Chapter 1: Did I Die and Reincarnate… as an NPC?
Livia Marcelline Quinn was not thriving. At nineteen, she was a psychology major one failed thesis away from academic exile, her graduation dreams crushed by late essays and a professor who'd called her work "a cry for help in Times New Roman." The jab hit hard, mostly because it was painfully accurate. Her days blurred into dodging deadlines, her nights lost to existential spirals. What's the point of me? she wondered, trudging home from a late-night bakery run, clutching a bag of stale croissants—her last coins spent on discounted comfort.
The street was quiet, the hum of traffic distant. Livia's mind replayed her latest flop: a presentation where she'd mumbled through Jungian archetypes while classmates scrolled their phones. I'm a failure, she thought, stepping off the curb. A walking disappointment.
Then came the motorcycle. A screech, a blur of chrome, and the world erupted. Her croissants launched skyward, her body hit the pavement, and everything went black.
When Livia's eyes fluttered open, she wasn't in a hospital or some glowing afterlife. She stood in a sterile chamber that screamed low-budget sci-fi, its walls pulsing with an eerie glow. The air buzzed like a glitching server. "What the hell?" she muttered, her head pounding. A robotic voice boomed, cold and glitchy: "Respawning into host world… Emotional Buffer 2.0, designation: Mental Supporter Lv. 1, generated. System integrity: 87%." Livia spun, searching for the voice. "Who's talking? Is this a prank?" No answer. A translucent interface flickered before her, like a video game HUD with a grudge. Her stats were pathetic. Strength: 0. Agility: 0. Magic: 0. Emotional Resilience: Error: Pending Review. Class: Mental Supporter Lv. 1. Inventory: a gray robe that looked like it was stitched by a sad intern, worn sandals, and a notepad labeled "Therapist's Log" in a font that screamed "default template."
"What is this?" Livia swiped at the interface, hoping to pick a better class—fire mage, swordmaster, anything. The screen flashed red: Class selection locked. Combat protocols: null. Proceed to emotional support subroutine.
"Emotional support what?" she snapped, her voice echoing. "Did I get isekai'd into a customer service sim? " A polished wall reflected her unchanged self: shoulder-length black hair, soft features, and eyes radiating "I didn't sign up for this." She tugged at her itchy robe, groaning. "Great. I'm in a fantasy world, and my character design is low's budget NPC."
A notification pinged: [Achievement Unlocked: Accidentally Empathetic. Passive Skill Learned: Suppress Panic Lv. 0.1] Livia stared, her lips twitching. "Oh, fantastic. The game's already mocking me."
A door slid open with a whoosh, revealing a chaotic camp straight out of an MMORPG.
Players in glowing armor darted past, yelling about "raid wipes" and "nerfed metas." NPCs hawked potions and quests with uncanny grins, their voices looping like broken voice lines. Fireballs streaked overhead, a rogue vanished in a puff of smoke, and a bard mangled a song about "epic loot." The air reeked of sweat, steel, and burnt mana—a sensory assault that made Livia's introverted soul shrivel.
She stepped forward, clutching her notepad like a lifeline. This has to be a coma dream, she thought, pinching her arm. Ow. Nope. Real. Ish. A player nearby raged at an NPC for a "trash quest," while another bragged about soloing a dungeon boss. Livia's psychology training kicked in, uninvited. This is dissociation. Or a psychotic break. Or—Another notification: [Achievement Unlocked: Overthinking Simulator. +10 Anxiety Points] "Stop that!" she hissed, swatting at the air.
An NPC approached, his tunic embroidered with "Quest Support Unit 4.7." His smile was unnervingly wide, his eyes glitching between blue and static. "Greetings, Emotional Buffer 2.0!" he droned, voice laced with system jargon. "Subroutine: Mental Supporter. Directive: remain in camp, process adventurer emotional data, log outputs, avoid quest interference. Combat module: deprecated. Query: ready to initialize?" Livia blinked. "You're calling me Emotional Buffer? I'm a therapist? I flunked half my psych classes!" She waved her notepad. "I'm not qualified for this!" "Directive: process emotional data," the NPC repeated, thrusting a scroll at her. "System thanks you for compliance!" He shuffled off, already chirping at another NPC.
Livia unrolled the scroll, wincing at its Comic Sans text. It listed her duties: Listen to adventurer woes. Offer comfort. Log sessions. Avoid combat. "This is insane," she muttered, pacing. "I'm stuck in a video game, and my job is to be a feelings dumpster? What kind of isekai hero gets this?" She glanced at the players—wielding flaming swords, summoning dragons, flirting with NPCs like it was a speedrun. "They're saving worlds, and I'm… background noise?" She slumped onto a rickety bench, the wood groaning. The camp's chaos swirled around her, but she felt detached, like a glitch in someone else's story. Her fingers traced the notepad's cover, its "Therapist's Log" title taunting her. She flipped it open, finding blank pages with prompts: Patient Name, Issues Presented, Therapeutic Approach. It was her old university's counseling practicum, but for sword-swinging lunatics.
Her mind replayed the accident. The motorcycle's roar. Her croissants scattering. Did I die? Her chest tightened. Or am I just… here? She'd never been enough in her old life—not as a student, a daughter, or even a person. Her parents' sighs, her friends' pity, her mirror showing someone who always fell short—it crashed over her. Maybe this is my punishment. An eternity as a useless NPC.
She forced a bitter laugh, her dry humor kicking in. "Livia Quinn: patron saint of emotional furniture." She doodled a sad stick figure in her notepad, muttering, "At least I'm consistent. Failed at life, now failing at fantasy."
Another ping:[Achievement Unlocked: Self-Deprecation Master. +5 Sarcasm Points] "Seriously?" she groaned, rubbing her temples. The camp roared on—players arguing, NPCs looping, a mage accidentally setting a tent on fire. Livia stayed put, her introverted instincts screaming to stay invisible. Just blend in, she told herself. Maybe no one will notice me. Maybe I can coast through this nightmare.
But as a warhorn blared, signaling the arrival of the infamous Bloodbath & Beyond guild, Livia's gut twisted. Her days of hiding were about to crash and burn.