Pain was the first thing I felt.
Not the sharp, dramatic kind that novels liked to romanticize, but a dull, all-encompassing ache—deep in the bones, heavy in the muscles, like my entire body had been used as a practice dummy and then politely forgotten.
I groaned.
That alone surprised me.
My throat was dry, my voice hoarse, but it worked. I tried to lift my hand and immediately regretted it. A stabbing throb shot through my arm, forcing a hiss from my lips.
"…What the hell?"
My eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—high, arched, and carved from pale stone etched with intricate patterns. Soft golden light filtered in from tall windows draped with heavy crimson curtains. The air smelled faintly of herbs, medicine… and something metallic.
This was not my bedroom.
This was not any modern bedroom.
I froze.
My heart started pounding as my gaze snapped downward. White bandages wrapped tightly around my torso, arms, and even my legs. I felt constrained, like a poorly wrapped mummy. My head throbbed, and memories—not mine—pressed uncomfortably against the edges of my mind.
"No. No, no, no…"
I tried to sit up and failed spectacularly, collapsing back onto the bed with a weak gasp.
That bed, by the way, was massive. Ornate. Definitely not something a normal person owned unless they were either absurdly rich or fictional.
And that's when the worst realization hit me.
This room…
This bed…
This body…
"I recognize this place."
My voice trembled.
Slowly, carefully, I turned my head toward a tall mirror placed near the far wall. It reflected a boy—no, a young man—lying weakly on the bed. He had messy, voluminous blonde hair that fell in soft layers, parted in the middle, with fringes brushing his forehead. His skin was pale, almost porcelain-like, and when his eyes met mine—
Crimson-red.
Sharp. Intense. Too vivid to be real.
My breath caught in my throat.
"…Rias."
Rias von Leonhart.
The weakest character in my own novel.
I stared at the reflection like it might suddenly deny me. But it didn't. The face staring back was youthful, refined, and painfully fragile. A slim jawline, small nose, and a neutral mouth that looked permanently resigned to being overlooked.
I swallowed hard.
"You've got to be kidding me."
This wasn't just transmigration.
This was transmigration into my own story.
And not even as the protagonist.
Not as the genius swordsman.
Not as the prodigious mage.
Not even as the morally gray antagonist everyone secretly loved.
No.
I had transmigrated into the side-character.
The punching bag.
The illegitimate son of the Duke of Leonhart.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping—praying—this was some extremely vivid dream brought on by lack of sleep and bad instant noodles.
Nothing changed.
Memories began surfacing, slowly but relentlessly.
Rias von Leonhart was the duke's mistake. Born from a brief affair the duke never acknowledged publicly, yet never completely erased. He was allowed to live in the ducal estate—but that was where the generosity ended.
The Duke already had four legitimate children.
Three sons.
One daughter.
And every single one of them was superior.
The eldest son, proud and sharp, was a sword prodigy who could split boulders before turning fifteen.
The second son was a tactical genius with monstrous mana reserves.
The third son—still young—showed terrifying potential in both magic and combat.
And the daughter?
A blessed existence. Talented, elegant, adored by everyone.
Compared to them, Rias was… nothing.
A weak body.
Low mana.
No talent in swordsmanship.
No aptitude for magic.
He trained harder than anyone, pushed himself beyond his limits, and the result?
A permanently fragile body that collapsed if he overdid it.
And because of that—
"Ah. So you finally woke up."
A calm, slightly amused voice broke my spiraling thoughts.
I flinched.
The door opened, and a tall man in a simple but finely tailored uniform entered. He had silver hair streaked with black and sharp eyes that assessed me like a ledger entry.
The butler.
Of course.
Every ducal family needed one intimidatingly competent butler.
"You were unconscious for three days, Young Master Rias," he continued. "The physicians were… concerned."
Concerned was a polite word.
"Did I… die?" I asked weakly.
The butler blinked once.
"…No, sir."
"Shame," I muttered.
That earned me a raised eyebrow.
I cleared my throat. "I mean—ah—good. That's… good."
Smooth. Very smooth.
He stepped closer, adjusting the blanket over me with professional efficiency. "You collapsed during sword training again. His Grace was displeased."
Again.
Right. Of course.
In the novel, this was the exact point where Rias overtrained trying to keep up with the duke's sons, collapsed, and was bedridden for days.
I remembered writing this.
At the time, it felt like good world-building.
Now it felt like a personal attack.
"And my… siblings?" I asked carefully.
The butler's lips thinned ever so slightly.
"The young masters and young miss are continuing their training. They sent no messages."
Expected.
Rias was never hated outright. He was simply… irrelevant.
Used as a sparring partner. A messenger. A convenient extra body to fill scenes. A side-kick that made the main characters shine brighter by contrast.
I exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling again.
So. Let's recap.
I—a guy from a modern world with no combat skills, no magic, and a questionable sleep schedule—had transmigrated into the weakest body in a high-fantasy noble household.
A body wrapped in bandages.
A body that fainted from basic sword training.
And a role destined to be overshadowed, discarded, or killed off quietly in later arcs.
"…This is bad," I whispered.
The butler tilted his head. "Is something troubling you, Young Master?"
Everything.
But I smiled weakly instead. "Just… reflecting on life."
He gave me a look that clearly said children these days and turned toward the door. "You are to rest. Pushing yourself further will only worsen your condition."
After he left, silence returned to the room.
I lay there, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, my mind racing.
I knew this world.
I knew the plot.
The major events.
The wars.
The betrayals.
The endings of characters far stronger than Rias.
And that knowledge was the only advantage I had.
In the original story, Rias remained weak. He survived early arcs only because he was too insignificant to target—and later died during a political purge that barely got a paragraph.
I remembered writing that scene.
At the time, I thought: It adds realism.
Now I wanted to punch my past self.
"…Alright," I muttered, clenching my bandaged fist as much as my frail body allowed. "If I'm stuck as a side-character…"
A slow smile formed on my lips.
"…then I'll play the side-character smarter than anyone else."
No reckless heroics.
No competing with monsters.
No suicidal training arcs.
If the board was already set, then I'd move differently.
I closed my eyes, feeling the ache in my body, the unfamiliar weight of this fragile existence.
Rias von Leonhart—weak, overlooked, illegitimate.
The most harmless piece on the board.
And perhaps…
The one no one would see coming.