"Ugh, where the hell am I?"
A snow white haired boy mumbled, peeling his face off a pillow that cost more than anything he had ever owned.
He blinked once, then twice before staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.
It was too fancy, way too fancy. It had a gold trim, soft glowing light that hummed at a frequency that felt almost alive, the kind of architecture that screamed old money in twelve different languages.
This was definitely not his bedroom ceiling. His bedroom ceiling had a crack in it shaped like a duck. He had named the duck Gerald.
There was no Gerald here.
He sat up slowly, the silk sheets sliding off him like they were personally offended by the comparison to his usual cotton bargain bin set. The room came into full view and somehow managed to be even more excessive than the ceiling seemed.
Big didn't cover it. The place was enormous, it had a single dorm room with more square footage than his entire apartment, furnished like someone had robbed a museum and decided to sleep in it. Heavy curtains that looked hand embroidered framed a window that stretched nearly floor to ceiling. A sword was mounted on the wall like it was decoration. An actual sword, just hanging there, ornamental and gleaming and completely useless to someone who had never held anything more dangerous than a mechanical pencil.
A desk sat in the corner with ink and quill arranged neatly on top of it, like somebody had decided to live in the 1800s on purpose and was deeply committed to the bit.
Outside the window, the sky was the pale gold of very early morning. And beyond that, visible even through the glass, was a skyline he recognized immediately despite never having seen it with his own eyes.
Towers. Bridges connecting building to building at impossible heights. A central spire that caught the morning light and scattered it. The kind of skyline that existed in exactly one place.
Sky Academy.
He knew that skyline because he had seen the fan art. Because he had spent an embarrassing number of hours reading a fantasy web novel that had no business being as addictive as it was. He had burned through every arc in a three day stretch of poor life decisions, surviving on instant noodles and the vague awareness that he probably had assignments due.
He knew Sky Academy because he had read about it at two in the morning on a Tuesday, thinking 'man I wish I could visit this place.'
He had meant as a tourist. Not like this.
The headache chose that exact moment to introduce itself, and with it came something far worse. Memories of another person, thick and disorienting, shoving themselves into his head like they belonged there. Which, technically, they did. Just not to him. A noble family with a long history and longer grudges. Years spent at elite prep institutions. A particular talent for magic that he had absolutely no muscle memory for. A personality that could generously be described as difficult and honestly be described as insufferable.
And a name.
One that surfaced last, sitting in his head with all the weight of a verdict.
Julius De Caesar.
Max went very still.
He knew that name. He knew it the way you know a side character who exists purely as a narrative punching bag, with a kind of distant, almost fond pity. Julius De Caesar, the arrogant noble antagonist of 'Crimson Academy', present for exactly thirty pages before the protagonist made a very public example of him in the first tournament arc. Written to be disliked. Written to lose. Written to disappear from the story without anyone particularly noticing or caring.
He had read Julius's exit and thought 'yeah, fair enough' and turned the page without a second thought.
He was now inside that character's body, in that character's dorm room, with that character's death flag already loaded and aimed directly at him.
Max looked down at his hands. Unfamiliar hands. He flexed them once, like that would help.
It did not help.
Slowly, with the energy of a man being handed a bill he couldn't afford, he dragged himself out of bed and crossed the room to the decorative mirror hanging near the wardrobe.
White hair. Sharp features. A face that looked like it belonged on a poster for a fantasy villain, all cold angles and effortless arrogance. Objectively a good looking face. Devastatingly unfair, given the circumstances.
He stared at his reflection for a long moment.
His reflection stared back, offering nothing useful.
"I'm going to die," he said.
His reflection, unfortunately, agreed.