The railing wobbled under my grip-wait, that bolt was loose yesterday too—
My agent's champagne flute froze mid-toast. I didn't.
Gravity yanked me off the balcony like an understudy getting cut mid-line.
The pavement never came. Instead— lavender and rot. A knife twisted in my gut.
Not a metaphor. An actual blade. Real pain. Blood. Velvet sheets under my back.
I'd practiced dying in 14 accents.
This wasn't in the script….
And a voice in my skull, way too chipper for someone dying. Again.
[Neural Sync 91%. Welcome to your worst-reviewed role yet: Corpse.]
"Huh—?"
[Correction: temporary corpse. You're mid-possession of Lord Audric Solvane, 27, disgraced noble. Recent hobbies include relic forgery, getting stabbed, and unpaid taxes.]
[I'm Glyph. Gen Z snark module, born in the 23rd century, currently downgraded to your subconscious. Congrats: you've been isekai'd. Rating? Two stars. Do better.]
I gasped like someone mid-death scene. My stomach burned.
The scent of copper and lavender-Audric's cologne? No, the blood soaking the sheets—dark, crusted. Not my blood. Not my sheets.
Not my body.
"This is… not L.A."
[Correct. Welcome to Valmere: medieval vibes, magic economy, zero healthcare.]
I sat up, ribs screaming. Velvet sheets fell off me like a dramatic costume reveal.
The room looked like a set for a period drama with budget issues. Stone walls, broken vases, half-melted candles, and—on the floor—a crimson-sealed letter. My name, scrawled in handwriting I didn't recognize.
Audric's name, I guess.
The wax seal stopped me cold.
Same symbol my agent used to fiddle with on her necklace. The one she touched right before I fell.
"Oh, hell no."
I opened it.
"Fake another relic, and we'll finish what the knife started."
— The Merchant's Guild of Valmere
[Fun bonus: that's their second warning. The first one was… well, the knife.]
"Glyph," I said slowly, "did I get murdered twice?"
[Looks like someone re-cast your death across dimensions. Bold, honestly.]
Let me back up.
I'm—was—Jeremy Blake. Actor. Thirty-one. Understudy to the background.
Best known for screaming "NOOOO" in a toothpaste ad and dying with extra sparkle.
That rooftop party? Was supposed to reboot my career.
Instead, it rebooted me.
And now I was inside a disgraced noble whose greatest hits included debt, forgery, and stabbing.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay okay okay. What are we working with?"
[Powers? Right. Let's roll that trailer.]
[Ability One: PROP MASTER.]
Recreate any non-living object you've held. Energy cost = size. No living things. No perfect copies.
Think "cosplayer with a 3D printer," not "god-tier summoner."
[Ability Two: METHOD ACTOR.]
Shapeshift into any person you've studied. Voice, face, vibe.
Side effect: Overuse = identity slippage. You forget who you are. Fun!
[Basically: fake it till you dissociate.]
I stumbled toward the cracked mirror.
Audric—my reflection—was too tall, too sharp. Black hair, collarbone scar, noble jaw. The kind of face that screamed 'Trust me, I'd never lie', right before selling you fake holy water.
I held out a hand.
"Let's try Prop Master."
My palm lit up. I pictured a longsword—heroic, intimidating, something that would earn respect and/or a tax delay.
[Prop Master: Activated.]
Something thunked at my feet.
A child-sized wooden training sword rolled across the floor. I picked it up.
"What the hell is this?"
[Oh. Wow. That's from 'King Arthur Jr. Summer Camp.' You played dead knight #3. Age twelve.]
"I was the understudy!"
[Your stamina stat is dirt and your memory's a garage sale. Don't expect miracles.]
The sword was light. Useless. My hands shook from the effort.
"What about Method Actor?"
[Uh. You're already impersonating a dead guy. Let's not go full Inception until you've had breakfast.]
I staggered to the wardrobe. Empty. Looted. Only a black-and-gold cloak remained, along with a cracked porcelain mask. Theater kid bait. I took both.
"Glyph, status report."
[You're bleeding, broke, legally dead, and your funeral starts in 48 minutes. You miss it, they finalize your death, and your estate—including that charming stab-hole—gets inherited by your widow.]
"…I have a widow?"
[Lady Seraphine. Gorgeous. Knife collector. Currently weeping artfully over your coffin. Or... is that the sound of her sharpening something? Almost definitely involved in your first stabbing.]
"Any chance she's forgiving and emotionally stable?"
[Glyph's voice flickered, suddenly static-heavy: "Warning: 87% chance Seraphine stabs you. Also, your kidneys are failing. Prioritize."]
I found a crushed theater ticket in the cloak's pocket.
CULT: The Musical – Front Row.
[Seriously? You bought tickets to a death cult musical?]
"For research!"
[This explains so much.]
I limped to the door.
"So I crash my own funeral."
[Yep.]
"Convince everyone I'm not dead."
[Double yep.]
"Avoid getting murdered again. And possibly again after that."
[Now you're getting it.]
"Any backup plans?"
[Sure. You die. Again. But this time in front of a live studio audience.]
The chapel loomed downhill, dark and silent.
I stepped into the courtyard. Mask on. Cloak trailing like stage curtains.
A child's sword at my hip—the only prop I had for this life-or-death scene.
"Alright. One last audition."
[Hope you memorized your lines. Because the critics inside? They kill.]
I walked into the chapel.
Candles flickered. Nobles whispered.
And at the altar, turning with precision that screamed "rehearsed," stood—
Lady Seraphine.
Veil, lace, widow-black elegance. But her hand rested on a dagger.
The same make as the one I'd pulled from my gut.
"Lord Solvane," she purred. "How… miraculous. You look so… lively."
[Option 1: Divine resurrection. Option 2: Gaslight the widow. Option 3: Fake a seizure and run.]
I bowed, channeling every doomed prince I'd ever played.
"Call it a miracle," I said, voice steady. "Or call me a liar. Either way… I'm back."
Seraphine's dagger flashed. "Funny.
Miracles don't bleed."
[Option 3: Fake a seizure and run]
Too bad my legs chose that moment to collapse.
Seraphine's dagger gleamed. "Let's see if corpses bleed twice."
END OF CHAPTER 1