Sylas Vermund was a bastard.
Not in the technical, out-of-wedlock sense—though that might've been true too—but in the universally disliked kind of way. Loud. Arrogant. Punchable. The kind of person who thought the world revolved around him, then threw a tantrum when gravity disagreed.
And yet, here I was. In his body.
In a world I barely remembered. From a novel I barely read. In a life I never asked for.
I woke up face-first on a scratchy pillow that smelled like old parchment and regret. The ceiling was wooden, cracked, and disturbingly close. For one horrifying second, I thought I'd been buried alive. Then came the headache—like someone had slammed a thousand fantasy terms into my skull and told them to throw a party.
My name was—wait, no. Not my name. His name.
"Sylas… Vermund," I muttered, the words tasting foreign.
I sat up slowly, trying to piece things together. My body felt different—lankier, lighter, stronger in a wiry, un-athletic kind of way. The room around me looked like a student dorm ran away from a fire and lost. Robes were tossed on the floor like dead animals. Books sat in messy towers on a desk coated in dust. Empty mana vials lay scattered across the floor like soda cans at a frat party for wizards.
On the nightstand, a letter sat open with a single line written in angry red ink:
"Your duel is scheduled for second bell tomorrow. Attendance is mandatory."
"...Excuse me?"
I blinked. Read it again.
A duel?
I wasn't even sure how to duel. The closest I'd ever come to a fight was aggressively clicking the "skip ad" button on mobile games.
I stumbled to the mirror hanging crooked on the wall. A stranger stared back.
Silver-blonde hair, tousled and messy. Golden eyes with the kind of judging stare that screamed, I own three capes and emotional issues. Pale skin, like I hadn't seen sunlight in months—which made sense. If this really was Sylas Vermund from that novel, the guy probably avoided Vitamin D the way I avoided gym memberships.
Okay. Deep breath. Think.
Last I remembered, I was just some regular guy—office drone, rent payer, coffee addict. I was riding the bus home after a long shift, scrolling through messages when my friend sent me that stupid novel link again. "Just read it, man. Gets good after chapter 20!"
Spoiler: I never made it to chapter 20.
Now here I was, stuck in the body of a minor antagonist who didn't even survive past the halfway mark. A character whose main contributions were: being a jerk, losing duels, and becoming a convenient punching bag for the protagonist.
So yeah. Fantastic.
"Okay. Okay okay okay," I mumbled, pacing the room. "Maybe it's just a dream. Or a coma. Or—hell, maybe I finally snapped from all that overtime and this is my brain's way of quitting."
Then the door burst open.
A boy stood in the doorway—tall, clean robes, sharp cheekbones, and a look like he'd just smelled something awful. He squinted at me with suspicion.
"You're awake," he said flatly.
"Unfortunately."
"Don't try anything stupid," he warned. "After yesterday's disaster, you're already hanging by a thread. If you skip tomorrow's duel, Headmaster Albrecht will have you expelled—or worse."
Then he left. Just like that.
"...Cool. No pressure."
I sat back down on the bed, holding my head in my hands.
Let's recap:
I'm stuck in the body of a fictional jerk.
I have a magic duel tomorrow.
I have no idea how magic works.
Everyone hates me.
I probably die in the original story.
This wasn't reincarnation. This was a hostage situation.
I flopped backward onto the mattress. The springs groaned like they wanted to quit too.
Okay, no time to panic. Not anymore. If this really was the world from that novel, then logic said any move I made could ripple into something worse. I couldn't rely on "canon events" because I didn't remember most of them. For all I knew, the next person I insulted might secretly be the Demon King in disguise or some fan-favorite with plot armor.
So what do I do?
Simple.
I survive.
Not thrive. Not hero. Just survive.
That meant no flashy duels, no dramatic speeches, and definitely no "I must change fate!" moments. I'd keep my head down, avoid high-stakes situations, and pretend to be just enough of an asshole that people ignored me.
Which… might be difficult. Sylas's reputation was already toast.
A knock came. Then the door opened again. No one in this school believed in privacy, apparently.
This time it was a girl—robes a little wrinkled, dark circles under her eyes, and a clipboard clutched in her arms like a weapon.
"Vermund," she said curtly. "Professor Dervan wants your updated spell matrix logs. You're three days overdue."
"I'd love to give them to you," I said smoothly, "but I recently suffered an acute memory collapse, moral realignment, and partial possession. Can I get an extension?"
She blinked. "...What?"
"I'll get them to you tomorrow."
She opened her mouth, then closed it, then turned and left, muttering something about "unethical enchantments."
Great. Add suspicion of magical possession to the growing list of problems.
I went to the desk and sifted through the mess. No spell logs. No journals. Just a lot of angry scrawled notes about "idiot classmates," "mana theory is for cowards," and one page that just said "fight me" over and over in different handwriting.
Real productive, Sylas.
I needed information. Fast. About the academy. About magic. About the duel. About who I could safely talk to without getting stabbed, hexed, or turned into a frog.
My gaze landed on a thick, leather-bound book under the bed.
Aetherhold Student Guidebook, 4th Edition.
Bingo.
I opened it and skimmed.
"Aetherhold Academy trains elite mages in the four sanctioned schools of elemental magic…"
"Dueling is a regulated outlet for inter-student conflict. Violations include: permanent injury, death, summoning eldritch entities…"
Nice. So death was a violation, not a guarantee. Comforting.
I flipped to the duel rules:
One-on-one.
Supervised by faculty.
Limited to approved spells and wands.
That was something, at least. If I could just stall, fake injury, or bribe someone…
Wait.
I opened a drawer. Inside: one wand. Slim, blackened wood. Cracked at the tip.
Of course it was broken.
I leaned back and laughed. Actually laughed. It was either that or scream.
Somewhere, the gods were having a field day with this.
"Alright, fine," I muttered. "If you want me to survive this hellhole with nothing but sarcasm, broken tools, and zero magical talent…"
I stood, brushing off my robes.
"Then I better start acting like the least important character in the story."
Because if I played this like a protagonist?
I was going to die by Chapter Five.