WeTried Translations

Translator: Goku

Editor: Sty

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The War Hero in the NTR Game Wants to Die ◈

Chapter 001

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Self-Inflicted Wound

When I opened my eyes, I was hanging by my neck from the ceiling.

I don't know if I recalled a past life, or if I suddenly possessed someone, but that wasn't important.

Because my neck was being choked.

To survive, I thrashed my whole body, writhing and twisting.

[Synchronization Rate Increased! 2.4%↑]

"Ugh...ugh, ugh, sh-shit..."

I clearly felt like I had just died...

Hanging there blankly, the strength drained from my grip once again.

My neck was choked, and my vision plunged into darkness.

Is this the end?

The moment I thought that...

[Synchronization Rate Increased! 1.6%↑]

My eyes opened again.

The ceiling. Again the ceiling.

The rope was still wrapped around my neck, and my toes were only fumbling in the air.

"Cough, cough...!"

[Synchronization Rate Increased! 0.8%↑]

[Synchronization Rate Increased! 0.4%↑]

[Synchronization Rate Increased! 0.2%↑]

I don't know how many times I died, but this time, my vision didn't go black.

Slowly, I grasped the noose.

After flailing my body a few times like that, I finally managed to reach my foot out to a chair that was knocked aside.

I loosened the noose that was digging into my neck and slid down to the floor.

Only the loosened noose remained dangling from the ceiling, swinging slowly.

I lay there for a long time.

For someone who had just come back from the dead, I felt surprisingly little emotion.

"...Bullshit."

Didn't someone say that suicide is an act of confessing that life isn't worth living?

The friend who first hanged himself from the ceiling, who threw his body to me, had ultimately convinced himself that life wasn't worth living.

I didn't feel any guilt about having taken over his body.

After all, it was like being forced to take on a body that someone else had discarded.

More than anything, I don't know how many times I've died because of this damn bastard.

For a long time, I just numbly massaged my sore neck.

Then, I slowly raised my body.

With trembling hands, I opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of liquor.

Even though it was an unfamiliar room, I knew exactly where everything was, as if it were the back of my hand.

It seemed the memories that came with the body were acting as its owner, guiding me.

Leaning one hand against the wall, I drank straight from the bottle.

Even as the strong alcohol flowed down my esophagus, my mind didn't clear.

I felt numb.

I don't know if I recalled memories of a past life or if I suddenly possessed this body, but do people usually recall them when they're hanging and dying?

As I incessantly mulled over these thoughts in my head, the door opened without a knock.

"Father is calling for you. You should probably head to his office soon."

It was my younger sister, Rione.

As soon as our blue-gray eyes met, it came back to me.

"And here you are, just drinking heavily at a time like this."

When I made no reply, she added a few more words, as if I were pathetic.

Things like, "You ended up like this because you always live like this," and "Father must be waiting, but you're just drinking, so you get called a worm..."

As she nagged on, the girl's gaze, casually sweeping the room, suddenly stopped at one spot.

The noose hanging from the ceiling.

"...That is."

Her voice trailed off.

The color seemed to drain from her face.

I just stared intently at her utterly pale face for a long time.

It was an unfamiliar expression.

The girl tried to reach out to me but stopped in mid-air.

Her fingers twitched in the air, then eventually returned to their original position.

Holding the liquor bottle, I shot a glance at the girl, then opened the door and walked out into the corridor.

* * *

I still feel like a noose is wrapped around my neck.

I ran my hand over my neck several times, but the sensation wouldn't disappear.

Every time that darn 'synchronization rate' increased by a notch, unfamiliar memories forced their way into my mind.

Memories that were clearly not my own.

The name was Riehen Gryan.

He lived a wasted life.

At least, that's what others said.

Didn't they say that suicide is an act of confessing that life isn't worth living?

So he probably died because of that... but if I look closely, this guy seems to have lived quite diligently in his own way.

He successfully graduated from the Imperial Academy, which was supposedly only attended by the best.

It seemed he missed more days than he attended, but he got his diploma nonetheless.

In sword fighting practicals, he wasn't top of his class, but he was among the top twenty in his group.

Of course, there were exactly twenty people in that year's group.

In the spring of his graduation year, he also received a formal knighthood.

It was just that no knight order would accept him.

If he had been born into a humble barony, he might not have been the pride of the family, but he would have been called a decent son with all his limbs intact.

Because then he could have just been sold off to a moderately wealthy merchant and used as a stud to continue the bloodline.

The problem was that this guy wasn't born into any 'ordinary' family.

The Gryan Ducal House.

The noblest name in the Empire, second only to the Emperor. A prestigious family that had produced Sword Saints for generations.

And the sole piece of trash in such a family was Riehen Gryan.

They didn't even wish for him to become a Sword Saint.

He simply had to live up to being born the eldest son.

From a young age, he was poured elixirs, one bottle of which was worth as much as a modest estate, and he was even assigned sword masters renowned throughout the Empire.

The head of the family firmly believed that since he came from a lineage that produced Sword Saints for generations, he would naturally reach that level if only he honed his skills.

Yet, this guy couldn't even properly wield a sword.

The elixirs poured into him for decades didn't accumulate into proper mana, and the so-called masters one by one shook their heads and left.

If he had been born a commoner, at least they would have given him a farming tool.

A wretch who couldn't even pretend to be a knight.

Whenever he appeared at banquets, laughter followed him from behind, and when he drew his sword, even his peers refused to spar with him.

His arranged engagement was also broken a few days ago.

No matter where he went, people treated him like trash, and even the family was slowly on the verge of erasing his name from the family register.

Well, it wasn't because of all that that Riehen hanged himself.

The reason he chose death was far more ridiculous than expected.

His commoner childhood friend, with whom he had grown up, followed another man.

She supposedly went to the capital to learn some magic.

Whether she fell for that man or not, I don't know, but that was all there was to it.

Perhaps she was a sanctuary for his heart, someone he had known since childhood who saw him as Riehen, not Gryan, but from my perspective, it doesn't matter.

His father, who couldn't stand the sight of his useless, parasitic son, had finally decided to send this guy to the front lines, so he couldn't follow her either.

The place he was to be sent was the Northern Front, where only one in ten sent there returned alive.

So, to summarize it lightly from my perspective, it's like having to go to the military twice.

Childhood friends are originally meant to be NTRed.

Since he doesn't even know such basic common sense, he lives like this.

Anyway.

And so, I ended up in this body that had been lamenting in his sadness and hanged himself with his own hands.

If it were up to me, I'd want to hang myself again right now.

Because I didn't want to pick up someone else's discarded trash and recycle it for my own use.

Because I don't want to go to the military twice!

But hadn't I just died several times and still perfectly came back to life?

It wasn't an illusion; I clearly died and came back.

It's hard to forget the sensation of my fingers bending backward while trying to pull my neck out of the noose.

With the feeling that the rope was still wrapped around my neck, just standing upright felt like a struggle.

I brought the liquor bottle I was holding back to my lips.

It was already more than half empty.

My mind was just as empty, but my legs moved on their own.

I pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside the spacious office, beyond a heavy desk, sat a man.

Duke Gryan.

He was this body's father.

His sunken eyes slowly swept over me, and the liquor bottle in my hand.

Just that one glance was enough to roughly understand how Riehen was treated in this family.

Perhaps experience resonates better than simply recalling memories.

The spacious office was quiet enough to be suffocating.

The bookshelves filling the walls, and the afternoon light streaming through the window, all seemed to be holding their breath before the head of the family.

My body twitched involuntarily.

Riehen's memories were dredging up the fear he felt every time he entered this room.

My mind felt numb, as if it were someone else's problem, but my fingertips trembled on their own.

Beside the desk stood a man I didn't remember.

A sharply tailored military uniform. A sword hanging at his waist.

A lean, hardened body, and a uniquely sunken gaze.

At a glance, he was clearly a soldier who had seen much action on the battlefield.

No matter how much I searched Riehen's memories, the man's face was nowhere to be found.

The man slowly scanned me from head to toe, then cautiously spoke to the Duke.

"...Is that drunk fellow who just walked in your son?"

A faint suspicion was embedded in his voice.

Indeed, considering he stumbled in, bottle in hand, after his father had called for him, it was understandable.

The Duke stared at me silently for a long time.

Then, he replied curtly.

"...No."

The man's eyebrows twitched.

"I have no such son."

The Duke slowly rose from his seat.

There was no anger, not even disappointment, in his eyes.

It was more like the feeling of pondering how to dispose of trash lying in the street.

"That is merely dregs sullying the Gryan name."

The Duke lightly gestured with his chin towards the soldier.

"Take him. Just dump him in the harshest place in your unit. Whether he lives or dies is no longer my concern."

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