"I can't stand this any longer!"
The furious shout tore through the glittering end-of-term party, rattling champagne flutes and silencing the orchestra mid-note. The assembled sons and daughters of nobility froze like startled deer, their silk gowns and tailored coats suddenly too warm, too tight. The air itself seemed to crystallize, trapping everyone in place.
Every last person held their breath, straining to hear what catastrophe had just begun...
"Catherine Monvoisin! As of today, I hereby annul our engagement!"
"BWHOOOAFF—!"
The dramatic pronouncement was punctuated by the spectacular sight of a young man violently spraying his drink across three feet of marble floor. The liquid arced through the candlelight like a crimson fountain.
The red-haired youth—one Arcus Kilmond—was still coughing violently, his broad shoulders hunched over the cocktail glass clutched in his oversized hand. Each wet hack echoed through the silent ballroom, magnifying his humiliation tenfold.
Engagement annulment. He definitely just said engagement annulment.
Arcus tried to collect himself, taking one small, deliberate breath to calm his racing heart. The champagne burned in his sinuses. His eyes watered. The ornate chandelier above blurred into a cascade of dancing lights. When his breathing finally steadied and the initial shock subsided, he risked a quick glance toward the source of the commotion.
What he found were dozens upon dozens of suspicious stares—all directed squarely at him. Worse yet, even the people at the center of this disaster were now looking his way. The protagonists of this unfolding drama had paused their own catastrophe to gawk at the idiot who'd just done a spit-take worthy of a tavern comedian.
Arcus hastily averted his eyes and curled his massive frame even smaller, as if he could somehow compress his six-foot-plus body into invisibility. The fresh scent of crushed rose petals from the floor arrangements did nothing to calm him. He mentally cursed his genetics—being a full head taller than most people made hiding impossible. Too late to do anything about it now. Arcus committed himself to becoming one with the furniture, a living statue, a part of the architecture itself...
"C-Catherine Monvoisin! As of today, I hereby annul our engagement!"
The declaration came again, weaker this time, robbed of its initial thunder. The speaker's voice cracked slightly on "annul," and there was no mistaking that Arcus's spectacular interruption had killed all the momentum. Still, that was hardly Arcus's fault. Anyone stupid enough to make such a ridiculous proclamation in the middle of a crowded party deserved to have their dramatic moment ruined.
Having successfully merged with the ambient atmosphere—or so he desperately hoped—Arcus decided to sneak another peek at this engagement annulment theater. The first time he'd only caught a flash before spraying his drink everywhere, but now he could actually see the scene unfolding: a woman in a dress that seemed to capture and hold every ray of light in the ballroom, standing alone before an arrogant man who postured and preened with his chest puffed out like a barnyard rooster.
The woman is... wasn't she the daughter of this country's marquis? Her name was, if I recall correctly—
"Catherine Monvoisin! Don't you have anything to say for yourself?!"
—Right, right. That was definitely it.
She had hair like spun silver catching moonlight—not quite blonde, not quite white, but something luminous between the two. Her eyes were an extraordinary shade somewhere between violet and deep blue, like amethyst held up to twilight. They said she rarely smiled, and among students like Arcus, she was far more famous for her nickname—The Ice Princess—than her actual name.
Indeed, even now, with every eye in the ballroom boring into her, not a single muscle in her face betrayed emotion. She might as well have been carved from marble. A faint trace of jasmine perfume wafted from her direction, expensive and cold. Standing before her, chest thrust out in theatrical triumph, was none other than the crown prince himself—Prince Enrique—with his entourage arrayed behind him like supporting actors. The prince had his arm wrapped possessively around a different woman's shoulders, while Catherine stood utterly alone, facing them all without a single ally at her side.
Not backing down even an inch, is she?
You could call it strong-willed. You could call it brave. But Arcus found himself oddly impressed that she showed not the slightest hint of panic in this situation. Though only slightly impressed—just slightly. Whether it was Catherine or Prince Enrique, both were so far above Arcus's station they might as well be dwelling in the clouds.
Catherine, maintaining that legendary composure that justified her frigid nickname.
Prince Enrique, supposedly gifted in both scholarship and swordsmanship according to rumors, though currently looking somewhat unhinged.
The tense standoff between them was broken by the girl draped over the prince's shoulder.
"Enrique-samaaaa~"
A sickly-sweet, cloying voice—like honey left too long in the sun—emerged from a pink-haired student who pressed herself against Prince Enrique with all the subtlety of a cat in heat.
Wearing a fluffy dress with a large open chest.
She unabashedly rubs her body against Edgar. She rubbed against Prince Enrique without a trace of shame, her movements deliberate and practiced. The overpowering scent of cheap rosewater and desperation seemed to radiate from her like a fog.
Everything about her screamed impropriety for a noble young lady. Some of the other noblewomen in attendance were already staring daggers at her, their disapproval so palpable Arcus felt secondhand anxiety crawling up his spine.
What the hell? Who's this obviously stupid girl?
While Arcus felt his spirits sinking like lead weights, Prince Enrique seemed utterly enchanted by the girl, going so far as to position himself between her and Catherine in a protective gesture. His entourage, too, showed no sign of reproach—even now, as the pink-haired girl batted her watering eyes at them like a kicked puppy.
Watching this in person is even more idiotic than I imagined.
Arcus swallowed the sigh threatening to escape, washing it down with the last of his cocktail. The sweet burn of alcohol did little to improve the situation.
An end-of-term celebration party.
An idiotic prince and his fawning hangers-on.
A brainless woman throwing herself at him.
A situation he'd seen more times than his own parents' faces. And then—
—I hereby annul our engagement with you.
A story that starts with lines like that became popular, didn't it? Arcus couldn't help but think this. Because he'd heard these exact scenarios countless times in his previouslife, stories consumed during late nights and lunch breaks, stories that had kept him company through years of soul-crushing overtime.
Now that he'd recognized this engagement annulment drama was actually real, that it matched perfectly with situations he knew all too well, Arcus had zero reason to remain here. He snatched a sandwich from a nearby table—the smell of smoked salmon and cream cheese barely registered—and began carefully, methodically extracting himself from the crowd with exaggerated stealth, even as shouts of "your numerous evil deeds!" and "I'll have you exiled from the kingdom!" began heating up behind him.
On his way out, a guard stationed at the entrance gave him a startled, wide-eyed look—probably wondering why someone so large was sneaking around like a cartoon burglar—but Arcus just flashed his most diplomatic smile and a casual "hey there" before quickening his pace toward the carriages waiting outside. The cool night air hit his face like salvation itself, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and horse leather.
"Oh my, young Master Arcus. Back so soon?"
"Yeah. Got caught up in a bit of a storm in there."
Arcus shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. His coachman and attendant Harrison glanced back toward the party venue with raised eyebrows and professional curiosity.
"Don't read too much into it. We're just outsiders here, remember? Not to mention, the lowest-ranked nobles from a tiny country. If we get tangled up in a major power's internal drama, we'll be crushed like insects under a boot."
Arcus's wry smile earned him an understanding nod. "Understood, sir," Harrison said, snapping the reins. The horses lurched forward with a jingle of harness bells, and the carriage wheels began their familiar clatter against cobblestones.
That's right. Arcus had no intention of getting involved. No—he couldn't get involved. After all, he was merely a foreign exchange student visiting this country, the son of a minor noble from an insignificant nation barely worth a footnote on continental maps.
In that situation, if someone as inconsequential and unknown as Arcus had stepped forward, it would only have made things exponentially worse. The other party was a grand duchess of a major power, not to mention the crown prince's fiancée. If anyone got the wrong idea, if anyone started speculating about foreign interference, it could endanger not just Catherine's position but Arcus's entire family back home. A foreigner, a nobody noble. She was secretly in contact with him—accusations like that could destroy everyone involved.
So all Arcus could do was leave the scene before the commotion grew any larger and his presence became a liability.
Arcus glanced back at the venue through the carriage window. From outside, it looked completely peaceful, giving no indication of the disaster unfolding within. The golden windows glowed serenely against the night sky.
"Status, open."
At Arcus's murmur, a small translucent window materialized before him, displaying statistics like something straight out of the video games from his previous life. Because that's exactly what this world was—a world eerily similar to the games he used to play.
An overworked man died from exhaustion and was reborn into a world resembling his favorite game.
A common story.
This time, I'll truly enjoy life.
A peaceful, slow existence.
A common story. That's what Arcus had thought...
"But of all the games to reincarnate into, why the hell did it have to be an otome game...?"
Arcus collapsed dramatically onto the carriage bench with an explosive sigh that seemed to carry the weight of two lifetimes.
"Even if it is a common story..."
The carriage rattled on through the night, carrying him away from catastrophe and toward whatever came next.
Arcus Kilmond, seventeen years old, summer. The summer he discovered he'd been reincarnated as a mob character in an otome game.
The summer everything changed.