"Pathetic."
The word slipped from the black haired man's lips before he could stop it.
Not that he cared to.
He had finally caught up to the novel – the fifth arc, where the demons invaded. He had expected something grand. A satisfying climax. Anything that justified the hours he had spent reading.
But there was nothing.
The villain begged. The hero prevailed.
Disappointing.
"…Complete bullshit."
Leaning back in his chair, turning off his phone and reaching for a chip, the black haired man tossed it into his mouth. The author had been on hiatus for three months now. At this point, he doubted the next chapter would ever come out.
Even if it did… he wasn't sure he would bother reading it.
The writing had been terrible. It had started with promise – he could admit that – but somewhere along the way, it had collapsed into something predictable. Hollow.
He exhaled slowly.
There was one character in particular that stood out to him.
Ronan Ashbourne.
A noble of one of the four great families. A man with subpar talent, an unbearable personality, and no redeeming qualities to speak of. A failure.
His role in the story was simple – serve as a reminder of how merciless the world was to the incompetent. A stepping stone for the protagonist's growth.
And yet… For some reason, he found him interesting.
That was the strange part.
Out of all the characters, Ronan was the only one that held his attention. The only one he found himself thinking about.
A man with no talent. No destiny. No hidden power waiting to awaken.
So he fell.
He made a contract with demons, grasping at whatever he could… only to die a pitiful death.
But it didn't sit right with him.
That ending. It felt… wrong.
"If you were going to fail anyway," the man muttered under his breath, "you could've at least made it interesting."
A knock echoed from the door.
He sighed, pushing himself up from his seat. As he walked over, he paused briefly before opening it.
A towering figure stood on the other side. Broad shoulders. Narrow face. A presence that made him feel small in comparison. It was Spencer, one of his good friends.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The man's expression was heavy.
"You're late," the man said, breaking the silence.
Spencer's brow twitched.
"I didn't think you'd notice."
"Of course I noticed."
"Since when?"
"You've been acting strange for days," he replied calmly. "I figured you found out. Not sure how, though."
Spencer glared.
"That's none of your business."
He shrugged.
Stepping aside, he gestured lazily toward the interior.
"So? Are you going to stand there like an idiot, or are you coming in?"
The man – Spencer – said nothing as he stepped inside, his posture tense.
He took a seat across from him.
Silence settled between them.
"Are you just going to sit there," he said, "or are you going to say something?"
Spencer's eyes narrowed.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" he asked, a faint smile forming.
Spencer's glare sharpened.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you leak everything? The secrets. The lies. The accounts."
A pause.
"The data logs."
He raised a brow slightly.
So he knew that much.
"And who told you all this?" he asked. "You're not the type to figure this out on your own."
BANG!
Spencer's fist slammed against the table.
"I'm asking the questions."
His voice remained calm, despite the violence of the act.
Sighing, he answered.
"So you want to know why."
Spencer nodded.
"I thought we were your friends."
He hummed in thought.
"Classmates," he corrected. "We shared a few internships. That hardly qualifies."
Spencer's jaw tightened. His hand trembled slightly before he steadied it.
"Just answer me," Spencer said. "I've tried to understand it. Why ruin so many people? Why destroy reputations? I can't make sense of it."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You really want to know?"
Spencer's expression hardened.
"Yes."
A small pause before the black haired man spoke.
"I was curious."
"What…?"
"I wanted to see what would happen."
…
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"No money?"
"No."
"No grudge?"
He shook his head. It wasn't a lie, either.
Life had been unbearably dull. Nothing held his interest. Nothing felt… real. He had done it to satisfy his boredom, to satisfy the feeling of not belonging in this world.
Spencer's voice rose.
"Then why?!"
"There doesn't always have to be a reason."
"To hell with that!"
Spencer's arm swept across the table, sending everything crashing to the floor.
Then–
A glint of metal.
A knife.
The black haired man's eyes widened slightly.
That, he hadn't expected.
"What are you planning to do with that?" he asked.
"You know exactly what I'm going to do."
Spencer lunged forward, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back against the sofa.
His breath hitched.
There was no resistance.
Spencer was larger. Stronger. Trained.
Not that it mattered.
He didn't try to fight.
Amongst everything, he felt a slow smile creep onto his face.
He didn't know why. Even he knew that in the face of death he would normally be panicking, but right now it felt like it didn't matter at all.
As if this was all meant to happen.
"Are you sure about this?" he rasped. "You'll be a criminal. I've got cameras everywhere."
Spencer's grip tightened.
"You think this is a joke?"
He didn't answer.
He simply stared at him.
Even now… there was no fear.
"You're hesitating," he said. "You're not cut out for this."
His grin widened as Spencer's expression twisted.
"I'm not," Spencer admitted. "You're right. But I have to do this."
A pause.
"To stop what that man showed me."
"…Stop what?"
Confusion flickered across the black haired man's face.
But there was no answer.
Only a sudden warmth.
Then pain.
The blade sank into his neck.
Under normal circumstances, he would have questioned it. Spencer's words. His behavior. None of it added up.
But he didn't dwell on it.
Didn't care enough to.
As if something were meddling with his thoughts, forcing him to feel serene in the face of imminent danger.
As blood pooled beneath him, staining the floor, a single thought surfaced.
His life had been dull.
Empty.
At least he had done as he pleased.
And then…
Ronan Ashbourne.
For no clear reason, the name surfaced in his mind.
A meaningless side character. He showed up in an extremely small number of scenes, and he acted more like a plot device than a character.
Yet…
"…At least," he thought faintly, "this isn't as pathetic as his fate."
That was his final thought.
Then…
Darkness.
[Host Found – System Initializing]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Pain.
The first thing Ronan felt when he woke up was a terrible throbbing in his head.
His eyes slowly opened, landing on a chandelier dangling above him. The crystals shimmered faintly as sunlight reflected off them, scattering across the ceiling.
Natural light.
Not the dim, artificial glow of his apartment.
His body felt… wrong.
He couldn't explain it, but it felt wrong.
His hands were larger than they should have been, and his legs—longer, more toned. Even the fabric beneath his fingers felt different. It wasn't the cheap bedding he was used to. It was smooth.
Silk.
And the way the mattress sank under his weight told him everything he needed to know.
Expensive.
His head throbbed as he tried to sit up.
"Where… am I?" he muttered.
"Young master, are you all right?"
The voice came from his left.
Turning slightly, Ronan saw a woman in a maid uniform standing beside the bed. Her expression showed concern, though she tried to mask it behind a composed exterior.
"I asked where I am," he repeated.
The maid glanced to the side, and only then did Ronan notice there was another maid standing to his right.
The two exchanged looks before the one on the left spoke.
The confusion that had been hidden before was now obvious.
"We are in the Ashbourne estate, young master."
Ashbourne.
The word echoed in his mind.
Fragments of thought tried to piece themselves together, but nothing fully connected.
The idea itself felt absurd.
"…Then who am I?" he asked.
This time, the maids didn't just look confused.
They looked alarmed.
"Young master," the maid on the right said carefully, "you are Ronan Ashbourne, second son of the Ashbourne family."
Everything clicked.
Ronan Ashbourne. The incompetent noble. The failure. The man destined to die a pathetic death.
And now… That was him.
"…Ha."
A quiet laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Of course. So this was it.
He had wondered what would happen after he died. The thought had intrigued him more than he cared to admit.
But this? This wasn't what he had expected.
Lowering his gaze, he forced his expression back to neutral.
Ronan Ashbourne.
The same Ronan Ashbourne he had been thinking about before his death. A fictional character.
The door opened.
Both maids straightened instantly.
"Head maid Lucia," they said in unison.
Ronan looked up. A composed woman stepped into the room.
"Young master Ronan," she said. "I see you are awake."
He hesitated.
What was he supposed to say? His thoughts were still scattered.
Lucia didn't wait for a response.
"We do not have much time," she continued as she stepped closer. "Please prepare yourself with haste. You are to meet with the young lady of the Lockhart household today."
His mind immediately searched for context.
Lockhart family.
"Iris Lockhart," he said.
"Yes… that is correct."
A quiet sigh of relief came from his left.
Lucia's gaze shifted toward the maid, who flushed slightly.
"I apologize, head maid," she said quickly. "It's just that the young master woke up asking strange questions, so I was relieved to know he at least remembered his fiancée."
"Weird questions?"
Lucia's eyes narrowed slightly.
The maid on the right spoke up.
"That is correct. He was asking who he was and where he was."
Lucia turned back to him, one brow raised.
"Is that so, young master?"
Ronan paused.
"No need to worry, Lucia," he said calmly. "My mind was simply a mess when I woke up."
A brief pause.
"Forget that. I should prepare to greet Lady Iris."
Ronan wasn't sure how well his acting was, but he was still gathering his thoughts.
Lucia studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"I'm glad you're taking this seriously, young master."
Ronan returned the nod.
The maids quickly moved, gathering clothes and preparing him for Iris Lockhart's arrival.
As they worked, his mind spun.
He was Ronan Ashbourne. And he had no memories to rely on. No understanding of how Ronan spoke, acted, or carried himself.
All he had were fragments from the novel. And Ronan had barely appeared in it.
But that didn't matter.
He didn't need to imitate perfectly. He could simply act… normal.
Because he knew what was coming next. The Academy exam.
That meant pressure, nerves.
And from what little he knew, Ronan was especially vulnerable to that. He had taken a demon contract just to avoid disappointing his father.
A decision that led directly to his death.
His thoughts were interrupted as the maids returned with several outfits.
"Let's get started, young master!"
➜➜➜➜➜
The hallway outside was just as large and excessive as the room.
Polished floors, walls lined with portraits, and maids stationed at every corner – it was unmistakably a noble household. As Ronan walked past, the maids and servants lowered their heads in unison, a practiced and synchronized motion.
"Good morning, Young Master."
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Young Master."
Their voices overlapped as he passed.
Ronan was careful with every step he took. He didn't know how the original Ronan behaved, but he had been taught how to walk with a certain level of refinement from a young age. His father had drilled such habits into him in his previous life.
Even if he had no idea where he was going.
Thankfully, he didn't need to.
Lucia led the way in silence.
They soon stopped in front of a pair of large double doors, their handles lined with gold plating.
"Young Master Ronan, it seems Lady Iris has already arrived."
As she spoke, Lucia pushed the doors open.
And that was when he saw her.
Two sofas were arranged opposite each other with a glass table placed neatly in between, an assortment of biscuits and crackers laid out across its surface.
And there she sat.
Silver hair flowed gently with the breeze, catching the sunlight from the open window like shards of glass. Her posture was straight, composed – every movement exuding quiet elegance.
She wore a white dress that hugged her figure perfectly, yet revealed very little skin beyond her wrists.
Two bodyguards stood behind her.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Her gaze was cold.
Not hostile.
Just… uncaring.
Iris spoke.
"Hello, Ronan."
Her voice was smooth. Controlled.
"We need to talk."
Before Ronan could reply, a bell rang in his head.
A blue screen materialized in front of him.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
[Main Quest: Maintain Identity]
Status – Ongoing
Description – You are currently inhabiting the body of Ronan Ashbourne. Iris has above average instincts, and her suspicion rising prior to attending the Academy will cause problems
Goal – Avoid raising suspicion from Iris Lockhart during your first interaction
Warning – Significant deviation from expected behavior may result in suspicion
Penalty – Inability to escape your fate
Reward – Basic System Functions Unlocked