The role in a typical canonical fantasy novel is where you’re a member of the warrior’s party, but you have no presence than a villain.
That’s who I am.
It was a moment in time when my life began to change.
It was a normal day for me: I practiced my magic, came down to the village, killed a wild boar that was ruining the crops, roasted it for a village feast, and went to sleep with a full belly.
But the moment I took a bite out of the thick boar’s hind leg, I realized my past life.
I still haven’t figured out what the secret is in that boar meat.
By the looks of it, I was the only one who realized my past life.
I glanced over at Carrot, who was nibbling on the opposite hind leg, but she only smiled at the meat she hadn’t eaten in a long time.
“Cylon only says difficult things.”
That was the answer I heard as I brushed Carrot.
I lay in bed late at night, alone, thinking about how hard the bed I had loved for years was.
It was all because of my previous life.
It was because the brain remembered the softness of the mattress.
In my previous life, I was a boring graduate student in 21st-century South Korea.
I dropped by a professor’s lab to ask a question, got a red bean tea, and was immediately dragged back to graduate school.
My days were filled with running errands, collecting samples, conducting experiments, and writing reports.
Even amid delusions of a caffeine overdose that landed me in the hospital for a few days, I was also an avid hobbyist.
And my past life hobby was reading fantasy novels, and it turns out that I preferred the old, classic kind.
The stories I remember were all pretty similar.
They were all the same, with demons rising out of nowhere, only legendary gods, and humans being sent to the demon king’s castle with the pretense of being warriors.
Judging by my suddenly 21st-century sensibilities, it was a story of people taking the sacrifice of a cow for the greater good for granted, state power and fanatics going out of their way to gaslight warrior parties, and, in short, a story of warrior’s party human rights gone bad.
What’s so funny about being in the same exploited position? In my previous life, I constantly sought out and read similar novels.
I read them on my way to buy coffee for my professor’s errands, and I read them when a car ran a red light and ploughed into me.
A little depressed, I didn’t leave the house for three days to clear my head.
None of my neighbours thought it was strange because I rarely left the house for research.
I looked around the house I had lived in for the past three years with a puzzled expression.
“So this is the medieval period that the novel is talking about.”
After a long time of appreciation, I had a strange realization.
Certainly, not Earth: the period in Earth’s history called the Middle Ages ended historically about six centuries ago.
Even in my previous life, the Middle Ages were the stuff of fantasy novels, where antiquity was mangled.
Yeah, like this one.
Why would there be toilets in the Middle Ages?
Flames roared in my palms.
The conclusion came.
I was in a book.
The problem is, I don’t know what book.
I slept soundly, prioritizing sleep over contemplating what kind of world this one was.
A wizard was a researcher by profession in my previous life.
Past life habits carry over to this life, and I was obsessed with research in my previous life, and I was obsessed with research in this life.
I’ve entered the world I loved, but I’m still doing research….
I was sad that I had only one aptitude, but I had already mastered magic, and I couldn’t become a swordsman now.
I decided to let go of the inevitable and practice the maximum amount of laziness I could right now.
That was to sleep in all day.
After a few days of staying in bed when I couldn’t sleep, Carrot and Toma came home.
Bang, bang, bang!
“Cylon! Cylon! Are you home? Cylon!”
Carrot’s distinctive voice woke me from my sleep.
I opened the door, holding my head, which was dizzy from lying so long.
“Cylon! Are you sick?”
Toma broke into the conversation with a haunted look on his face.
“There’s a warrior! I heard the adults talking, and Uncle Tom’s got a room for him!”
Uncle Tom was a trader who travelled from village to village.
Knights could not travel to these deep mo
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