The system’s most cursed player

System

The words appeared suddenly, glowing a pale blue against the darkness behind his eyelids, and they didn’t disappear when he blinked. They just hovered there, unwavering, as if carved into the air itself.

『Welcome, Player. You are now Leonhardt von Grendel. Survival Rate: 0.3%. Good luck.』

Leonhardt because that was his name now, no longer Kazuki, no longer the overworked office worker who had collapsed at his desk stared at the message. His mouth had gone dry. His fingers twitched at his sides, half expecting to feel a controller in his hands, a screen in front of him. But there was nothing. Just this too large bedroom, the heavy drapes of the bed, the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral.

And the words.

0.3%

He knew that number. He had seen it before, in forum posts and strategy guides, in the frustrated rants of players who had tried and failed to keep Leonhardt von Grendel alive past the first act of Eternalis: Crown of the Fallen. The doomed noble. The character who died no matter what you did.

A rush of memories that weren’t his own flickered through his mind

Leonhardt coughing up blood in a dimly lit tavern, his drink laced with something black and greenish.

Leonhardt stumbling through a moonlit garden, a knife buried between his ribs, his last sight the cold smile of someone he had called a friend.

Leonhardt kneeling before an executioner’s block, the crowd jeering, his own father turning away as the axe fell.

Every path. Every choice. Dead.

Leonhardt’s breath came too fast. He reached out, swiping at the text as if he could wipe it away like fog on a window. His hand passed right through.

A knock came at the door sharp and impatient.

"Young Master Leonhardt." The voice was clipped, formal. A woman’s voice. "Your father expects you. The Imperial delegation has arrived."

Leonhardt’s stomach dropped.

The Imperial delegation.

In the game, that meeting never ended well. Either Leonhardt said the wrong thing and sparked a feud, or someone in that delegation had orders to remove him quietly. A poisoned handshake. A dagger in the dark. A duel he couldn’t win.

The door creaked open before he could answer.

A woman stepped inside, her posture stiff, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Elara. The head maid. In the game, she had never been outright hostile, but she had never been on his side either. Her eyes swept over him, lingering on his rumpled clothes, the way he was still half sprawled across the bed like he had just woken from a nightmare.

"You look unwell," she said, though her tone suggested she didn’t particularly care if he was.

Leonhardt seized the opportunity. He pressed a hand to his forehead, letting his fingers tremble just slightly. "I—I think I’m ill," he said, forcing his voice weaker than it was. "A migraine. Maybe fever. I can’t —I can’t possibly attend right now."

Elara’s lips thinned. She didn’t believe him. Or maybe she just didn’t like him enough to pretend she did. "His Grace will not be pleased," she said.

『Hidden Quest Activated: Defy Destiny!』

New text scrolled into view, bright and mocking

『Objective: Avoid the Imperial delegation today.

Reward: +1 to Luck (Temporary), 24-hour reprieve from scripted death events.

Failure: Death by "unfortunate accident" within 12 hours.』

Leonhardt’s throat tightened. Scripted death events. Like the game’s forced bad endings. Like the unavoidable traps that always killed Leonhardt no matter how carefully you played.

He doubled over, groaning louder this time. "I think—I think I’m going to be sick—"

Elara took a quick step back, her nose wrinkling in disgust. For a long moment, she just stared at him, as if weighing whether calling his bluff was worth the trouble. Then, with a sigh, she turned toward the door.

"...I will inform His Grace," she said, her voice flat.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Leonhardt slumped against the bedpost, his legs suddenly weak. It worked.

For one breath, two, he just sat there, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He had done it. He had avoided the first death flag.

Then

A memory that wasn’t his own tore through his mind.

The taste of tea, sweet at first, then bitter beneath the bergamot. The way his throat burned as the poison took hold. The way Lady Isolde smiled, gentle and pitying, as his vision blurred. "You were always too trusting," she murmured, and her hand was so warm where it rested against his cheek, even as his knees hit the floor.

Leonhardt gasped, his hands flying to his neck. His lungs refused to fill. The phantom pain lingered, sharp and real, like the ghost of a wound that hadn’t happened yet.

That wasn’t me. That was the game. That was Leonhardt’s death.

But it felt like his.

The System’s words flickered in the corner of his vision, relentless: 『Survival Rate: 0.3%』.

The room was too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that pressed against his ears, heavy and suffocating.

Then

『Daily Curse Activated!』

Leonhardt flinched as new text burned into his vision:

『Today, every door you touch has a 70% chance of slamming shut on your fingers. Failure to open at least three doors without injury will result in -1 to all stats.』

He stared.

A curse. For doors.

It was ridiculous. It was petty. It was the kind of misfortune so stupidly specific it felt like the universe was laughing at him.

Leonhardt’s hands shook.

Somewhere in the manor, a clock ticked.

The day had only just begun.