Noah sat cross-legged on the backseat of the car, the soft hum of the engine under him and sunlight filtering through the windows. He had his tablet propped against his knees, and his eyes were glued to the final chapter of Revenge of the Genius Martial Artist. The screen glowed with the ending he had anticipated yet dreaded: Daniel Mangrave, the prodigy who had regressed and trained for years, fought with all his might against the Vampire Lord. He had saved countless people, destroyed demons, and carved his name into history… only to be ambushed by the Demon Lord at the last moment.
The words scrolled past, relentless and cruel. Daniel fell, his eyes filled with tears and regret. The world he had fought for, bled for, and sacrificed for slipped into the hands of evil. Noah leaned back, feeling a strange numbness, mixed with disbelief. He had expected some semblance of hope at the end, some twist that would redeem the story. But no—Daniel's tragedy was absolute.
He glanced down at the comments section below the chapter, scrolling quickly. Some were angry, some heartbroken, some cynical.
"This ending is trash! Daniel deserved better!" one user shouted.
"I cried for hours… I can't believe it's over," another wrote.
"Honestly, the story was amazing, but the ending ruined everything," someone else commented, shrugging into digital despair.
Noah smirked faintly. He tapped a reply, half-joking, half-serious: "Maybe he needed a second chance." He leaned back in his seat and let the tablet rest on his lap. He wasn't crying, wasn't shouting. He felt… empty, contemplative. To everyone else, it was tragedy. To him, it was a puzzle. How had a genius like Daniel Mangrave, someone who had trained for years, still fallen? Where had it all gone wrong?
The car hummed along the highway, carrying his family obliviously. His younger brother, eager and restless, kept asking questions about the scenery outside. His elder sister laughed softly at his father's jokes, the kind of laughter that filled the car with warmth. Noah glanced at them, a pang of something he couldn't name stirring in his chest.
"You've been quiet," his mother said, noticing his silence. She reached over and ruffled his hair gently. "Enjoying your story?"
"Yeah," Noah replied, voice flat but polite. "Just… finishing it."
His father chuckled. "Knowing you, you probably already predicted how it would end, right?"
Noah smiled faintly. "Kind of. Not the exact details, but… the main outcome."
His sister, sitting opposite him, gave a teasing grin. "Don't tell me you're crying over some story again. You've read this one twice already, haven't you?"
"Not crying," Noah said defensively, though his fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the tablet. "Just… thinking."
His little brother yawned and leaned against his mother. "Are we there yet?"
Noah glanced out the window at the passing trees, sunlight glinting off the leaves, and a strange feeling settled over him. It was a mix of detachment and longing, a reminder that no matter how real a story felt, he still had a world to live in, people to interact with, lives that depended on him. The tragedy of Daniel was just words on a screen—yet it resonated in a way he couldn't ignore.
He scrolled back through the comments one last time. "He regressed… again… will he do better next time?" someone asked hopefully. Noah's lips twitched. Next time. That word lingered in his mind like a spark. What if there were a next time?
The car rounded a bend. Noah's gaze shifted to the road, sunlight painting his reflection on the window. His family chatted, oblivious to the thoughts spinning in his mind. He watched them, really watched—the small gestures, the laughter, the way his father's hand rested on his sister's shoulder. A pang of longing stabbed at him. He wanted to hold onto them, wanted to keep this life safe.
He leaned back, closing the tablet for a moment. His mother asked about their plan for the day, and his sister suggested stopping at a nearby café for snacks. His father and brother debated which route to take. Noah smiled softly, participating in the conversation but only half-present. His mind wandered back to the novel, to Daniel's failures, to the fleeting hope buried in the idea of a second chance.
And then it happened.
A sudden, screeching turn. Tires screamed against asphalt. Noah felt the car tilt, the world bending violently around him. The tablet flew from his lap, spinning across the backseat. His mother shouted. His father braced. His sister clutched the door handle, her knuckles white. His little brother's eyes widened in terror.
Everything moved in slow motion. Noah's mind, sharp from years of reading and analyzing, instinctively calculated: the trajectory, the impact, the possible outcomes. But logic mattered little now. There was no control, only chaos. Metal screeched. Glass shattered. The world twisted violently, and Noah felt his body tossed against the unforgiving seat.
And then… darkness.
When he awoke, he was no longer in the car, no longer in the world he knew. Warm water lapped around him, and steam curled lazily through a vast, marble bathroom. The scent of soap was sharp and unfamiliar. Noah sat upright, blinking rapidly. His hands reached to his face.
The reflection in the mirror made him freeze. Deep dark blue hair framed features that were not his own. His eyes—one red, one blue—stared back at him, sharp and unfamiliar. It took less than a minute for him to understand. He was no longer Noah. He had become Julien Morvain, the second-rate villain from the novel he had just read.
Shock gave way to disbelief, and disbelief to a strange amusement. For a moment, he let himself smile. It was absurd—here he was, alive again, in a body that was not his own, in a world he had only ever seen on a screen. He was a second chance incarnate, a chance to live differently, to make choices he had never had the opportunity to make.
Then the faces of his new family pressed against his mind's eye: his grandfather, imposing and stern; his mother, cautious but kind; and his sister—Alicia—already exuding brilliance and authority. Noah felt something unfamiliar: regret, not for his own life, but for the lives that could be lost in this one.
For the first time, he realized: he did not need to save the world. Not yet. What mattered most was the family before him, the people who reminded him of his own lost life, and perhaps… one boy, already strong beyond measure, who could not carry the weight alone.
Daniel Mangrave.
Noah—Julien—smiled faintly, a plan forming in his mind. He wouldn't rush into power. He didn't need to. He only needed to observe, guide, and protect. And maybe, just maybe, he could rewrite the tragedies he had read about.
A second chance. One life. One family. One prodigy to guide. That was all he needed to begin.