There Are Different Kinds of Possession
Even possession comes in different varieties. Let me introduce myself real quick. Twenty-five years old. From South Korea. Name's Lee Kanghyeok. The kind of guy who calls bullshit when he sees it and can't stand injustice. That's me in a nutshell.
Anyway, why the hell am I spouting this random crap all of a sudden...?
Braaaaaang!!!
"What the fuck."
I just figured if it wasn't now, I'd never get the chance.
Thud!
The pain was over in an instant. At the same time, I felt my dumbass last words scatter into the air along with my body.
"Guh... heuk."
Random thought, but right about then, I realized getting hit by a charging truck isn't exactly a pleasant experience. Especially since it doesn't even give you time to rethink your final words.
Splat!
Once those trivial thoughts cleared, my body—which had launched into the air—came crashing back down to the pavement. I couldn't feel a damn thing in my body, but the clear sound told me I'd landed safely on the road. Though I have no idea why the sound effect was "splat!" instead of "thump!"
Well, I kinda have a rough idea, but imagining it just makes me sad, so I'll stop there.
"Kkhrrk... khkk... heuk heuk..."
For some reason I couldn't pinpoint, laughter leaked out. It was the barest scrape of sound, clawing past the clots of blood in my throat.
Probably not making it out alive.
Everyone dies eventually. We don't always dwell on it, but we all know it. Still, there's a world of difference between vaguely knowing it as fact and staring it down in the moment.
"Kh... heuk........."
The instant I truly grasped death, my core seemed to drop out from under me. And it pissed me off so much.
Drip...
Something trickled down my cheek. Blood or tears, who could tell?
Fuck...
If there's a next life. At least let me avoid an ending like this. So pointless, so goddamn stupid—
Crack.
And just like that, I got hit by the truck. And died. The pathetic end to a life full of regrets.
...Or so it should have been.
"Hahk!"
My eyes snapped open. Sure, opening your eyes every morning is routine, nothing worth dwelling on—but in my case, it needed pointing out. Because normally, someone who closes their eyes after getting smeared across the road by a truck doesn't just pop them open again.
And even if luck pulled you through, you'd be a mummy wrapped head to toe in bandages, rotting away in a hospital bed.
Either way, waking up fresh as a daisy shouldn't have been business as usual.
Yet here I was, perfectly fine. No terror from mangled flesh. No crushing wave of fatigue. Not even the truck's headlights lingering in my vision.
All of it, a lie.
......
Gulp.
How much time passed? Numb to reality, I just lay there motionless for a bit.
Screeech!
When I instinctively shifted, the crudely made wooden chair scraped harshly backward.
"Ah."
That noise jolted me back to my senses, and only then did I accept what was happening.
Hard to believe, but it looked like I was alive.
"Ha... hahahahaha."
Relief flooded in, and all I could do was laugh. That was how I finally grasped that my thread of life was still intact.
"...Ha!"
They say once survival's off the table, people start noticing the finer details. Catching my breath, I turned my head and took in my surroundings.
What I saw: classic antique furniture. A candle with a warped wick, drowned in wax. Ink-smeared paper stained by water marks, quill pens scattered about.
Huh?
No way this was 21st-century life at a glance.
Which sparked a new question in my mind.
Where the hell am I?
No clue. But there wasn't some handy professor around to explain it conveniently.
If I wanted answers, I'd have to piece together clues from around me. Like...
...that single sheet on the desk, covered in illegible scrawls.
This is...?
Slide.
They say don't touch suspicious objects, but before I knew it, my hand was reaching for the paper. Maybe I was possessed or something.
The moment I grabbed it—
Twitch!
"Kkh!"
I clutched my head and groaned. A brutal headache hit, unleashing a torrent of foreign memories.
19 years old. Under the Lillium Kingdom. Son of Viscount Auguste Bertrand, head of the Montmorin family. Cassel Bertrand.
Cassel enters the military academy to revive his family, fallen on hard times amid political strife. The "fallen noble" label doesn't help his school days, but the boy shrugs it off, graduates with top marks, and proves himself.
But before he can build a career, his parents die in a suspicious accident. Even to young Cassel's eyes, it's fishy as hell.
A few days later...
...This is.
He rips open the seal: a transfer order and his little sister's pendant.
Squeeze.
Young as he is, Cassel isn't naive enough to miss the implications. No time to grieve—he packs and heads to his assigned post: the Southern Front.
The Southern Front. A meat grinder of a battlefield, defeat all but guaranteed. Nicknamed the "exile dump."
Obviously a political move. Meaning:
1. No surrender by upper command order.
2. Desertion means execution.
3. Defeat? They'll pin some excuse on you and execute anyway.
A three-way no-win setup. Basically a death sentence.
Still, Cassel fights on without giving up... but he can't turn the tide. Defeat after retreat after defeat.
"Colonel! The front line's collapsed. We'll be wiped out if we stay!"
"Lieutenant Cassel. Regroup the remnants and link with reserves. I'll handle the rear."
"I can't let you do that! At this point, we break through again and escape the encirclement—"
Just when annihilation seems inevitable...
"Lieutenant. That's an order."
"......Understood, sir."
He survives thanks to his superior's sacrifice.
"What about Colonel Philippe...?"
"Kkh... heuk... I'm sorry... so... sorry..."
"I... see."
He steels himself, vows not to waste the sacrifice, plans ahead.
But all that's left: broken troops and hollow command authority.
"No surrender, no retreat. Die where you stand."
And orders to throw their lives away.
Cassel closes his eyes briefly.
...I'm so damn powerless.
He makes his resolve.
On the eve of the final battle, the young man—desperate to save at least his men—
"Forgive me, Colonel. Sorry. Marian."
—leaves only a suicide note and poisons himself in his tent.
---
That was the summarized life flooding my brain.
And from my mouth, now privy to it all...
"..Huh?"
A hollow echo rang out.
"Fuck."
Followed by a natural curse.
As a seasoned reader of comics and webnovels, I grasped the situation without much trouble.
All too familiar.
"Possession, huh. Possession..."
What happened to me was the "possession" variety of soul-transmigration plot.
"Great."
It wasn't great. How the hell did I end up possessing here of all places?
Isekai reincarnation is supposed to be fantasy worlds, right? Overflowing with dreams, hope, adventure. Building a harem of cute girls, laughing it up in carefree overpowered bliss.
That's the national rule.
But possession in a world without swords and magic?
"Fuckin' hell."
This is rough. Normally in these setups, the modern guy uses future history to crush trials and villains, steamrolling to victory.
The so-called future knowledge cheat.
But problem one: This wasn't the Earth I knew. Country names I'd never heard of, geography and culture with key differences.
And even if it was, it wouldn't matter much. My history knowledge is average joe level at best.
Does no history knowledge mean no future-man edge? Hell no.
Tech knowledge counts as a future cheat too.
—"What the hell is this thing?!"
—"Oh, you don't know? It's called XX."
Classic, even textbook stuff.
But problem two:
I don't know shit about making modern tech...
Yeah. No clue.
World-changing inventions? I know the names, but how do you even build them? I'm a liberal arts guy.
Not even basic cheats like soap—I don't know the ingredients. Something with hydrogen peroxide or sodium hydroxide, some alkaline crap...?
Goddamn, who memorizes that shit?
Usually, the ones thrown into these worlds are experts or history nerds, right?
Why me? Give a normie a normie-appropriate possession!
Like youngest son of a grand duke. I'd crush that.
"Haa..."
And problem three—the big one: What the fuck do I do about the battle staring me down right now?
Sure, Cassel's memories let me handle basic tactics, but operating a unit? A 21st-century civilian's never done that.
What the hell am I supposed to do here...?
No confidence, objectively or subjectively.
And on top of that, political pressure from central nobles...
Even surviving by some miracle, the future's bleak.
A situation blocked at every turn. Despairing.
Those three words wouldn't leave my head.
"This is bullshit..."
Words failed in the face of harsh reality. I rubbed my dry face roughly, hiding my anxiety—but all I felt was rough skin on my palms. Nothing changed.
Hell, at this point I half-wondered if this was a delusion right before death, spinning some elaborate hallucination.
Though if it was, it wouldn't dump a setup this ridiculous on me.
"Yeah... this is real, huh...?"
Sad reality. But what can you do? Whining won't solve shit.
Had to move.
"...Fuck it. Let's give it a shot."
Muttered like a madman, but enough to get me on my feet.
With that, I stepped out of the tent.