It was already dark outside. Such was the life of a university student.

  Study. Procrastinate. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

  If only he hadn't spend so much time reading web novels he wouldn't be such a disappointment in the eyes of his parents.

  Harald could only laugh at his own misfortune. Failing the exam again was simply not an option because it meant certain expulsion.

  Dark circles carved deep shadows beneath Harald's eyes. The digital clock on his desk read 02:47.

  If he slept now, he would lose three hours.

  If he didn't sleep, he would fail the exam.

  He rubbed his temples. His thoughts felt thick, like they were moving through syrup.

  On the desk, half-hidden beneath lecture notes, lay a small transparent bag. Inside was white tablets. Harmless-looking.

  Amphetamine.

  "Am I actually considering this?" he muttered.

  His friend's voice echoed in his head. It's basically prescription ADHD meds. Everyone uses it during finals. You'll focus like a machine.

  He had refused at first. He wasn't that desperate.

  Apparently, he was now.

  "What's the alternative?" he whispered. "Another three cans of caffeine and a panic attack?"

  His pulse was already fast. His hands trembled—not from the drug, but from fear.

  He stared at the pills for a long time.

  Then he swallowed two. Dry. Washed down with lukewarm Red Bull.

  At first, nothing.

  Then clarity.

  The fog in his mind dissolved. Lines of text sharpened. Concepts connected effortlessly. He moved through material with mechanical precision, annotating, summarizing, memorizing.

  Hours passed unnoticed.

  Empty cans accumulated. One became three. Three became seven.

  When the sharpness dulled slightly, he took another pill.

  Then another.

  His jaw clenched. His heart thudded harder against his ribs. He ignored it.

  "Let's go," he muttered, grinning at the screen. "I'm unstoppable."

  By dawn, the room looked like a battlefield of aluminum and paper.

  The sunlight felt wrong.

  His heart was no longer just beating fast—it was chaotic. Irregular. Too strong. Too rapid.

  He stood up and the room tilted violently.

  "Okay. Not good."

  His pulse fluttered in his throat. His vision sparkled at the edges. He tried taking a deep breath but it felt insufficient, like inhaling through a straw.

  "Shit."

  The emergency department smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee.

  They moved quickly once they saw the monitor.

  "You're in atrial fibrillation with rapid ventricular response," the doctor said calmly. "Likely triggered by stimulant use."

  Harald nodded weakly. His chest felt hollow.

  "We've given you intravenous benzodiazepines. That should blunt the sympathetic surge. Your blood pressure is elevated, so we're controlling that as well. We'll monitor you closely."

  "Am I going to die?" Harald asked.

  "No. You're stable. But you need observation."

  Stable.

  He had never felt less stable in his life.

  Tears burned unexpectedly in his eyes. "This is so stupid. I did this to myself."

  The doctor's expression softened, but remained professional. "We see worse. Get some rest. Your parents are on their way."

  That hurt more than the arrhythmia.

  The benzodiazepines wrapped around his consciousness like heavy blankets. His pulse slowed slightly. The panic dulled.

  He drifted.

  "Mr. Johansson?"

  A voice cut through the haze.

  Harald forced one eye open.

  A young man stood at the foot of the bed, posture rigid.

  "My name is Emil. I'm a medical student. You've discussed the plan with the attending earlier?"

  Harald's brain lagged. "I… think so."

  "Good. I'll administer your antiarrhythmic now."

  Something about that sentence didn't sit right.

  "What—?"

  "It's amiodarone. We're aiming for rhythm control."

  The doctor hadn't mentioned that.

  But maybe he had. Everything was blurred.

  "Okay," Harald mumbled.

  The drug flowed cold into his vein.

  Emil left the room, unaware that he had opened the wrong electronic chart.

  Another patient. Similar surname. Similar age. Atrial fibrillation of unknown duration.

  That patient was anticoagulated.

  Harald was not.

  Sleep swallowed him whole.

  Inside his chest, the atria continued to quiver.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Blood, no longer moving smoothly, pooled in the left atrial appendage.

  A clot formed silently. It dislodged without warning. Traveled up the carotid into the brain.

  The monitor alarm screamed.

  Nurses rushed in.

  "Loss of pulse!"

  "Start compressions!"

  The room filled in seconds. Orders flew. Defibrillator pads. Adrenaline. Compressions cracking against sternum.

  His parents arrived just in time to see the organized chaos.

  Just in time to see their son's body arch under defibrillation.

  Just in time to understand.

  Harald hovered somewhere between sound and silence.

  'Mother, I'm sorry.'

  The last thing he felt was pressure on his chest.

  The last thing he heard was his mother crying his name.

  Then nothing.

  Before Harald stood three thrones carved from something that was not stone, yet felt older than mountains.

  Seated upon them were figures too large to be called human. Their outlines shimmered as if reality itself hesitated to define them. Their faces were indistinct, but their presence pressed down on him like gravity.

  One of them spoke without moving.

  "Subject: Harald Johansson. Deceased. Cause: cardiac arrest following iatrogenic complication."

  The voice was neither male nor female. It was administrative.

  A second figure lifted what looked like a ledger formed of light.

  "Karmic yield: below median. Malice index: negligible. Net moral impact: insignificant."

  The third tapped the armrest of its throne.

  "Conclusion: not eligible for ascension. Not eligible for condemnation. Soul integrity intact. Reassignment recommended."

  Harald staggered back. "What— what is this? Am I dead?"

  No one answered immediately.

  The first figure continued, "Memory retention prohibited. Standard reincarnation protocol will be followed."

  "Wait!" Harald shouted. "You can't just— I don't understand any of this!"

  "You are not required to."

  The ledger closed.

  "Next life designation: agrarian class. Male. Low-resource environment. Medium-tier world."

  A pause.

  "Proceed."

  The thrones trembled.

  The world shattered into motion.

  Harald felt himself compress, condense, collapse inward. His body dissolved into something weightless. He became a sphere of pale light, drawn forward through a vast darkness filled with thousands of other lights.

  Some burned brilliantly, radiant and steady.

  Others flickered weakly.

  He drifted among them.

  Pulled toward a distant glow.

  Closer.

  Closer—

  "Everyone clear!"

  A violent jolt tore through him.

  Somewhere far away, electricity surged through flesh.

  His trajectory snapped sideways.

  The pull reversed.

  The void warped as if something had grabbed him by the spine.

  He was falling backward.

  Back in the chamber of thrones, the second figure looked up.

  "Anomaly detected. Subject vital signs temporarily restored."

  The third figure's presence sharpened.

  "A soul in transit cannot be returned. The path is already inscribed."

  "Correction required," said the first.

  A single finger lifted.

  Somewhere on Earth, Harald's heart stopped again.

  The pull resumed.

  But not cleanly.

  The path had shifted.

  Instead of descending toward fertile fields and human breath, Harald's sphere veered—slightly, fatally—to the side.

  The intended vessel passed by him.

  He entered another.

  Small.

  Fragile.

  Feathered.

  Silence returned to the chamber.

  The third figure spoke, quieter this time.

  "Trajectory deviation within acceptable error margin."

  "It was not the assigned body," said the second.

  "No."

  A pause.

  "For the first time in several millennia."

  The first figure exhaled something that might have been regret.

  "Compensation will be granted."

  Harald felt cold.

  Then wet.

  Then cramped.

  Consciousness returned like static.

  The voice was inside him.

  What?

  He tried to move.

  Something small and webbed twitched.

  "What does that mean?" he tried to say.

  What came out was a faint, miserable sound.

  There was a long silence.

  "…What?"

  Rage flared through him.

  "A duck? A duck?! Are you serious? Send me back!"

  "Who are you?!"

  He tried to scream. It emerged as a weak, pathetic chirp.

  "This is a mistake."

  "Then fix it!"

  He felt something like despair closing around him.

  "I don't want this. I don't want any of this."

  A pause.

  Then:

  "English."

  The implication was cold. Endless.

  He went still.

  "…So I'm trapped."

  "…As a duck."

  "…In another world."

  There was a brief silence.

  Then:

  He would have laughed if he possessed lungs capable of it.

  "Shouldn't an interface come standard?"

  He felt the faint stirrings of new senses—wind through downy feathers, the smell of damp soil, distant water.

  "…Fine," he muttered internally.

  "If I can't die and I can't leave… I'll look around first."

  Somewhere far beyond mortal perception, three immense thrones watched in silence.

  And in a muddy nest beneath an unfamiliar sky, a duck opened its eyes.