Life teaches you lessons. Some cost more than others.

  I learned about love when Sarah cheated on me. Three years of being the perfect boyfriend - birthdays, anniversaries, family dinners. I even got her brother a job at my firm. The grateful sibling introduced her to my boss. Three weeks later, I found out why she suddenly started working overtime. Turned out, being nice and caring wasn't as attractive as being rich and handsome.

  Work taught me about loyalty. Senior accountant, youngest in the department. I stayed late. Fixed others' mistakes. Covered sick days. Then someone needed to take the fall for creative bookkeeping. Guess who had "helped" with those accounts? Exit one helpful idiot, stage left. No references, reputation in pieces.

  Two months of job hunting later, I was trudging home from another failed interview. My cheap suit stuck to my back in the afternoon heat. Six blocks to my apartment, then blessed air conditioning. Maybe some takeout and mindless gaming to forget this whole day.

  That's when I saw her - a tiny old lady, weighted down with shopping bags, squinting at the crosswalk signal through thick glasses. The bags were cutting into her thin arms, and she kept shifting from foot to foot like she couldn't decide when to cross.

  I almost walked past. Almost managed to ignore it. But apparently losing my job, my girlfriend, and my reputation hadn't cured me of being pathologically helpful.

  "Let me help you across, ma'am."

  Her face lit up with such genuine relief that for a moment, I forgot how much being nice had cost me lately. "Oh, thank you, young man. These old eyes aren't what they used to be."

  I took her bags - heavier than they looked. Between my sedentary office life and two months of depression meals, I wasn't exactly in shape. But it was just crossing a street, right? How hard could it be?

  We made it halfway across when I heard the roar of an engine. A delivery truck barreled toward us, its driver too busy with his phone to notice the red light. My body moved before I could think - I yanked the old lady back, stumbling over my own feet. The truck missed us by inches, the wind from its passing whipping our clothes.

  The old lady clutched my arm, trembling. Several people on the sidewalk gasped and pointed. A few even clapped.

  Great. For once in my life I did something actually heroic, and I'd probably pulled a muscle doing it. My back was definitely going to remind me about this tomorrow.

  "My hero," the old lady said, patting my hand. "But my groceries..."

  That's when I heard the bicycle brakes screech behind us.

  Everything happened too fast. A hand grabbing her purse. My fingers getting tangled in the strap - because apparently even my heroics had to be accidental. The shopping bags hit the ground, cans rolling across asphalt.

  I found myself staring at the robber's face. Young guy, probably mid-twenties like me. His eyes went wide with panic.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The gun came up. Small, black, absurdly clean in the sunlight.

  I had time for one clear thought: at least I wasn't dying saving some kid from traffic. That would've been too cliché.

  Then came the bang.

  My last life lesson cost everything.

  Torchlight danced on cold stone walls. Pain tore through my chest—no, through his chest. Through Sir Rolex Might's chest.

  The memories weren't mine, but they felt real. The lich stood before us, its skull gleaming with an unnatural green light, black robes writhing like living shadows. The phylactery in Rolex's hand pulsed with dark energy. One month of hunting, finally at its end.

  "Your tyranny ends today!" Rolex's voice echoed off the chamber walls.

  The lich's jaw clicked as it opened. "Fool. You think—"

  Rolex didn't wait for the monologue. The crystal shattered under his blade.

  The lich's scream shook dust from the ceiling as its form began to dissolve. Then, in its final moment, it smiled.

  Shadow-claws ripped through Rolex's chest, not seeking flesh but soul.

  Darkness took everything.

  I opened my eyes to find a dwarf's beard filling my vision. He held a crystal vial that glowed like liquid starlight.

  "Drink," he commanded. "Soul Nourishment Elixir. Quick, before the body knows it's supposed to be dead."

  An elf girl gripped my arm with desperate strength—Liarielle or Lia for short. Tears streaked her pretty face. "Please, Rolex. Please." The way she looked at me made me think that she wasn't just worried about her brother in arms.

  The elixir burned like liquid lightning mixed with morning dew. Energy surged through me—through his body.

  "He lives!" The dwarf's laugh shook his massive beard. "The elixir worked! Thank the crystal gods - I almost thought I'd wasted ten thousand crystal coins on nothing. Do you know how many mountains you have to mine to find even one vial's worth of soul essence?"

  "Shut up about the money, Drugan," Liarielle snapped, still clinging to my chest. "Rolex is alive!"

  Ten thousand crystal coins? I'd have to ask later what that meant in real money. Though judging by the dwarf's relief, I'd just been saved by something worth way more than my old annual salary.

  I should've been freaking out more. Different world, magic, elves - classic isekai scenario. Be it from manga, anime or webnovels, I knew how this usually went. Though most protagonists didn't inherit their body from a recently deceased hero. And I wasn't some high schooler, nor a Japanese. The question was - what I was going to do next.

  Tell them the truth? Yeah, right. "Hey guys, your friend is super dead, and I'm just some random accountant who got shot helping a grandma. Please don't mind me taking over his life and extremely expensive magical body that you just spent a fortune to save".

  I'd read enough stories to guess how that conversation would end. Best case - magical prison. Worst case - having some mage frying my brain in attempt to bring the old hero back. After dying from being too helpful once, I wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

  No thanks. I'd failed enough job interviews lately. No need to fail at living too.

  "Rest now," the dwarf said, checking my pulse. "The lich's minions still roam these halls. Once you've recovered, we need to clear them out."

  "What about his treasures?" I asked weakly. Two months of unemployment had taught me to think practically.

  Silence fell. Liarielle and the dwarf exchanged glances.

  "Rolex, you always said looting was beneath a true hero," the elf said slowly.

  Oh. Right. Of course Mr. Perfect wouldn't take rewards for his good deeds.

  "The curse must have rattled his mind a bit," Drugan muttered. "Though I must say, thinking about compensation isn't the worst side effect I've seen..."

  Time to be a different kind of hero. One with a better understanding of profit margins.