Chapter Text
POV: Leon
I didn’t die a hero.
I didn’t save the world.
I didn’t die in battle.
I didn’t do anything that would be worth calling grand.
Just one ordinary guy whom life kept hitting over the head again and again, until in the end it finally finished me off for good.
Ironically, what annoyed me most in my first life wasn’t even the job, the exhaustion, or the general hopelessness.
It was my younger sister.
Yes, my younger sister.
A tiny domestic tyrant who was exceptionally good at turning me into her free personal slave. She could nag me for hours, demand that I bring her something, buy her something, beat a game for her, farm some rare item, read a guide, check a forum, find a secret route… and all the while look at me as if I were somehow at fault for not doing it fast enough.
And like the complete idiot I was, I put up with all of it.
Because she was “younger.”
Because “family.”
Because “it’s not like it’s hard for you.”
What I hated most was one specific game.
An otome game.
I would never have touched something like that in my life. But my sister dug in her heels and laid siege to me until I agreed to clear it for her instead.
— You’re good at finding exploits!
— You know how to farm!
— You’re faster than me!
— Pleeeease!
I still remember the look on her face.
Sweet. Innocent. Manipulative as hell.
And I caved.
The game turned out to be even worse than I expected.
A world where women dominated men.
A world where a man without status, money, or usefulness was literally dust beneath people’s feet.
A world where noble girls could ruin your life just because they felt like it.
A world where the protagonist was supposed to gather a harem of “beautiful princes,” and everything else existed only as set dressing for their drama.
And to make it worse, the game was disgustingly unfair.
Especially to one character.
Angelica Redgrave.
Arrogant? Yes.
Proud? Without a doubt.
Sharp-tongued? Absolutely.
But even on my first playthrough, it was obvious to me: she wasn’t just written as an “antagonist.” She was literally shoved under the wheels of the plot.
The crown prince’s fiancée.
The daughter of a ducal house.
A girl raised from childhood to become the future queen.
And then one idiot prince, in love with a “saintly innocent girl,” publicly humiliates her, rejects her, lets her reputation be destroyed, and society happily finishes off the woman they had feared just yesterday.
I didn’t like that even back then.
And then I died.
And woke up here.
At first, I thought it was just a weird dream.
A small room.
An unfamiliar ceiling.
A bed that was far too hard.
And a body… that wasn’t mine.
A child’s body.
I stared at my own hands—small, thin, clumsy—and said nothing.
Then I screamed.
Then again.
Then I got yelled at for “throwing another tantrum.”
Very quickly, I realized this wasn’t a dream.
I had really been reincarnated.
Into the world of that damned game.
And worst of all, I hadn’t been reborn as someone important.
Not a prince.
Not a duke.
Not even some notable side character.
I had become Leon Fou Bartfort.
The third son of a minor baron.
Born to a concubine.
In simpler terms?
Trash.
In this world—that was exactly what I was.
I had a title, but not one that meant anything.
I had a father, but not the kind who would turn the world upside down for me.
I had a family, but not the kind where the younger son of a concubine had any right to a voice.
And the worst part was that the Bartfort family was barely mentioned in the game at all.
Which meant I knew the general world.
I knew the major players.
I knew the main events.
I knew the princes, the academy, the political flashpoints, the future disasters, the hidden items, the route to the biggest broken bonus in the entire game.
But I didn’t know the “canon” of my own family.
Would someone die?
Betray us?
Would we go bankrupt?
Would they sell me for organs?
Kidding. Mostly.
The first few years were strange.
I was a child, but with the memories of an adult.
And that did not make life easier.
Especially when you’re surrounded by people who think you can’t even think properly yet.
My father… wasn’t a bad man.
Weak? Sometimes.
Crushed by circumstances? Absolutely.
The kind of man who could stand against the whole system? Unfortunately, no.
He didn’t hate me. And that alone was already an achievement.
But love me the way a true heir is loved?
Protect me the way a valuable son is protected?
Put me above political convenience?
No.
Not because he was a monster.
But because this world broke even decent people.
And then there was Zola.
Ah, Zola.
If anyone ever wants to know what human greed, envy, and petty cruelty look like wrapped in silk and decorated with a fake smile, all they need to do is show her her own reflection.
She looked at me as if I weren’t a child, but an unpleasant debt that somehow still hadn’t disappeared.
And once I grew old enough to be useful…
…she decided to make use of that.
“A bride has already been found for a son like you.”
The first time I heard that, I nearly choked.
“What?”
“A wonderful woman,” Zola said with fake sweetness. “Experienced. Wealthy. Influential. She has agreed to take you in.”
Take me in.
As if we were talking about a stray dog.
I learned the details later.
She was over fifty.
She wanted a young body for her amusement, an obedient “husband” for status, and a convenient disposable piece of flesh she wouldn’t mind sending off to war later.
Because yes.
After the marriage, they planned to shove me straight into the war.
Classic for this world.
Use me first.
Then throw me away.
And if fortune smiled, make a profit off my death too.
I went to my father.
I really did.
Even now, I still remember that evening.
He sat there in silence, avoided looking me in the eyes for a long time, and then only let out a heavy sigh.
“Leon… I…”
That I… told me everything.
He couldn’t.
Maybe he didn’t want to badly enough.
Maybe he couldn’t because of the balance of power in the house.
Maybe because of politics.
Maybe because of his own weakness.
But one fact remained.
He could not save me.
That was when I understood: if I didn’t want to die like cheap merchandise, I would have to save myself.
And I knew only one way.
Luxion.
In the game, there was a hidden route.
Absurdly difficult.
Absurdly dangerous.
Absurdly rewarding.
That was exactly why my dear little sister had once forced me to clear it.
An ancient ship.
An AI.
Artifacts.
Old World technology.
Treasures that completely shattered the game balance.
Luxion.
If I played by this world’s rules, I would simply be ground to dust.
But if I could get him…
Then the rules themselves could be rewritten.
The journey was hell.
Sometimes I think the people who designed that route in the game hated players on a deeply personal level.
Monsters.
Traps.
Ruins.
Damn mechanisms that felt like they were waiting specifically for me to relax.
I was a child.
Physically weaker, slower, less enduring.
No army.
No support.
No loyal servants.
No party of adventurers.
I had no one.
Only the knowledge from my past life.
And a desperate refusal to become meat for someone else’s lust and war.
By the time I finally reached the place where he was supposed to be, I could barely stand.
The ancient hangar was silent.
Cold.
Vast.
Dead.
And then, in the darkness, a light flickered on.
— Biometric confirmation complete.
A mechanical, calm voice echoed through the emptiness.
— Representative of the new human civilization identified.
I nearly collapsed from relief.
“Yeah, yeah, wonderful,” I breathed out. “The important thing is—don’t shoot me.”
A pause.
— Analysis… complete.
— Conclusion: unit is weak, exhausted, poorly nourished, and has low physical capabilities.
I clenched my jaw.
“Thanks. Very encouraging.”
— Recommendation: immediate medical intervention.
— Additional conclusion: unit possesses extremely mediocre appearance.
I slowly lifted my head.
“Listen here, you scrap heap…”
— Self-identification: Luxion.
— Status: Ark ship.
— Additional observation: subject reacts aggressively to objective facts.
I almost laughed.
Oh, yes.
That was him.
My greatest chance.
And my greatest headache.
When I returned, I was no longer a helpless little boy.
I had Luxion.
And with him—power, knowledge, resources, and opportunities that most aristocrats in this kingdom couldn’t even imagine.
But power without a base is just a very expensive target.
So the next step was territory.
I needed land.
My own.
Remote.
Unwanted by anyone.
Perfect for building something far from prying eyes.
And once again, Zola proved useful.
She thought she was pressuring me.
In reality, I was simply waiting for the right moment.
When the issues of money, debts, expenses, suspicious schemes, and exactly how certain sums kept “evaporating” from the household budget came to light, I very politely—so politely it almost disgusted even me—offered to help “resolve” everything.
Luxion gathered the evidence.
All of it.
Documents.
Transfers.
Fake expenditures.
Schemes.
Connections.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t openly threaten her.
I simply laid the papers in front of Zola one evening… and smiled.
“Mother,” I said with the utmost courtesy I could manage, “I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”
She went pale so quickly I nearly applauded.
As a result, I got:
money;
an officially registered share of the family assets;
the right to develop a remote territory;
and, more importantly, formal recognition as an independent landholder.
Of course, it was the middle of nowhere.
Wild land.
Half-empty.
A place no sane person would willingly choose to go.
Perfect.
There wasn’t even an estate there yet.
No beautiful mansion.
No army of servants.
No grand residence.
Just land.
My land.
And Luxion.
Well, and money.
That was enough for a start.
I hadn’t had time to build anything yet.
Hadn’t had time to gather people.
Hadn’t even had time to properly establish myself.
And then the world decided to remind me that even knowing the canon guaranteed absolutely nothing.
The fall of House Redgrave did not begin with some loud scandal.
It began… far too quietly.
At first, rumors.
Strange supply delays.
Sudden inspections.
Problems with contracts.
Unexpected refusals from allies.
Shifts in the stance of those who had bowed to the ducal house just yesterday.
I noticed it by accident.
The Redgraves were too powerful for their instability to go unnoticed. Even out in the provinces, you could catch the echoes.
At first, I didn’t think much of it.
Things like that happened in high politics.
Pressure. Bargaining. Factional struggle.
But then it got worse.
Much worse.
Rumors spread about “suspicious contacts.”
About “secret agreements.”
About “unexplained movement of resources.”
About “disobedience to the Crown.”
I still remember the moment a chill ran down my spine.
“Luxion,” I said quietly, staring at yet another report. “Tell me I’m imagining this.”
— Analysis of information streams complete, he replied indifferently.
— Probability of a deliberate discrediting campaign: 87.4%.
I said nothing.
“Repeat that.”
— House Redgrave has likely become the target of systematic political elimination.
My mouth went dry.
“This… didn’t happen.”
— In your memories?
“In the game, damn it! This didn’t happen!”
In the canon, Angelica fell.
Yes.
She was humiliated.
She was isolated.
She was socially destroyed after the breakup with the prince.
But her father wasn’t executed.
Her house wasn’t branded traitors.
This was a completely different scale.
I ordered Luxion to dig deeper.
And when he brought me what he found… for the first time in a long while, I genuinely wanted to kill someone.
Fabricated evidence.
Planted documents.
Forged correspondence.
Intercepted shipments that had “somehow” ended up in the wrong places.
Witness statements that changed far too conveniently.
The sudden disappearance of people who could have disproven the accusations.
It was disgusting.
Professional.
Clean.
Cold.
The Redgraves weren’t just being attacked.
They were being erased.
And then the thunder struck.
House Redgrave was officially accused of high treason.
I still remember gripping the edge of the table until the wood cracked under my fingers.
“No,” I said then. “No. No, this can’t be happening.”
But it could.
And it did.
The arrests were swift.
Assets under confiscation.
Allies into the shadows.
Vassals in panic.
Some servants fled, some swore themselves to new masters, and some were taken away for interrogation.
A trial?
Calling it a trial was laughable.
It was a staged performance.
The verdict had been decided before it even began.
Vince Redgrave.
Duke.
Angelica’s father.
One of the most influential men in the kingdom.
Executed.
Gilbert Redgrave.
His eldest son.
The heir.
Angelica’s older brother.
Executed.
I sat in silence after hearing that.
For a long time.
A very long time.
Luxion said nothing.
And rightly so.
Because what could he possibly say?
The game I had once played because of my younger sister’s whims had contained plenty of stupidity.
But not this.
This should never have happened.
“The canon broke,” I whispered.
No.
It hadn’t broken.
It had been crushed.
And then I asked myself the only question that mattered.
“Where is Angelica?”
I didn’t like the answer.
Not at all.
After the execution of the duke and the heir, the remnants of House Redgrave were literally being torn apart.
Their property inventoried.
Their accounts frozen.
Their assets seized.
Their people investigated.
Their relatives interrogated.
Anyone who could become a political problem quietly removed from sight.
Angelica Redgrave—the former fiancée of the crown prince, the daughter of an executed “traitor,” the sister of an executed “conspirator”—had become… a problematic asset.
Officially: a person under control.
Unofficially: a trophy.
Too well-known to simply kill immediately.
Too dangerous to leave free.
Too valuable to discard without profit.
So they decided to sell her.
A closed auction.
A special lot.
Politically toxic.
Very expensive.
Very dirty.
I stared at the data Luxion had gathered and felt something dark building inside me.
“I’m going.”
— This may attract attention, Luxion said calmly.
“I don’t care.”
— Your emotional responses are irrational.
“Yes.” I stood up. “And?”
He went silent for a second.
— Transport preparation complete.
Now that sounded more like support.
The auction was being held in a place that looked respectable from the outside.
That was exactly why it nearly made me sick.
A luxurious hall.
Soft music.
Expensive wine.
Silk, gold, smiles.
And stench.
Not a physical one.
A moral one.
I saw who had come.
Old aristocrats.
New money.
Women with predatory smiles.
Men with eyes that no longer held anything human.
Brokers.
Collectors.
Scum in expensive clothes.
And every last one of them had come for one thing.
For her.
I stayed to the side, listened, and clenched my fists in my pockets.
“They say she still hasn’t been broken.”
“That makes it even more interesting.”
“The young body of a duke’s daughter… mm. Almost a shame that now it’s just merchandise.”
“Just? It’s the perfect purchase. Beautiful, proud, educated. Break her first, then keep her as an expensive whore for guests.”
“Or for yourself.”
“I heard several buyers want her for exactly that. A young body for entertainment—rare lot.”
“After everything that happened to her house, she should be grateful if they just let her into a bed instead of throwing her into a cellar.”
My vision darkened.
I felt my nails digging into my palms.
I nearly threw up right there in the middle of that glittering cesspit.
A young body.
For entertainment.
Like a prostitute.
They were talking about a duke’s daughter.
About a girl half the kingdom had feared just recently.
About someone whose only real crime was being born into a family that had been chosen for destruction.
And they spoke as if they were choosing a breeding mare.
“Master,” Luxion’s calm voice sounded in my ear through the hidden channel. “Your biometric readings indicate heightened aggression.”
“If I kill someone here right now, will that ruin the plan?”
“Yes.”
“Shame.”
“However,” he added after a short pause, “I support your negative emotional conclusion regarding those present.”
I almost snorted.
Even Luxion was disgusted.
That alone was enough to diagnose this gathering.
Then they announced the lot.
And brought her out.
For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent.
Angelica Redgrave walked with perfect posture.
Back straight.
Chin raised.
Eyes cold.
She wasn’t wearing ducal attire.
No luxury.
No symbols of her house.
But even so…
She looked like nobility someone had tried to shackle.
Pale.
Too pale.
Exhausted.
But not broken.
And that only excited the crowd even more.
Disgusting.
The auctioneer began speaking in a sweet, sticky voice:
“A special lot. A representative of the former House Redgrave. Highly educated, flawlessly raised, excellently trained in etiquette, music, dance, and state protocol… With proper control, she may become an extraordinarily useful acquisition…”
Proper control.
I wanted to shoot him in the mouth.
The bidding began.
The price climbed quickly.
Too quickly.
Because this wasn’t just an auction.
It was a fight for a symbol.
For a trophy.
For humiliation.
For the right to say: I own the last Redgrave.
I didn’t rush.
I waited.
Watched.
Listened.
One fat piece of trash was already openly laughing, telling the person beside him exactly how he would “train” her during the first week.
I memorized his face.
Forever.
The bids kept rising.
More.
More.
More.
Several people dropped out.
Only the greediest remained.
The richest.
The most revolting.
And then I raised my paddle.
Named my price.
The hall grew quieter.
The sum was absurd.
Even for a lot like this.
One of the competitors grimaced and outbid me.
I added more.
He did it again.
I went higher.
No emotion.
No hesitation.
No regret.
I had money.
And if I had to—I would spend all of it.
Because it was better to burn a fortune than hand her over to those animals.
“Master,” Luxion remarked calmly, “a reminder: you are overpaying.”
“I know.”
“Irrational.”
“Shut up.”
“Confirmed. You are saving a person, not purchasing an asset.”
I froze for a second.
…Damn it.
Coming from him, that almost sounded like praise.
The last competitor tried to raise once more.
I crushed him with a bid so high that even the auctioneer forgot to smile for a moment.
Silence.
Tension.
And the strike of the gavel.
“Sold.”
That was it.
She was mine.
No.
Not like that.
They didn’t get her.
That was what mattered.
I exhaled slowly.
There was no relief inside me.
Only cold.
I stared at the stage where Angelica stood and thought of only one thing.
She had lost her father.
Lost her older brother.
Lost her house.
Lost her name.
Lost her future.
And now they had put her up for sale before a crowd of degenerates who wanted to turn her into an expensive whore.
If this world still intended to call itself civilized, then it had a very strange definition of civilization.
Angelica raised her gaze.
Our eyes met.
There was no gratitude in her eyes.
And there shouldn’t have been.
Only icy wariness.
Pride that hadn’t died yet.
And the readiness to bite the hand of anyone who tried to reach for her.
Good.
That was exactly how it should be.
I looked at her and thought silently:
Hold on, Angelica.
I don’t know who exactly crushed the canon, who framed your family, or why this world went off the rails so early.
But one thing I know for certain.
I won’t let those bastards break you.
And if I have to overturn the entire kingdom to do it…
…well then.
I already had Luxion.
Which meant this kingdom’s odds weren’t looking very good.