The roar of the crowd was like a distant thunder, a vibration felt in the bones of the stage as Alex Chen lay on his back, the splintery wood pressing into his spine. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, feigning death. This was it, the final scene. He was Malakor the Betrayer, and he had just been struck down by the play's hero. It was a role he had lived and breathed for six months, another villainous supporting character to add to his legacy. Another mask he had worn until it felt like a second skin.

A good death,

he thought, his internal monologue running even now, a habit from a lifetime of method acting.

Feel the silence spread. The chill. The weight of your armor is the weight of your sins. Let the applause wash over you. It is not for you, Alex. It is for Malakor. They hate him. They love that he is dead, and you made them feel it.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his chest, hot and real. This wasn't in the script. It wasn’t the dull ache of a prop sword. This was a vise, crushing the air from his lungs. His eyes, meant to be closed in stage death, shot open in genuine panic. The painted ceiling of the theater began to swim. The roar of the crowd distorted into a sickening drone. He tried to gasp, to call out, but his throat was locked. The pain was blinding, absolute. His life didn't flash before his eyes in a clean, orderly montage. Instead, it was a chaotic flood of faces not of loved ones, but of the characters he had been. The sneer of a corrupt senator, the haunted eyes of a disgraced soldier, the manic grin of a cult leader. All his masks, all his borrowed lives, swirled in a vortex of silent screams. Then, darkness. Utter and complete.

Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a bucket of ice water, a cold, crippling, naked fear that was all his own. There was no Malakor to hide behind, no script to guide him. There was only Alex, and he was small and weak and terrified. He blinked, his vision blurry. He was in a bed, staring up at a heavy canopy of faded burgundy velvet. The room was large, but sparsely furnished. A stone fireplace stood cold and empty on one wall, a thick layer of dust covering the mantel. A tall, slender window allowed a sliver of gray morning light to cut through the gloom, illuminating dancing dust motes. The air smelled of damp stone, old wood, and something vaguely medicinal. Panic set in. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't backstage. His body felt wrong. He tried to sit up, and his arms were shockingly short, his limbs clumsy and weak. He looked at his hands. They were tiny. The hands of a child.

He stumbled out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor with a soft thud. The room was dominated by a large, dark-wood vanity, its surface coated in a thick layer of dust. On it sat a tarnished silver hand mirror, which he picked up with a trembling hand, rubbing the grime from its surface with the sleeve of his nightshirt. The face that stared back at him was not his own. It was the face of a small, painfully thin boy who couldn't be more than seven or eight years old. His face was gaunt, all sharp angles and delicate bone structure, dominated by a pair of large, startlingly solemn grey eyes that seemed too old and weary for the face they occupied. His hair was a pale, lifeless ash-blond, so lacking in color it was almost white. His skin had a translucent, almost luminous pallor, the unhealthy look of a child who had spent his entire life indoors, fighting off some nameless sickness. He stared at the reflection, at this strange, fragile new mask. A wave of vertigo and horror washed over him. This wasn't a role. This wasn't a costume. This was his new, terrifying reality.

What the hell is this? A dream? A stroke-induced hallucination?

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, tiny drum. This wasn't the detached analysis of a character; it was the raw, unfiltered terror of Alex Chen. He was an introvert. His entire life was built around avoiding direct, unscripted reality. And this was terrifyingly real. Just as a sob threatened to break from his tiny chest, a sound chimed in his mind, and a translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes. It was a holographic panel that only he could see, glowing with a soft, ethereal light.

[System Initializing... Host Vitals Critical... Stabilizing... Done.]

[Welcome, Host, to The Actor's Repertoire.]

[System functionality is currently limited. Tutorial Mode engaged.]

Alex stared, his fear momentarily replaced by dumbfounded awe. System? Host? He had read about this trope in web novels during his downtime. Transmigration. It was absurd. It was impossible. Yet, the tiny hands and the glowing screen told a different story. He tentatively focused his thoughts on the screen. What are you?

[The Actor's Repertoire is a system designed to weaponize your unique talent. You retain the skills of the roles you have played.]

[Accessing Host's Role History... Compiling Archetypes...]

A list populated the screen.

[The Grizzled Veteran (Selectable)]

[The Scheming Courtier (Selectable)]

[The Eccentric Scholar (Selectable)]

[Locked Archetype]

[Locked Archetype]

[Locked Archetype]

[Locked Archetype]

Archetypes? He focused on the first one.

[Archetype: The Grizzled Veteran]

[Past Roles: A cynical sergeant in the historical war film "Last Stand"; a lone survivor in the post-apocalyptic thriller "The Dust Walker"; a retired royal guard in the political drama "Lion's Shadow."]

[Skills: Basic Weapon Proficiency, Tactical Assessment, Pain Suppression, Survival Instincts. Crucial Side Effect: Activation induces]

[Personality Bleed. The host will adopt the core traits of this archetype: stoicism, pessimism, and a pragmatic, threat-focused mindset.]

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature ran down his spine. It wasn't just skills. It was a personality. A mask, but one with a mind of its own. He felt a surge of his old anxiety. This wasn't a tool; it was a possession. He tried to dismiss the screen, and it vanished. He was alone again in the dusty room, his mind reeling. Before he could process it further, the heavy wooden door creaked open.

A young woman with a plain, kind face and weary eyes entered, carrying a small bowl of steaming porridge. This was Rina, a servant girl in her late teens, whose quiet diligence was the only thing keeping a semblance of order in the crumbling room.

"Ah, you're awake, young master Ray,"

She said softly, her voice gentle.

"You gave us all such a scare, the fever broke last night."

Alex suddenly thought,

Ray... This child’s name is Ray Croft.

The words struck Alex like a physical blow, a bolt of white-hot lightning that seared through his mind. He clutched his head, his knuckles white against his temples, as his reality splintered.

Flashes of a life that wasn't his, yet was, slammed into him. He saw his mother, with a kind face drawn with a grief so deep it rivaled his own. He felt the sting of her tears, the helplessness in her touch as she caressed his clammy forehead. He saw her futile attempts to hide the truth, her whispered prayers and frantic consultations with doctors. She loved him with a desperate ferocity, a love that was a shield against the world.

The scene fractured again. Now it was his father, not a cold figure, but a man whose shoulders were bowed under an invisible weight. The memories began with warmth: a hand ruffling his hair, a shared, silent moment of peace watching the rain. But then, the images shifted. The hand became hesitant, the shared silence heavy with unspoken worry. His father’s eyes, once full of a fierce, protective love, were now clouded with a quiet exhaustion that turned into a deep, crushing disappointment. It wasn't hatred, but a kind of grief; as if he were mourning the life that had been taken from them all, a life that Ray's condition had made impossible.

Finally, a flash of his brother. He saw a boy who was once happy to see him, a shared laugh, a secret game played in the dark. Then the laughter turned into a shout of frustration, the games were played alone. The brother’s treatment became a kind of deliberate distance, as if Ray’s suffering was a constant, inconvenient shadow on his own bright life. The laughter has turned into insults, then a profound, chilling indifference that spoke volumes. It was as if Ray’s condition was a flaw, a stain on their once-perfect family.

The memories receded as quickly as they came, leaving Alex gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. His own shy, introverted nature made him mute. He looked up at the servant girl, at her plain, kind face and weary, worried eyes. As he met her gaze, another name surfaced from the depths of his new, fractured memories, a piece of information that felt as foreign and certain as his own.

Rina.

The ghost of a life that wasn’t his, but now was, lingered in the air. Rina, seeing his distress, placed the bowl on his bedside table, her hands trembling with a sympathy that felt too heavy, too fragile to bear.

"Are you alright, young master?"

Rina's voice was sharp with concern. Alex took a moment to steady himself, the phantom ache in his head a lingering echo.

"I'm fine,"

he managed, his voice a little hoarse.

"Just a small headache."

Rina looked at him, her brow furrowed for a moment before she nodded.

"Your mother and father will be relieved. They wish to see you in the main hall once you've had something to eat."

After forcing down some of the bland porridge under Rina's patient gaze, he was dressed in clothes that felt too formal and led from the room. The walk through Greywood Keep was a lesson in faded glory. Every dusty tapestry and chipped stone whispered of a family in decline. He was led into a hall where a stern-looking man and a nervous woman stood waiting. Lord Alistair Croft, a proud man in his late forties whose face seemed permanently etched with the strain of holding his house's honor above its empty coffers. Beside him, Lady Eileen Croft, a gentle, melancholic woman whose beauty was faded by years of quiet anxiety. Standing slightly behind them was a boy of about fourteen with a disdainful sneer on his face. Corbin Croft, the arrogant heir who wore the weight of his father's expectations like a crown of thorns.

"So, the boy lives,"

Lord Alistair said, his voice flat. He looked at Ray not with fatherly affection, but with the critical eye of a merchant inspecting damaged goods.

"See that he is no longer a burden, Eileen."

"Oh, Alistair, don't say that!"

His mother fretted, rushing forward and pulling Ray into a suffocating hug. She smelled of lavender and was worried.

"My poor baby, you look so pale."

Corbin snorted.

"He always looks pale, he's a weakling."

The words, though childish, struck a nerve deep within Alex's core. Weakling. Unremarkable. A burden. It was everything he feared he was. As his mother, Lady Eileen, held him in that suffocating embrace, he felt a mix of emotions he hadn't prepared for. He had played the role of a son countless times, performing on stage with dozens of actresses who had feigned maternal concern. He knew the difference between the staged, perfected emotion of an actress and a genuine one, and this was real. The smell of lavender, the frantic, worried trembling, this was a mother's genuine concern, a feeling so foreign it was terrifying. It was a warmth he had never known in his past life, a life where he was an orphan who only knew borrowed emotion. He had always been an echo of a person, never the heart of one. He wanted to pull away, to hide from this overwhelming, unscripted reality. He just wanted to disappear, to find a corner and become invisible.

Later that afternoon, desperate to escape the stifling atmosphere of the manor, Ray slipped out a side door. He wandered for a while until he arrived in a dilapidated garden. He sat at the base of a large oak tree, hugging his knees to his chest.

I can't do this, I'm not Ray Croft.I'm just Alex, and Alex is... nobody.

A low growl cut through the silence, and he froze. Pushing through the underbrush was a creature from a nightmare. It looked like a wolf, but larger, its fur mangy, its eyes glowing with a malevolent red light, black saliva dripping from its fangs. It was a monster, and pure, unadulterated terror seized him. He was eight years old and prey. His mind screamed, a frantic, useless litany of No, no, no! As the beast gathered its haunches to spring, the system's interface flared to life in his vision, bright and urgent.

[Life-Threatening Danger Detected! Host Incapable of Response!]

[Recommendation: Activate Most Suitable Archetype.]

[Activating: The Grizzled Veteran!]

“No! I don't want…”

It was too late. He felt a violent shift inside his mind. The paralyzing fear was forcibly suppressed, replaced by an ice-cold calm. His tiny body moved with an economy he didn't possess.

“Hostile predator, lupine class,"

a voice that was his but not his thought inside his head.

“Displays extreme aggression, signs of disease or unnatural corruption. Weight: approx 80 lbs. Target: Unarmed child. Advantage: Surprise and mass. Disadvantage: Overconfident, exposes vulnerabilities on attack lunge.”

His gaze swept the ground. A fallen branch. A sharp-edged rock.

“Pathetic weapon, but a weapon is a weapon.”

As the beast leaped, he didn't cower. He snatched the rock and hurled it at the beast's front paw, throwing it off-balance. It landed with a yelp, favoring the injured leg. Ray was already grabbing the branch, his small hands finding the best grip. He felt old, weary, and profoundly dangerous. The beast, enraged, lunged again.

“Wait for the lunge, aim for the eye!”

He sidestepped the snapping jaws and thrust the sharpened end of the branch forward with all his might. The impact shuddered up his arm. The beast shrieked and collapsed in a heap. Silence. The cold, pragmatic persona of the Grizzled Veteran receded. The raw, terrified soul of Alex Chen crept back in. He looked at the dead beast, the branch in his hand, and his own tiny, blood-spattered body. The strength vanished, replaced by a bone-deep trembling. He had survived. But he hadn't been the one to do it. A mask had saved him. And for the first time, Alex was terrified not of what lay before him, but of what lay within.