The first sensation to punch through Lysander's brain wasn't the usual dull throb of a workday headache or the comforting, slightly burnt scent of his morning coffee. No, this was a sudden, bone-deep chill, like a whisper of ice that somehow spoke directly to his mind. It wasn't a voice he heard with his ears, but a cold, clear thought pressed into his very soul: Lysander Thorne, a forgettable noble, dies a pathetic death during the Siege of Oakhaven. His insignificance merely serves to highlight the true hero's courageous stand.
He gasped, a sharp, choked sound, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes, used to the soft, sterile glow of his office monitor, burned as they struggled against a raw, blinding sunlight. This definitely wasn't the cramped, familiar space of his apartment, or the low, rhythmic hum of the city outside his window. No, this was a world of rough-hewn stone digging into his back, the distant clash of steel echoing around him, and the heavy, undeniable stench of damp earth and pure, unadulterated fear.
He scrambled to his feet, swaying precariously on a crumbling battlement, the wind whipping unfamiliar, slightly too-long hair across his face. Below, soldiers milled like confused ants, their worn armor dull, their faces etched with a grim, hopeless resignation that twisted Lysander's stomach. This was it: the Siege of Oakhaven, a major, brutal event from The Crimson Blade, the fantasy novel he'd just finished binging last week.
And Lysander Thorne? He was just a throwaway character, a name briefly mentioned before being unceremoniously discarded. His pathetic, utterly pointless death was simply a convenient detail, designed only to provide a dramatic backdrop for Kaelen, the novel's actual main character – some impossibly skilled, brooding swordsman. Lysander was meant to be nothing more than a tragic, inspiring statistic in someone else's grand, heroic tale.
A crushing dread, far more potent than any anxiety he'd ever felt about deadlines, seized him. That internal script, that terrifying, pre-written prophecy of his end, wasn't just a quiet hum anymore; it was a screaming siren, piercing right through his thoughts. He was supposed to die. Right here. Today. And not with any dignity or purpose, but with the whimpering shame of a terrified nobody. The sheer, gut-wrenching, and frankly, utterly insulting unfairness of it all hit him like a physical blow. One minute, he was just a regular guy, navigating spreadsheets, and the next, he was trapped inside a book, forced to play the part of a doomed extra.
He looked down at his hands. They were slender, uncalloused, clearly not used to anything heavier than a pen. These weren't his hands, not the ones that had typed out reports and clicked through spreadsheets. But the brain inside, the frantic, desperate scramble to live, the burning, raw refusal to just accept this – that was all him, undeniably. The Lysander Thorne from the book was a simpering, self-serving fool, always worried about his own comfort and status. This Lysander… he felt a cold, sharp anger bubble up, a stubborn refusal that was completely new to this body.
"Thorne! What are you standing around for, you worm?! Get to your post!" A gruff voice, dripping with contempt, snapped him out of his head. Sir Reginald, a grizzled old captain with a face like a thundercloud, stomped towards him, his chainmail rattling. In the book, Reginald survived, but he never stopped hating the original Lysander.
"My sincerest apologies, Sir Reginald," Lysander managed, trying to sound polite, but his voice felt stiff. He had to be smart. The original Lysander was famous for being a stuck-up coward. He couldn't act too different too fast, or he'd draw unwanted attention. His whole life depended on secretly changing his own story, one tricky step at a time.
He was stuck guarding the West Gate, the weakest part of the fortress, and, wouldn't you know it, the exact spot where the main enemy attack was supposed to break through. His "cowardly death" was super clear in the book: he'd trip while trying to run away, then get skewered by a monster's claw as he tried to pull down some flimsy wooden barrier. Just a pathetic, pointless end.
That thought sent a fresh jolt of cold determination through him. He wouldn't die like that. He wouldn't be some forgotten name, a footnote in someone else's epic. He might be an extra, but he was an extra with a secret weapon: he knew what was coming. He was a wild card in a story that was supposed to be set in stone. This was his edge, his only shot against a future that was already written.
As he trudged towards the West Gate, the ground rumbling with the approaching enemy, one thought became crystal clear. This was his exile – ripped from his own life, dropped into a script where he was marked for death. But like some exiled noble, he wasn't going to just shrivel up and vanish. He would plot. He would scheme. He would rise. The whole vibe of that "Villain's Playlist" pulsed inside him – not a tune, but a feeling of calculated ambition, of waiting for the right moment, then hitting hard and smart.
He didn't have magic, no secret fighting skills. He was just a regular guy, terrified and way out of his league. But he had this burning need to live, and a mind that refused to be trapped by the pages of a novel.
Reaching the West Gate, he eyed the pathetic defenses: splintered wood, a few demoralized guards, and this heavy cloud of hopelessness. It was a death trap. Still, amidst all the despair, his brain started buzzing, looking for tiny details, anything out of place. He saw some old lumber tossed aside, a broken cart wheel, a forgotten length of rope. These useless bits and pieces sparked an idea, half-baked and crazy, but gleaming with the promise of fighting back.
As the first, deep growls of the Gore Hounds got terrifyingly close, Lysander didn't flinch. He didn't run. He grabbed the rope, his heart hammering against his ribs, but a cold, sharp resolve settled deep inside him. The script said he would die here. But the script, he decided, was about to get a major rewrite, and he, Lysander Thorne, the forgotten extra, was going to be the one holding the pen.