Reincarnated In My Favourite Novel As a Demon Lord

The clock on the office wall ticked monotonously, each second dragging Marcus deeper into a sea of exhaustion.

The dim glow of his computer screen cast eerie shadows on his tired face, the only source of light in the deserted office.

It was well past midnight, and the world outside was silent, save for the occasional hum of a distant car.

Marcus let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off the fatigue.

His desk was a chaotic mess of papers, reports, and empty coffee cups—silent witnesses to the late-night battle he was waging against a mountain of unfinished work.

He glanced at the clock again. 11:57 PM. Just three more minutes, he told himself. Three more minutes, and he could finally call it a night.

He leaned back in his chair, allowing his thoughts to drift. In his mind, he wandered through the magical realms of "The Chronicles of Vyrandel," his favorite novel series. He had always been captivated by its intricate world of mages, mythical creatures, and ancient prophecies.

The protagonist's journey from a humble 1-star mage to a legendary Archmage hero had inspired Marcus countless times during his mundane life.

A sudden beep from his computer snapped him back to reality. The final report was complete. Relief washed over him as he saved the document and shut down his computer. He gathered his belongings, his movements sluggish and mechanical. His body ached for the comfort of his bed.

Marcus left the office building, stepping into the cool night air. The city was eerily quiet, the streets deserted. He walked briskly, eager to get home. His apartment was only a few blocks away, but each step felt heavier than the last.

As he approached a crosswalk, the distant chime of a church bell rang out, signaling the arrival of midnight. Marcus quickened his pace, eager to reach the other side.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts of a warm bed and a good night's sleep that he didn't notice the truck speeding towards him.

The truck's headlights appeared out of nowhere, blinding him in an instant. There was a screech of tires, the deafening blare of a horn, and then—darkness.

---

Marcus awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. His body felt strangely light, and there was an unfamiliar sense of stillness in the air. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his head, forcing him to lie back down.

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes slowly. The ceiling above him was not the sterile white of a hospital room. Instead, it was adorned with intricate wooden carvings, depicting scenes of epic battles and mythical creatures. Confusion washed over him as he took in his surroundings.

The room was lavishly decorated, with rich tapestries hanging from the walls and a large, ornate chandelier casting a warm glow. The furniture was carved from dark wood, each piece looking like it belonged in a museum rather than a hospital. A fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with a cozy warmth.

Marcus struggled to make sense of it all. Was he dreaming? He sat up slowly, ignoring the throbbing in his head. His clothes felt different too, softer and more luxurious than anything he owned. He glanced down and saw he was dressed in a velvet robe, embroidered with gold thread.

Panic began to set in. This couldn't be real. He tried to recall the last thing he remembered—the truck, the blinding lights, the pain. But everything after that was a blur.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The room looked like something out of the fantasy novels he loved so much, but it was far too detailed to be a dream. He stood up unsteadily, moving towards the large mirror on the opposite wall.

The face staring back at him was not his own. It was the face of a young man, with sharp features and piercing Golden eyes. His hair was a shade of deep Red, contrasting starkly with the pale complexion of his skin. He touched his face, feeling the unfamiliar contours, the reality of his situation beginning to sink in.

His heart raced as he scanned the room for clues. A large wooden desk caught his eye, covered in parchment and quills. He walked over, picking up a piece of parchment. The writing was in a language he didn't recognize, but the style and ink were unmistakably old-fashioned.

Marcus sank into the chair, his mind reeling. This was no ordinary room. It was like something out of "The Chronicles of Vyrandel." But how? How was any of this possible? He had been hit by a truck, he should be dead—or at least in a hospital.

He glanced around the room once more, his eyes landing on a large, ornate wardrobe. He stood up and walked over, opening it cautiously. Inside were clothes that looked like they belonged to a nobleman: elaborate tunics, cloaks, and boots, all meticulously crafted.

Marcus's mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. Was this some kind of elaborate prank? But no, it felt too real, too detailed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. If this was a dream, it was unlike any dream he had ever experienced.

He moved back to the desk and sat down, his mind spinning with possibilities. There was only one explanation that made any sense, no matter how unbelievable it seemed: he had somehow been transported into a world that mirrored the one he had read about in his favorite novels.

As the fire crackled and the shadows danced on the walls, Marcus realized he was no longer in the world he knew. He was in a place where magic was real, where mages were ranked by stars, and where he was no longer just Marcus.

He was someone else, in a world he had only ever dreamed of. And he had no idea what was going to happen next.