I died making spaghetti.
Seriously. That was it. After twenty-eight years of caffeine abuse, crippling debt, and anime I stopped enjoying five years ago, my grand exit wasn't a car crash or ninja assassination—it was bad pasta. Not poisoned. Not cursed. Just me, Rick Sanechesse, throwing together cheap meat, expired sauce, and thinking, fuck it, how bad could it be?
Bad enough that my stomach exploded and I shit myself to death on the bathroom floor.
And now I'm here. Waking up in a four-poster bed that's bigger than my old apartment, in a room so polished it feels like a museum exhibit. At the foot of the bed stands a baby-faced butler bowing like I didn't just fart in my sleep.
"Good morning, young master Ira'. Today is your first day at the Royal Crest Academy. Your robes have been pressed, your sword enchanted, and your breakfast awaits."
Right. I forgot the worst part.
I'm Ira' Lionheart now. The dumbass protagonist from that garbage fantasy novel I wasted two years defending on forums before rage-quitting halfway through volume six. The golden boy. The chosen one. The pretty idiot who starts off as a clueless prince with god-tier powers and ends up with a harem of twelve girls who exist to giggle, blush, and die for him.
And now I'm him. Great.
I sit up, feeling weird in my own skin—too light, too smooth, too perfect. Like someone 3D-printed the idea of a protagonist and forgot to give him pores. In the mirror across the room, I catch a glimpse of golden hair, glittery eyes, and a jawline that looks like it was hand-crafted by horny angels.
"God, I look like a dating sim ad."
The butler hands me a comb. I ignore it and grab toast from the silver tray instead. It's warm. Tastes like cardboard. I chew anyway, because why not.
"Ira', sir," the butler says, "your first class is Introduction to Magic Theory."
Oh boy. I know this arc. The academy. The harem starter pack. Meet-cutes, accidental groping, magical duets, and bath scenes every ten chapters. But more importantly, this is where I find out just how stupid this world really is.
I walk into class late on purpose. The instructor gives me the whole "you must be the noble Lionheart" speech. I nod, drop into a seat at the back, and open the beginner spellbook.
Five minutes in, and I want to scream.
They're teaching addition.
Not magical theory. Not incantation control. Literal. Addition.
"One mana crystal, plus another mana crystal, equals two!" the instructor says with his whole chest. The class nods like he just cracked quantum physics.
I flip ahead. The pages are full of diagrams showing how to draw the number four in ancient script, how "big fire" compares to "small fire" using stick figures. There's even a paragraph explaining that water is wet. I want to claw my eyes out.
"This is third-grade crap," I whisper.
Someone giggles nearby. I glance over and there she is: the childhood friend. Big blue eyes. Ribbon in her hair. Practically glowing with "please romance me" energy. In the book, she's the first girl to fall for Ira' after he saves her from a spell explosion in this exact class.
She leans over with a sparkle in her eye. "Hi! I'm Aria! You're so cool! Do you like explosions?"
"No," I say. "I like silence."
She stares. The instructor stares. I stare harder.
Class ends. The professor asks me to stay behind. "Is something wrong, Ira'?"
Yeah. Everything.
But I say, "Nope. Just tired."
He nods like I just dropped some profound trauma. Like I'm nursing a deep, mysterious sadness. I'm not. I just want to go back to bed and scream into a pillow.
As I leave, another girl bumps into me. Silver hair. Violet eyes. You've got to be kidding me. The "ice princess." Daughter of a rival noble house. Destined to duel me in chapter three, blush when I win, and join the harem by book four.
"Watch where you're going, peasant," she hisses.
"You bumped into me," I say. "Try again."
She freezes. Her mouth opens and closes. I walk away.
Now she probably thinks I'm cool. Perfect. Another one doomed.
By the time I'm back in my dorm, my head's pounding. I collapse face-first onto the bed. This world isn't just fake—it's lazy. Like someone copy-pasted tropes off a harem wiki and slapped some fantasy jargon on top. Everything is pre-scripted. Everything is plastic.
And I'm in the center of it. Playing a role I can't stand.
Ira' Lionheart is supposed to be sweet. Clueless. Noble. A golden retriever in royal robes. He stumbles into greatness, saves people by accident, and somehow becomes the hero everyone loves. Meanwhile, twelve women orbit him like emotionally damaged planets, crying and dying and calling it romance.
That's not me.
"If this world wants a harem protagonist," I mutter into the mattress, "it picked the wrong reincarnation."
Then I grab a pillow, pull it over my head, and scream until I pass out.