Jean Bernard was having the kind of day that made him wonder if the universe had a personal vendetta against him.
He'd just gotten another polite rejection email "Your story lacks sufficient stakes" while juggling a lukewarm coffee and a rapidly dying phone battery. If only they knew, he thought, stepping off the curb. Real stakes are wondering if cup noodles count as dinner for the third night in a row.
Then the horn blared like an angry god clearing its throat.
Jean looked up. Time slowed. He had exactly 0.8 seconds to think, Well, that's one way to end writer's block, before...
SPLAT.
Darkness.
Silence.
Then a smug, otherworldly voice echoed through the void:
"Soul transfer complete. Compatibility: 87%. Memory fragments incoming. Enjoy your new career as the multiverse's favorite warmonger, loser."
Jean tried to scream. Instead, his new throat made a sound like a broken garbage disposal.
He woke up coughing so hard he thought his lungs were auditioning for a heavy metal band.
This body was not his. It was tall, unfairly ripped, and currently covered in someone else's blood. His hands huge, scarred, terrifying hands were wrapped around a massive black sword that looked like it had eaten lesser swords for breakfast. The air reeked of smoke, ozone, and regret.
Jean blinked. He was standing in the middle of a battlefield that looked like someone had let a toddler play with reality-warping Legos. Portals flickered like glitchy windows to other worlds. Corpses of humans, demons, and things with too many tentacles lay everywhere.
And every single living soldier on the field was kneeling. At him.
A seven-foot-tall demon general with obsidian horns and glowing red eyes rose slowly, voice booming with pure reverence.
"Lord Jan Harris! The so-called 'Hero of Convergence' from the 7th Realm is currently crying for his mother at your feet. Their coalition is annihilated, exactly as you foresaw. Their final desperate portal gambit was… adorable."
The general gestured proudly to a glowing-armored guy twitching pathetically nearby.
Jean's brain blue-screened.
Wait. Wait wait wait. I got isekai'd?! Into the final boss?!
He took one panicked step backward and immediately stepped on something soft and squishy. Squelch.
He looked down. Another corpse. This one had the expression of a man who'd seen the heat death of the universe and decided it was still better than whatever Jan Harris usually did for fun.
Jean's stomach flipped like a gymnast on espresso. He doubled over and coughed violently. Blood—his blood? This body's blood?—splattered dramatically onto the already blood-soaked ground.
The entire army gasped in collective awe.
The demon general's eyes sparkled with fanatical delight. "Even in total victory, the Warmonger's bloodlust cannot be contained! Look how he paints the battlefield with his own essence!"
Murmurs rippled through the ranks like a stadium wave.
"He coughed blood just from the thrill of conquest…"
"Truly the Multiverse's most feared psycho…"
"I told you Lord Harris doesn't even need to swing his sword. The enemy dies of sheer terror!"
Jean wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, leaving a dramatic red smear across his (unfortunately very handsome and intimidating) face. His legs wobbled like a newborn deer in combat boots.
This is not happening. I write rejected fantasy novels, I don't star in them as the villain!
He opened his mouth, intending to say something sensible like "There's been a huge mistake" or "Can someone please explain why I have abs now?"
What came out was a low, raspy growl that sounded like a final boss announcing the end of civilization:
"…What… the hell… happened?"
The general slammed back to his knees so fast Jean was worried he'd cracked the ground.
"The 7th Realm has fallen, my Lord! Their leaders are either dead, surrendered, or hiding in unstable portals. The remaining factions are already tripping over themselves to send tribute and their prettiest diplomats. Shall we proceed with the planned purges of the next three worlds, or would you prefer to… savor their despair first?"
Jean felt alien memories scraping against his mind, flashes of ruthless strategies, conquered realms, and way too many war crimes. He let out a weak, hysterical giggle that somehow came out sounding like a villain's evil chuckle.
The soldiers shivered in delighted terror. One guy in the back actually fainted from sheer hype.
The general grinned, all fangs and devotion. "As you command, O Warmonger Supreme."
Jean Bernard, former mediocre writer, current accidental multiversal warlord stared across the battlefield he had apparently just conquered by dying.
He really, really wished he could go back to cup noodles and rejection emails.