Wrong Guy, Right World (To Screw Up)

My head feels like someone's been using it as a drum. I groan, rolling onto my back—or trying to. The surface beneath me is hard. Like sleeping-on-concrete hard.

And cold too.

Where the hell is my mattress? The memory foam one I spent way too much money on? And my pillow—where's my pillow?

Did my roommate pull some stupid prank while I was asleep?

I crack open my eyes, expecting to see my boring white ceiling. Instead, I'm staring at weathered wooden planks held together by iron brackets.Nothing like the smooth drywall of my apartment.

Okay, this is officially weird.

I push myself upright, wincing as my palms press against cold stone. That's when I notice the floor beneath me—intricate patterns etched into the ground, forming a massive circle filled with symbols and geometric shapes. The lines glow faintly, pulsing with a soft blue light before fading completely.

It looks exactly like those summoning circles from games.

My brain stutters. This has to be a dream. Or maybe I'm having some kind of psychotic break from pulling too many all-nighters.

But then I notice the notebook lying just outside the circle's edge. It's leather-bound, worn at the corners, pages slightly yellowed. Something about it draws my attention—like it's been waiting for me specifically.

I grab it, flipping it open to a random page.

The handwriting is shaky.

'I'm weak and a coward.'

'I'm tired.'

I squint at the words, confused. Because I can read these words but the words are definitely not English.

I run a hand through my hair absently—and freeze.

That's... not my hair.

My hair is curly, thick, barely past my ears. This hair is straight, softer, and way too long. I pull a strand forward, and my stomach drops.

It's red.

Not black or the redhead that is actually a strong orange.

Bright, unmistakable, red.

My breathing picks up. I look down at myself, really look, and that's when everything becomes wrong.

My body feels different. Not sick, not injured—just fundamentally wrong. My arms are longer, more muscular than they should be. My chest feels broader, my legs stronger.

And I'm wearing armor.

Actual, honest-to-god medieval armor—a breastplate strapped over a padded gambeson, leather vambraces on my forearms, leather gauntlets on my hands. The fabric underneath itches like crazy, scratching against my skin in ways that make me want to tear everything off.

These are not my blue pajamas.

I gulp and I force myself to open the notebook again, this time from the beginning. My hands shake as I flip through the pages.

The story starts simply enough—a young man named Cloud growing with his childhood friend and then leaving his village to become a hero. How his beloved childhood friend had the talent to become a powerful knight. Training with friends who shared his dream. Growing stronger together, fighting monsters, protecting people.

Then the tone shifts.

The handwriting gets messier. 

He writes about his companions growing distant. Giving him cold shoulders. Whispered conversations that stop when he enters the room. How they started gravitating toward the other heroes—Gis and Lorraine—leaving Cloud behind like dead weight.

'They think I don't notice,' one entry reads. 'But I see it. I see everything. The way they look at me like I'm a burden. The way they wish I wasn't here.'

Then it talks about how he watched Ophelia getting anally fucked by the farmer guy. 

How he heard Eri accepting to finally leave Cloud for another party.

And the breaking point, Neira, giving a blowjob to Gis.

From that point is where the writing expressed how fucked up he was.

My hands tighten on the notebook as I reach the last entry.

[...I'm tired. I'm so tired. I understand that I'm cowardly, that I am pathetic.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I dragged you, whoever you are, into my mess.

I don't deserve the title of 'Hero.' But someone still needs to carry it. The people of this world depend on the heroes.

New soul who was summoned to dwell in my body, I beg your forgiveness, again and for whatever this worthless life of mine is worth, but please be The Hero in my place.

And become better than I have ever had the chance of becoming.]

—The Incompetent Hero of Prona, Cloud

Cloud.

The hero.

Cloud.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

CLOUD?!

Fuck me!

How did I get pulled into this shitty novel?!

My mind races, scrambling through memories. Inside An Adult Game As A Former Hero—the web novel I'd been reading months ago. The one about a gamer getting isekai'd into a brutal NTR game where every companion has is stolen away and the hero ends up dying betrayed and broken heart of extreme NTR.

I never even played the game… Because it doesn't exist! 

I just read the novel based on it, and I didn't even finish the damn thing because it wasn’t translated!

But I do remember some bits.

Cloud was supposed to be a minor character. The weakest of the heroes, constantly overshadowed by Gis and Lorraine. His companions betray him midway through the story, and he becomes a tragic footnote while the real protagonist uses his game knowledge to survive and become the one who steals women from others instead.

Except the goddess or whoever was supposed to summon Han Ji-Soo.

She got me instead.

I stare down at my—his—my—armored hands, flexing fingers that feel both familiar and foreign.

So first I need to understand where I'm at the beginning of the novel but that’s midway the game.

From what I remember. Cloud's companions were already planning to leave him as they were already stolen away. The cliché NTR plot was already in motion.

And I have no idea what to do. Because I haven’t inherited memories of Cloud.

I flip frantically through the notebook again, searching for dates, context, anything that tells me where in the timeline I've landed. But Cloud's entries are vague, emotional, more feelings than facts.

Great. Just great.

I'm stuck in a fantasy world I barely know, in the body of the most pathetic hero in the story, surrounded by people who disdain and loathe me and who want to bully me for being weak.

And apparently, this story starts right in the middle of that stupid NTR plot.

I let out a long, shaky breath and close my eyes.

"Okay," I mutter to myself, trying to steady my voice. "Okay. Think. You can figure this out. You've read enough isekai slop to know how this works."

Step one: Don't panic.

Step two: Figure out where the hell I am and what's happening.

Step three: Don't die.

I push myself to my feet, wobbling slightly as I adjust to the unfamiliar weight and height of this body. The armor clinks softly with each movement, and I make a mental note to figure out how to take it off before I go insane from the itching.

The room I'm in is small and has no windows. 

I tuck the notebook under my arm. If this really is Cloud's final message, then it's the only guide I have to understand what the original owner of this body went through.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head toward the door.

The door creaks open, revealing exactly what I didn't want to see.

I'm not in some castle or fancy headquarters. I'm in a shack—a run-down, single-room wooden shack. Rusted nails barely held together the walls, and there's a gap in the roof where moonlight streams through, which I didn’t notice earlier.

And beyond the shack? A village. A full-on fantasy village straight out of a medieval setting, complete with thatched roofs, dirt roads, and the faint glow of lanterns in windows.

It's nighttime. No watch, no clock, no way to tell what hour it is. The sky is clear, stars scattered across it like someone spilled glitter, and a massive moon hangs overhead.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the village below. Part of me wants to go back inside the shack, curl up in a corner, and pretend this isn't happening.

But that won't solve anything.

I scan the village, trying to orient myself. Most of the buildings are small, single-story homes. But in the distance, there's one structure that stands out—a large, two-story wooden building with warm light spilling from its windows.

An inn. Has to be.

If Cloud was traveling with a party, they'd need a place to stay. And inns are always the default hub in fantasy stories.

I take a steadying breath and start walking.

The dirt path crunches under my boots—his boots. The armor clinking with each step. The faint rustle of the gambeson underneath. The weight of the gauntlets on my hands.

Everything feels wrong.

By the time I reach the inn, my nerves are shot. I hesitate in front of the doors, hand hovering over them.

What if—

I shake my head. Overthinking won't help. I need information, and standing outside like an idiot won't get me any.

I push the doors open with both hands.

The warmth hits me first—a wave of heat from the fireplace crackling in the corner. The interior is cozy in a rustic way, with wooden beams supporting the ceiling, long tables scattered around, and a few patrons nursing drinks. The smell of ale and wood smoke fills the air, and for a brief moment, it almost feels welcoming.

Then the innkeeper notices me.

He's a middle-aged man with a round face, graying hair, and an apron stained with food. His eyes light up as he hurries over, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Oh, Hero! Where were you at this late hour? Did you have dinner? I have some chicken stew left—should I bring it for you?"

I freeze.

Hero Cloud. Right. That's me now.

"Sure," I reply curtly, my voice coming out rougher than I expect.

The innkeeper blinks, clearly startled by my tone. But he recovers quickly, giving a quick bow before scurrying off toward the kitchen.

I walk to an empty table in the corner and drop into the chair, resting my arm on the table and propping my head up with my hand.

Okay. Think.

I have zero knowledge about this world beyond what little I remember from the novel. No cheats, no special abilities, no convenient system that pops up to guide me. And I definitely don't have Cloud's memories, which means I have zero fighting skills.

The original Cloud just signed my death sentence. The fucking idiot.

If—when—I die, I'm going to find him in the afterlife and strangle him.

So what can I do? How do I survive this?

My thoughts spiral, running through half-formed plans and immediately discarding them. I don't know where the NTR plot or the other flags, if any as by now all companions were NTR’D away.

I'm completely—

"Here you go!"

The innkeeper's cheerful voice snaps me out of my spiral. He places a wooden tray in front of me, carrying a bowl of steaming stew and a wooden spoon.

"It was still hot, so I didn't need to boil it again," he says with a proud smile.

I nod absently, grabbing the spoon. Maybe some food will help me think clearly.

I take a decent spoonful and shove it into my mouth.

And immediately spit it out.

I gag, my face twisting in disgust as the taste assaults my senses. It's bland. Aggressively bland. And the texture is wrong—the meat is tough, chewy, almost rubbery.

What the actual—

No salt. No seasoning. Nothing.

It tastes like shit.

The innkeeper's face goes pale. A few of the other patrons turn to stare, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

"H-Hero? Is something wrong?" The innkeeper looks distressed, wringing his hands nervously.

Right. Fantasy world. Medieval setting. Seasoning is either nonexistent or expensive as hell.

This is my life now.

I click my tongue in frustration, pushing the bowl away and standing abruptly. The chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor.

I don't care about their opinions. I head straight for the stairs, ignoring the confused stares burning into my back.

The second floor is a narrow hallway lined with doors. I try the first one—locked. The second one, also locked. The third, locked. I keep going until one finally opens.

I step inside and immediately shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I let out a shaky breath.

The room is small. A single bed pushed against the wall, a wooden nightstand, a cracked mirror, and a chest at the foot of the bed. The mattress looks lumpy, the pillow flat and sad.

I walk over and drop onto the bed face-first.

The mattress is terrible. Hard as a rock, probably stuffed with straw or hay. The pillow is equally disappointing—flat and scratchy.

Fuck.

How can people wish to be isekai'd into a fantasy world? They're woefully ignoring all the issues and problems of fantasy settings, not to mention everything we take for granted in modern times.

Now what?

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

I'm stuck in a fantasy world with no knowledge, no skills, and a body that everyone has written off as a failure. My companions are probably planning how to tell me they're dumping me. I have no idea where the plot is or how to unlock the secrets and cheats. And I can't even enjoy a decent meal because medieval cuisine is apparently a crime against taste buds.

I want to cry.

Actually, you know what? Screw it.

I let out a long, frustrated groan and cover my face with my hands.

This is the worst isekai experience ever.

----------------------------------------

As soon as I open my eyes, I'm greeted by a sea of clouds.

Fluffy white ones that somehow support my weight, stretching endlessly in every direction like an ocean.

Cloud on top of clouds. 

Heh. Silly.

My brain, apparently, still has time for stupid puns.

Then I see her.

A woman dressed in flowing white robes that seem to shimmer with their own light. Her skin is pristine, almost luminescent, and her hair cascades down her back in waves of silvery-blue. And she has a pair of beautiful white wings.

I squint, my brain sluggishly connecting the dots.

The Goddess Iris.

The chief deity of this world. The one who blesses and creates heroes to fight the Demon King or whatever the hell the plot was supposed to be about.

"YOU."

My voice comes out sharp as I point an accusatory finger at her.

She smiles serenely, hands clasped in front of her like some benevolent saint. "Yes, it is indeed I, Hero Cloud—"

"Zip it, woman!" I make the zipping gesture across my lips.

Her smile falters. "My, my. So rude."

"Of course I'm rude! This mess is totally on you!" I gesture wildly at the cloudscape around us, then at myself. "Let this guy die and let me go back to my world! Or at least pass on to the afterlife like a normal person!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible—"

"Not possible?" I step forward, my fists clenching. "You're a goddess! You create heroes, just create another idiot! Send me back!"

Yes I don’t sound good but that isn’t important anymore.

Iris shifts uncomfortably, her wings twitching. For someone who's supposed to be an all-powerful deity, she looks remarkably like a student caught cheating on a test. Her eyes dart away, and there's something almost desperate in the way her hands twist together.

"It's... more complicated than that," she says carefully, her voice losing some of its authority.

"Complicated how?"

She hesitates, then sighs—a surprisingly human sound. "The ritual was already underway when I intervened. The original Hero Cloud had completed the necessary preparations, but I... didn't trust the magic he was using."

I stare at her. "You didn't trust it."

"It was unstable! Dangerous! There were demonic traces woven into the very foundation!" Her voice rises defensively, a faint blush creeping across her perfect cheeks. Her wings flutter anxiously behind her. "So I interfered to purify the summoning magic, to ensure the right soul would arrive—the one fated to—"

"Which it didn't, and you grabbed me instead."

"...Yes."

I drag a hand down my face. "Goddammit, woman."

"It wasn't intentional!" She sounds almost petulant now, her divine composure cracking. "The interference caused a... cascade effect. The demonic ritual reached into another world entirely and pulled you instead of the intended target. I tried to correct it, I swear I did, but by the time I realized what was happening—" She stops herself, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. Truly."

The apology sounds genuine, but that doesn't make me feel any better.

"So you fucked up."

"I was trying to help!" She sounds almost pleading. "Do you have any idea how many heroes I've watched fall? How many I've had to—" She cuts herself off again, her expression flickering with something darker before smoothing back into careful neutrality.

"And now I'm stuck in a body with no skills, no memories, and companions who are actively planning to cuck me!" My voice echoes across the cloudscape. "Do you have any idea how fucked I am?! ."

No wait, that might end up being literary. Cloud has a pretty face… shit.

Iris wrings her hands, looking distressed. Her wings fold partially, making her seem smaller somehow. "I... I know this situation is far from ideal—"

"Far from ideal?"

"—but it's not entirely hopeless!" She brightens. As if she found out some spark of desperate hope in her eyes, the kind that comes from someone grasping at straws. "In fact, there's a silver lining to all this!"

I give her a flat stare. 

"You're outside the shackles of fate now," she says, her tone taking on an almost excited edge. "The original soul was still bound by destiny—his path was set, predetermined by forces even I struggle to fully control. But you? You're a complete anomaly. A variable that shouldn't exist in this world's equation. That means you can change things! Rewrite outcomes that were supposed to be absolute!"

Her enthusiasm is almost manic, like she's been waiting for this exact opportunity for a very long time.

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm still fucked."

"It might be difficult," she admits, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. "But with enough training and effort, you can pull through. And since fate is broken—truly, fundamentally broken—there won't be invisible forces holding you back or ensuring your failure. The system... the system doesn't account for variables like you."

There's something almost hungry in the way she says that last part, like I'm not just a mistake but an opportunity.

I process that for a moment. Outside of fate. No predetermined script forcing me toward a bad ending.

That's... not that bad, but it still doesn't make up for anything.

"Okay," I say slowly. "If I'm not bound by fate, then you should help me somehow. Give me something to work with."

"Help you?" She blinks, surprised. Then something flickers across her face—guilt, maybe?

"You're a goddess. You have divine powers. I have nothing." I cross my arms. "If you feel guilty about dragging me here—which you should—then give me something. A blessing. A cheat skill. Hell, I'll take a new magic sword at this point."

Iris shifts uncomfortably, her wings folding tighter. "I... can't directly intervene in mortal affairs. The divine accords forbid it."

"You just said you interfered with the summoning!"

"That was different!" She looks genuinely distressed now, her hands twisting together so tightly her knuckles turn white. "If I directly grant you power, my... rival would take notice. And if she realizes you're an anomaly, she will try to eliminate you to restore the natural order. She's already suspicious of irregularities, and I can't—" She stops herself, swallowing hard. "I can't lose another piece on the board. Not now. Not when there's finally a chance to—"

She cuts herself off again, looking frustrated with her own lack of control.

A god aiming to kill me? Cool.

"So you're useless."

"I'm trying to explain the limitations!" Her voice cracks slightly. "Do you think I want to be bound by these rules? That I enjoy watching heroes suffer and fail because I can't act directly?"

There's real bitterness in her tone.

I let out a frustrated breath, my mind racing. If she can't give me direct power, then what can she do? There has to be some loophole, some way to—

Wait.

I remember something else about this idiotic hero and the vague recollection that this world is supposed to be based on an adult game.

I look down.

Then, with a sense of impending doom, I check under my pants.

"..."

"..."

I look back up at the stupid goddess.

She's staring downward, her face bright red.

I close my eyes and take a long, slow breath.

"I hate this life. I will jump off a cliff as soon as I wake up."

It's truly over.

"W-Wait!" Iris stammers, her composure completely shattered. "There are still ways to fix things! I promise! That's—that's not permanent! There are remedies, elixirs, ancient artifacts that can—" She's gesturing frantically now, completely flustered.

"Stop. Talking."

She falls silent, still blushing furiously, looking anywhere but at me.

Of course. Of course a cucked hero had to have a small dick on top of everything else. Because why wouldn't the universe kick me while I'm down?

This is a nightmare.

"Okay," I say finally, my voice eerily calm. "New plan. Since you clearly can't directly fix anything, just tell me what I need to know to survive. I know there are artifacts or items or elixirs that will boost me a lot and give me a chance to survive."

Iris fidgets with her hands, avoiding eye contact. "I... don't know the exact details."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "So you dragged me into a doomed situation, can't give me power, can't send me back, and don't even know what's going to happen next."

"...When you put it that way, it does sound rather dire." Her voice is small, almost childlike in its shame.

"Rather dire."

"But!" She straightens, forcing brightness into her voice. "You're resourceful! I can sense it! And you have knowledge from your world, don't you? Surely that counts for something!"

"I read an incomplete novel. That's it. I don't have game knowledge, I don't have cheat abilities, and I definitely don't have Cloud's combat skills."

Did I just reveal that this world is just from a novel?

Iris deflates again. "Oh."

We stand there in awkward silence.

And an idea pops up.

"What if you give me a compass?" I ask. "A special compass that can guide me to what I desire most?"

"A compass?" She tilts her head, genuinely confused.

Right. Medieval fantasy world.

So I proceed to explain to her what a compass is and how it works—thankfully, I know about that because I liked learning lots of redundant things. How the needle always points north, how it can help you navigate. I spin it into something more magical: a compass that points toward solutions, toward things I need.

Iris listens intently and her eyes brighten with interest.

"I would have to put some conditions on it," she says slowly, already calculating. "Limitations, so it doesn't draw attention. But... yes. Yes, this should be doable!" She sounds almost excited now. "It won't point to everything you want, only to things that can genuinely help you survive and grow stronger. And it won't work if you're being observed by other divine entities—I can't risk exposure."

It's not perfect, but it's something.

"Fine," I say. "I'll take it."

She nods, extending her hand. A soft golden light materializes between her palms, coalescing into a small bronze compass with strange runes etched along its edge.

"Take this," she says, pressing it into my hand. "And... I'm sorry. For everything. I truly am."

There's egret in her voice, layered with something else—hope, maybe?

Before I can respond, the clouds beneath me dissolve.

"Wait—" I start.

But it's too late.

I'm falling.

And I wake up in the same shitty bed.

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AN: This will be a short series. A story from the rather infamous 'Inside an Adult Game as a former Hero'