Seven Hart is ME

Ding!

[Name: Seven Hart (Yoon Seojin)]

[Main Talent: Highly Unpredictable]

[Characteristics: Seventh Reader]

Seven stared blankly at the glowing system window before him. 

[Gift: Protagonist's System]

[Able to use a system. Able to 'detect anomalies' and alter the novel's original storyline. Able to steal the 'protagonist' characteristic from the original protagonist if done well. Please refer to the 'Protagonist's Progression' bar.]

[Protagonist's Progression: 1.7%/100%]

Seven rubbed his eyes and read the text again just to be sure. But the words didn't vanish, nor did they change as the system window remained still.

"This... is real."

He didn't have time to ponder over it back then as he only wanted to survive his fated death according to the novel, but he couldn't believe that this was actually real.

Possession.

It was a trope he read about countless times in webtoons. The kind where an unfortunate reader, sometimes the author, wakes up in the body of someone destined to die in a fictional world. 

He stepped toward the mirror. Though he already saw what he looked like from the water's reflection back then, a mirror reflection still felt different.

He leaned closer. His dark brown hair was neatly tousled, and his gray-blue eyes looked like a frozen lake. 

"I… I really am handsome, aren't I?"

He grinned. Understandable. It was a kind of face that could only belong to someone from the nobility. He touched his cheek. The texture of unblemished skin was unfamiliar under his fingertips. 

He leaned closer until his breath fogged up the mirror, scrutinizing the face that no longer belonged to him—or was it the other way around?

"I'm really not Yoon Seojin anymore. That Seven Hart is ME."

To confirm his new reality, he pinched his cheek and a sharp sting answered him. 

"It's not a dream…"

He glanced down at his body. Bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. Even under the layers, he could feel how thin he was. 

For someone who had always struggled with a bit of belly fat back in his old life, this was surprising. His hands shifted to his abdomen, then his long, lean arms that lacked any proper muscles.

"Skinny. This body's in better shape than mine ever was, but it feels so... fragile."

His gaze flicked back to the system window. The words taunted him silently, waiting for him to act, to prove himself worthy of the "gift" was granted.

"Protagonist's System…" 

A bitter laugh escaped him. 

"Will it guide me to be the protagonist and save the world, then force me to decide to either sacrifice myself or my loved ones?"

The sarcasm didn't do much to comfort him. After all, in stories like these, possession didn't come with a guide. The new owner of the body always needed to navigate the world with nothing but fragmented memories and whatever cheat-like ability the system bestowed upon them.

His eyes lingered on the Protagonist's Progression bar. He frowned. After all, even after obtaining the seventh artifact and survived his fated death, he only got...

"1.7%? That's... not encouraging."

He exhaled slowly and stepped back from the mirror. The aristocratic face stared back at him with cold eyes like it was challenging him to figure it out.

"Well, Seven Hart. I don't know how you lived before, but if I'm stuck here, I'm doing this my way. I won't be following someone else's script. If this system wants a protagonist..."

He smiled.

"Then I'll be the protagonist."

As if the system responded to his 'I don't know how you lived before' statement, memories surged into his mind. 

The memories painted a peculiar picture, chaotic yet vivid, as if he was watching disjointed scenes from someone else's play.

When the original Seven turned one, he crawled toward a knight and gripped the edge of a sword with tiny, unsteady fingers. The knights present there were amused, and soon word spread like wildfire through the estate. 

Rumors spread, saying "the seventh child of the Hart family might be a sword prodigy."

But when he turned seven, the rumors fell apart. Seven practiced day after day, driven by the pressure of his family. But no matter how hard he tried, the results never came. His hands trembled, his strikes lacked precision, and his movements were far from the brilliance expected of him. The truth was undeniable. 

Seven had no talent.

It was then, at the age of seven, that he made a solemn vow to himself: he would never swing a sword more than seven times a day for the rest of his life. 

By ten, however, his solemn vow took a mischievous turn. He became a scoundrel as his swings were reserved for farcical purposes. His sword was aimed not at opponents but at the backsides of the mansion's servants. 

Though his rebellion only lasted for a year.

By eleven, he turned a new leaf. He became polite, diligent, even kind. A model child who spent his days in the library, reading books and behaving impeccably. 

But then again, this period didn't last.

At twelve, he slipped back into his old ways. His sword swings, always capped at seven a day, were now directed, once again, at the servants. Whether out of spite or boredom, he used those seven strikes to create chaos in the estate.

At thirteen, he challenged a seasoned knight to a duel. It was a bold move for someone who was marked with no talent. But after the duel, some knights were impressed as he managed to last in the ring for a minute without swinging his sword more than seven times. 

They entertained the possibility that he might possess untapped potential, just like what they thought when he was one.

By fourteen, something changed. He shut himself away in his room. He ate once a day, refused to leave, and avoided everyone. 

And then came fifteen. He finally left his room and attempted to run away from the family. Yet his escape was short-lived. Just as he reached the edge of the estate grounds, he tripped on a stone, struck his head, and died a pitiful death.

"That's how this fool died?"

His lips twitched as the memories slowed.

"Maybe that's why I was able to possess his body…"

But it was a detail that didn't quite align with the story. In the novel, the original Seven didn't die after tripping over a rock like some tragic punchline. Again, the original Seven was assassinated.

He leaned against the mirror. 

"So this is different… He never even made it to the forest. He died before they got to him."

That was the only explanation. The original Seven Hart was still doomed to die in one way or another. This version of events was unpredictable, random, and absurd, but it had one silver lining—it allowed him to be here now.

"Unpredictable… dying because he tripped…"

He looked at the system window one more time. 

[Main Talent: Highly Unpredictable.]

'What a great talent indeed.'

He sat down on the bed.

"Well, there's no point staying flabbergasted over this. What's done is done."

For better or worse, he was no longer Yoon Seojin. He was Seven Hart, heir to a body with a messy past, a useless vow, and a future that was now his to rewrite.

"I am Seven Hart, and I am currently fifteen…"

He pierced the fragments of this world's calendar together. The months here were a cycle of seven called 'seasons', each lasting fifty-two days, for a total of 364 days in a year. But one every fourth year, a special day was added—a leap year, much like on Earth. That extra day landed in the seventh season, making it fifty-three days long.

"Which means… I should still have forty—" 

He paused mid-sentence.

"No. I've been unconscious since then. I don't even know how many days have passed."

He clenched his fists. The timeline was already a mess in his head. 

"But if I remember correctly, this year is a leap year. Which means this season will be my sixteenth birthday."

He couldn't help but recall an old memory from Earth. Back when he was just a reader, leaving comments on the very novel he was now living in, he joked in the comment section. 

He questioned the significance of Eden's little brother, the boy whose tragic death had sent the protagonist spiraling into revenge.

[Seojin: What's the birthday of that Seven Hart, Eden's dearest little brother. I'll buy him a cake.]

But the author replied.

[Ciae#777: 53rd day of the Seventh Season.]

He laughed it off back then, dismissing it as a throwaway line. But now…

"Now before the ceremony… I only have roughly about forty—"

Ding!

Another system window popped out.

[Date: 14th day of the Seventh Season, Year 775.]

"The 14th? The assassin happened on the 7th. So I've been unconscious for seven days?"

That meant only one thing. So he quickly did the math in his head.

"That leaves me with just thirty-nine days before the Ceremony."

The Ceremony. That is the last hope for the turning point for his character—the moment Seven turns sixteen.

"Thirty-nine days… That's all I get?"

And then, he realized the system's timing. How did it show the date precisely when he needed to know? 

His gaze shifted toward the floating window with narrowed eyes.

"You're watching me this whole time, aren't you?"

The system didn't respond. Instead, it flickered once and disappeared, leaving him staring at empty air.

"..."

Seven let out a dry laugh as he rubbed his temples. 

"Of course you wouldn't answer. Why would you? That would make things too easy. It wouldn't be—"

Ding!

[Anomaly Detected.]

[The extra character fated to die to trigger a major character's development had survived. A revision is required.]

[Revising…]

[Replacing the original storyline…]

[Revision complete.]

[You have obtained 1000 Narrative Points.]