in."
Creeeeaaaak.
The door opened with a soft groan of hinges. A young woman stepped inside. She had pale skin, striking white hair tied back in a severe bun, and wore the traditional black-and-white maid uniform of the Academy staff.
She carried a silver tray with a steaming porcelain cup.
"Master Arthur, here is your tea."
She didn't look at me directly—servants rarely looked at the teaching staff in this world. She kept her eyes on the floor, moving toward the table near the mirror to set the tray down.
She was efficient. Invisible. Just another cog in the machine.
As she turned to leave, placing her hand on the doorknob and bowing slightly, I spoke.
"Selena."
She froze. Her shoulders tensed. Arthur Dantes barely ever spoke to her, let alone used her name.
"Yes, Master Arthur?" She turned slowly, her eyes finally meeting mine.
Through the monocle, I saw... details. I saw the slight dilation of her pupils (fear). I saw the accelerated pulse in the vein of her neck (anxiety). I saw a microscopic smudge of sugar on her left thumb (she had stolen a cube for herself before coming in).
Interesting.
"What year is it, Selena?" I asked.
My tone was casual, polite, but underlined with a strange intensity. I didn't blink. I just stared at her, a faint smile curling the edges of my lips.
She looked confused, but the authority in my voice compelled her to answer immediately.
"It is the 14th of the Month of Blood, Master."
"The 14th..." I repeated, letting the date roll around in my mouth like fine wine. "Is something the matter, Master Arthur?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "You seem... different."
I chuckled softly and waved my hand in a dismissive gesture.
"No, nothing at all, Selena. Just... curious about the passage of time. You may go."
She nodded frantically, looking relieved to escape, and hurried out.
Click. The door closed.
I turned back to the mirror, my smile widening into something sharper, something dangerous.
The 14th of the Month of Blood.
I accessed the "Script" in my head.
Today was the day of the Royal Academy Entrance Ceremony. This was the literal first scene of the novel. The Male Lead and Female Lead would meet in the Great Hall in exactly four hours.
And me?
Arthur Dantes dies in Chapter 3.
Chapter 3 happens three days after the Entrance Ceremony.
"Three days," I whispered to my reflection.
This was getting interesting.
I had three days before the universe tried to kill me with a lab explosion. Three days to figure out this "Error" ability. Three days to derail a plot that had been resetting for god-knows-how-long.
Out of habit—or perhaps a new instinct that the monocle had awakened in me—I reached up and pinched the crystal lens again.
"Hehe."
A low, amused chuckle escaped my throat. It sounded terrifyingly natural.
"The idea of being a dead man walking," I murmured, adjusting my collar, "is actually quite entertaining."