Broadcasting My Death-Flags in Real Time

Transmigration supposed to only happened in fiction.

My junior colleague often raved about it whenever we had lunch together.

"Senior, if you could choose, what kind of world would you want to go to after death?"

He read way too many novels and comics. Wasn't that something beyond our control—something only a higher power could decide?

It all boiled down to either heaven or hell. But if I had a choice, I wouldn't want to go to either.

If anything, after death, I just wanted to fade into nothingness. A silent, eternal rest.

But fate had other plans. Maybe this was karma for wishing for something so unusual.

It happened during a company trip. We were on a bus when the weather took a turn for the worse.

To make matters worse, the driver was drowsy. While navigating a hilly road, he made a wrong turn—sending us straight into a ravine.

I don't remember what happened after that.

People say dying is agonizing—so painful it could drive you mad.

But all I saw was darkness. And I felt… nothing.

No, that wasn't entirely true.

A searing sting gnawed at me, making it impossible to breathe.

But it wasn't pain. That was regret.

My entire life flashed before my eyes, and I could only watch helplessly as memories I never had the chance to change played before me.

There were so many things I still wanted to do. So many goals I hadn't reached.

And now… none of them would ever come true.

Then, the darkness swallowed me completely.

At that moment, I thought I'd at least get my final wish—to spend eternity alone.

But then—something splashed onto my face.

Not just my face—my nose, my mouth—and the splashes kept coming, faster and faster.

I could feel my whole face getting wet.

Wait, wet? Was the afterlife full of water?

"Seriously? He's still not awake after all that? Just how stubborn is this guy? Guess I'll have to use my ultimate attack—get ready for my kiss!"

I … heard a voice.

A strange, unfamiliar voice. The language itself felt odd, like a mix of English, French, and Russian, blending into an unnatural string of sounds.

Summoning my courage, I opened my eyes.

A canopy. A delicate dome of thin silk, held up by four towering bedposts.

But these weren't ordinary bedposts. Each one was gilded in gold, encrusted with gemstones.

Where was I? A five-star hotel?

"Oh, you're awake. Do you hate the idea of me kissing you that much?"

Beside me stood a girl dressed entirely in black. She wore a tight corset layered under a sheer vest. A peculiar-patterned veil covered her head, enhancing her gothic appearance.

If she had worn black lipstick or even a darker shade, she would have perfectly embodied the gothic aesthetic.

"So? What are you waiting for?"

I frowned.

"My god, this is unforgivable. Don't tell me you forgot? Today is the third anniversary of Father's death."

The girl clicked her tongue at my silence. "Anyway, you have to come this year! And don't be late! I'll be waiting downstairs. Got it? Don't take forever!"

After she left, I scratched my cheek in confusion.

What… were we just talking about?

Father's death anniversary? But… my father was still alive!

And more importantly—who was she?

I decided to take a better look at my surroundings. This was definitely not a hotel room.

And if it was, then it had to be a ten-star hotel. Every piece of furniture was crafted with extreme precision, gleaming with rare metals.

Gold, diamonds, silver.

Even the mirror handle was made of polished silver.

I turned to look at my reflection—and immediately froze.

Shocked. Confused.

Who… was the person in the mirror?

I wasn't supposed to be this handsome.

Not that I had low self-esteem or anything, but the difference was just too drastic.

It was like going from an average guy named Harry, James, or John—only to wake up looking like Br*d P*tt or R*bert P*ttinson overnight.

And what made it even worse?

I recognized this face.

It belonged to the icon of a game I had been obsessed with lately—Crimson Butterfly.

A cowardly, pathetic, insufferable mastermind.

Ethan Hudford.

*#*

Friends are a dangerous influence

It doesn't matter if they're from school, work, or just casual acquaintances. The moment you talk to them, you start exchanging ideas—and at least one percent of those ideas are bound to be dangerous.

I learned that the hard way, thanks to my junior colleague.

I may have mentioned him before—an otaku obsessed with novels and comics. He was always pushing me to read the books he recommended, even though I wasn't much of a reader.

I politely turned him down, thinking that would be the end of it.

But then he started recommending a game.

That should have been an easy no, right?

Or maybe I should have just humored him.

But then he said something insane—that it was the best game of the century, even better than my beloved triple-A PC titles.

Calling it the best game ever? Fine, whatever.

But saying it was better than triple-A games? Outrageous!

I knew my junior well enough, and the kind of game he was talking about had never even been mentioned in my gaming forums.

Which meant it was probably a gacha game.

A pay-to-win mobile game.

Call me an elitist, but any gacha game playable on a phone didn't even deserve to be nominated for Game of the Year.

Let alone being the best game of all time.

So what did I do?

I played it—just so I could understand it well enough to mock it.

And what happened?

Instant regret.

After nearly three months, I had no choice but to admit: Crimson Butterfly was the best game in the world. 

At its core, it was a standard turn-based game with collectible characters.

But what made it challenging was the boss mechanics.

Every level had at least five different boss variations. Not five different bosses—just different versions of the same boss, depending on your approach.

For example, a boss that could be defeated using Team A in one attempt might be completely immune to the same strategy in the next.

There were no difficulty settings. Every encounter was randomized, forcing you to adapt.

And then there was the character build system. Each team had four slots, and every character could follow completely customizable development paths.

A magic user could be built into a physically powerful fighter. A melee warrior could be transformed into a high-damage glass cannon—turning a frontline tank into a lethal and enduring force.

And don't even get me started on the storyline—that was what truly kept me hooked.

I spent nearly all my free time playing this cursed game.

After work, during lunch breaks, even at office gatherings—I always made time to log in.

And let's not talk about the money I had spent. I wasn't normally a big spender, nor was I easily tempted by pay-to-win mechanics. But this game completely sucked me in.

And of all the characters, Ethan Hudford was the most complicated.

He was a third-rate villain—a jealous professor trying to sabotage the protagonist's success.

But if left unchecked, he would become a nightmare in Chapter 10—an impossible boss that forced many players to restart their accounts just to eliminate him early.

And now… I had transmigrated into him.

I frantically searched for something—a calendar.

There. Right beside the bedside lamp.

1578.

The date meant only one thing.

The main story would begin in just a year.

But something didn't add up.

Because as far as I knew…

Ethan Hudford was never supposed to have a sister.