Cooro's POV

  Ah. The long-awaited moment.

  My proper introduction.

  Not that it matters — in a room full of reincarnators, I’m still the only one who reads the patch notes before reality updates.

  Instead of the usual ominous void with floating statues and glowing trial glyphs, I’m standing in what looks like a celestial library. Shelves spiraling infinitely upward. Marble floors. A round table in the center like we’re about to discuss quarterly suffering projections.

  Welcome to the Isekai Club.

  Same energy as a corporate meeting. Fewer spreadsheets. More alternate versions of me.

  There’s a guy with flame-red hair bragging about a skill called “Eternal Flame” to some stoic blue-coat type who looks like he hasn’t blinked since birth.

  “Banned from three kingdoms,” Flame Boy says proudly.

  That’s not a flex. That’s a restraining order with extra steps.

  Reincarnators aren’t noble heroes.

  We’re just former idiots given cheat codes and unresolved trauma.

  Before I can continue judging the room, Gossamer appears beside me. No footsteps. No warning. Just suddenly present like an intrusive thought.

  She looks like a librarian who died mid-shush and decided to continue working anyway.

  “You are not cleared to ask questions,” she says flatly.

  Oh good. HR.

  She escorts me to the table where I’m greeted by two familiar disasters:

  — Supreme Insect Lord Cooro

  — Rodrick the Walking Filing Cabinet

  Bug-Cooro gives me a nod.

  Rodrick adjusts his posture like someone’s about to grade him.

  “So,” I say, leaning back. “What’s the apocalypse forecast?”

  Bug-Cooro informs me he’s been spying on Father with dragonflies and mosquitoes.

  Naturally.

  Why use conventional intelligence when you can use airborne paranoia?

  “There’s tension building,” he says. “War, maybe.”

  His father in his world is called the GrizzHadt who basically tame beasts and spew spittle without ever cracking a smile or laughing. Of course there’s war. That’s basically his hobby.

  Rodrick clears his throat like he’s about to present a PowerPoint.

  “My Memorize skill has catalogued several retired adventurers’ memories.”

  He activates one.

  The air shifts.

  A scene unfolds.

  Five adventurers on a dusty forest path: a pregnant female healer, a tough brawler cracking her knuckles, a solid vanguard tank scanning the trees, a sly thief darting in shadows, and a quiet beast tamer with sharp eyes.

  “That viscount’s gossip about the healer’s baby is louder than any wyvern roar,” the thief jokes.

  “Seriously, if he shows up again, I’m going to throttle him,” the brawler growls.

  “Focus, people,” the tank says, shield at the ready. “We’ve got wyverns to kill, not rumors to entertain.”

  The beast tamer suddenly stops. “Wait, there’s a hidden path. Found it off the main trail.”

  Curious, the group follows, discovering a moss-covered archway leading to a dungeon.

  “A dungeon? Just what we needed,” the healer says cautiously, hand on her belly.

  “We watch your back,” the brawler promises, cracking her knuckles in defiance.

  Shadows shift inside as a growl echoes.

  “Well, this just got interesting,” the thief whispers.

  The memory fades.

  Pretty neat skill, huh? Sounds like something out of a tabletop campaign—except in this world, the stakes are real and the gossip might just kill you faster than the monsters. Makes me miss my old gaming crew, though. Wish I could pop into the club and share a drink with them. Sadly, Cooro 2 isn’t in this particular meeting. Probably busy being a less charming version of me somewhere else.

  I woke up to the smell of hay and regret.

  A carriage ceiling above me. Wooden beams. Faint animal noises.

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  Across from me: crates, cages, a pair of goats pretending not to judge me. Looking out the side window of the carriage, I was surrounded by all sorts of animals milling about

  Outside, the driver says nothing. Green bandana. Weathered hands. The kind of man who’s seen things and decided silence is healthier.

  The last thing I remember was a fireball, a church full of smiling faces, and the moment they decided I was expendable...

  Now I'm here; alive.

  Somehow.

  We pass into darker forest. Trees stretch high, branches knotted like old scars. A cottage roof peeks through the canopy.

  Then the screen appears.

  A polished interface over reality.

  A DUNGEON HAS APPEARED IN YOUR AREA.

  ACTIVATE AUTO-LOOT?

  YES / NO

  I don’t hesitate.

  Yes.

  The moment I confirm, something shifts.

  It’s not possession.

  It’s delegation.

  The moment I activated the dungeon’s auto-loot function, I swear it was like handing the controller over to some hyper-efficient robot with a taste for treasure and zero patience for nonsense. I wasn’t really moving—at least not directly—but my skill was dancing through the corridors like a ghost with a shopping list. It was all a blur: the clatter of traps triggering, the roar of monsters, the satisfying ping of loot popping into my inventory. Honestly, it felt like cheating, but hey—if the game hands you a golden ticket, you don’t question it.

  First up was the Monster Hall, a cavernous chamber where a pack of snarling Grimfang Wolves prowled the shadows--dark magic imbued with every bristle through their fur.

  The wolves lunged and snapped, but my auto-loot moved faster—dodging, attacking, and collecting loot all in one seamless flow.

  Inventory notifications flicker at the edge of my vision.

  Pelts. Fangs. Core Fragments.

  Efficient.

  Cold.

  Next, I hit the Trap Gauntlet—an ancient hallway rigged with pressure plates, swinging blades, and poison darts that could kill a man before he even realized he’d stepped wrong. Normally, I’d be sweating bullets here, but my skill had an uncanny knack for detecting hidden triggers. It tiptoed around them like a seasoned thief, disarming one trap after another with surgical precision. The skill even pocketed the rare trap components for me; those could fetch a pretty penny on the market. Honestly, it was like having a sixth sense, but without the messy human reflexes.

  The skill maps it instantly.

  Where I would guess, it calculates.

  Where I would sweat, it adjusts.

  We pass without a scratch.

  Then came the Riddle Chamber, where the walls themselves seemed alive, inscribed with cryptic verses and shifting glyphs. A voice echoed, demanding I solve a puzzle to proceed:

  “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears…”

  My mind answers before I consciously think it.

  Echo.

  The walls shimmered and parted, and the skill scooped up a cache of ancient scrolls that had been waiting behind the puzzle. I swear, it’s like it wanted to show off.

  No celebration.

  Just progression.

  Finally, a massive iron gate.

  The Blockade—a massive iron gate sealed by a complex locking mechanism that required more than brute force. The skill analyzed the lock’s intricate design, searching for clues and patterns, while simultaneously scanning the environment for hidden levers or buttons.

  Complex lock.

  The skill pauses — not confused, just evaluating.

  After a tense moment, it found a concealed pressure plate disguised as a stone tile; stepping on it triggered a sequence unlocking the gate with a satisfying clang. Beyond the gate, a treasure hoard glittered in the dim light, ready for the taking.

  Click.

  At every turn, my auto-loot skill made sure I didn’t have to lift a finger more than necessary. It was efficient, ruthless, and borderline smug—as if saying, “Relax, I’ve got this.” Honestly, it’s the best kind of sidekick; no complaints, no drama, just pure, unadulterated loot gathering. If only real life were this easy.

  The gate opens.

  Beyond it — a crystal chamber.

  The air hums with a strange energy, and among the countless glittering shards, one crystal stands out—a massive golden gem embedded in the center of the chamber. It pulses softly, almost like it’s breathing, and inside it, I swear I can make out the silhouette of a figure, frozen in time.

  The skill surges.

  Before I question it, my fist slams into the crystal.

  Impact reverberates.

  Cracks spiderweb outward.

  Light explodes.

  The crystal shatters.

  A man steps forward from the fragments.

  Black hair. Blue flames licking the air around him.

  Christopher Tod.

  One of my old characters.

  One I wrote during better days.

  He looks at me like I just pulled him out of a grave.

  “Thank you,” he says quietly.

  I don’t smile.

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  My skill overlays another message.

  THANK YOU FOR USING AUTO-LOOT.

  FOR FURTHER INFORMATION, CONSULT THE ISEKAI LIBRARY.

  Even now, it sounds polite.

  Like none of this matters.

  Christopher’s flames pulse softly.

  “There is darkness coming,” he says.

  There’s always darkness coming.

  The difference now is I have something stronger than faith.

  I have a system.

  Christopher nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “Indeed. There’s much to do—restoring what was lost, facing the darkness ahead. But first... I owe you my thanks.”

  Co?oro shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me regret smashing that crystal.”

  The blue flames around Christopher pulsed once more, lighting the room with renewed energy. “Then let’s move forward. Together.”

  Cooro 1's POV

  Back in the celestial library, the orb flickers again.

  Liam’s highlight reel ends.

  I cross my arms.

  “Great. He freed his OC. Adorable. Why do I care?”

  The temperature drops.

  A blue celestial figure materializes —the same one Supreme Insect Lord Cooro and I had seen before

  "Your clone, Cooro 2, spends much of his time dreaming as Liam, or as the world now knows him, Klavin Adderwood.”

  Ah.

  Parallel thread nonsense.

  I had to pause and let that sink in. So there’s this other version of me—a Cooro 2—living a parallel life as Liam, or Klavin, depending on who you ask. It’s like we’re different threads in the same tangled tapestry, each living our own story but somehow connected. Kind of wild to think about, honestly. It’s like staring into a broken mirror where every shard shows a different me, different choices, different battles. And here I am, stuck in the middle, wondering which version will ultimately call the shots. Makes you question whether any of this is really under my control or just a bunch of coincidences playing out on some cosmic stage.

  Before I can process that existential headache, text flashes across the orb:

  AUTHOR ANNOUNCEMENT:

  CONTROL OF YOUR STORIES HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TO AI WRITING SOFTWARE: QUILLBOT.

  Silence.

  I blink.

  “Excuse me?”

  Rodrick looks horrified.

  Bug-Cooro looks intrigued.

  I sigh.

  “Fine. Algorithms are predictable. Authors get sentimental.”

  The orb glitches again.

  Rodrick’s image appears.

  He’s meditating.

  Or asleep.

  Hard to tell.

  Then he shifts.

  Body thinning. Clothing changing. Brown hair. Blue gi.

  I stare.

  “…Okay. That’s new.”

  I lean forward.

  “If we’re getting plot twists now, I at least expect them to be useful.”

  If an AI is writing this reality now, it better understand one thing:

  I don’t do filler arcs.