The linen room of House D’Claire had never been this lively.
Not because of noble events or surprise inspections—no, the maids were buzzing like bees trapped in a sugar bowl.
Laundry forgotten, mop handles used as leaning posts, and gossip flowing faster than the tea in the upstairs parlour.
“I swear on Lady D’Claire’s five-piece hairpiece,” Elen said, hands on hips and eyes wide,
“Young Master Lucien hasn’t so much as winked at me in over a week.”
Marie looked up from folding sheets.
“Maybe your face finally wore him down.”
“Very funny,” Elen snapped.
“I mean it. Not a single lecherous comment. No weird shoulder squeezes. Not even a ‘Let me correct your posture’ grope!”
“That’s… weird,” said Tilda, the youngest of the lot.
“He offered me his handkerchief when I dropped mine the other day. Said, ‘A lady shouldn’t have to bend so low.’ With a straight face.”
Marie blinked.
“The Lucien who used to drop his own pen just so he could ‘accidentally’ grab someone’s ankle?”
“Gone. Vanished,” Elen said dramatically.
“Replaced by a polite, non-creepy doppelgänger.”
The footman near the door chimed in.
“And no more tantrums. Remember last month? He threw a candlestick because his eggs were too soft. Now he just eats ‘em like he’s in a monastery.”
“Oh! And get this,” said a scullery maid, leaning in like she was delivering scandal.
“He bowed to the steward. Bowed.”
“He what?”
“Not even sarcastically. Real bow. Like his spine grew manners overnight.”
“Maybe he’s dying,” someone muttered.
“No,” Elen said, voice hushed.
“He’s training.”
Everyone paused.
“Training?”
Marie asked.
“Like… actual sword practice?”
“Every day. Before breakfast. Rain or shine. I thought it was a prank at first—like he was just doing it to impress that Baron’s daughter again—but no. He’s out there alone. Sweating. Glaring at that dummy like it owes him money.”
“The dummy probably misses the old Lucien,” the stable boy said.
“At least he used to pretend to hit it. Now he’s actually trying.”
“Oh, and you remember old Terrin, the gardener?”
Elen continued, lowering her voice.
“Fell off the ladder two days ago. Everyone just gasped. But Lucien? He bolts over, lifts the man like a sack of potatoes, and orders us to fetch the apothecary. Like he’s the head butler or something.”
“Didn’t even blink at the blood,” the cook added from the hall.
“Wrapped the bandages himself. Even redid them when Terrin winced. Said, ‘Comfort matters more than speed.’ Who is this man?”
The servants stared at one another in stunned silence.
Marie slowly folded a towel.
“So, let me get this straight. No groping. No yelling. Sword training. Wound mending. Respectful language. Possibly cares about human life?”
Elen nodded solemnly.
“I think… I think our young master got possessed by a responsible ghost.”
“Or maybe,” said Tilda, eyes narrowing, “he’s trying to avoid hell by acting like a decent person for once.”
The stable boy chuckled.
“Well, if it’s an act, it’s the longest one he’s ever pulled off.”
“Either way,” Marie muttered, watching the folded linen pile grow, “let’s not jinx it. I would rather take possessed Lucien over handsy Lucien any day.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, their laughter trailing off into the usual rhythm of work—but beneath it all, the shift lingered.
Something had changed.
And for once, no one was in a hurry to complain.
***
There was a strange kind of calm after dying.
A quiet.
Like floating underwater with your ears plugged and your thoughts muffled.
No pain.
No noise.
Just… weightlessness.
And a light.
You always hear people talk about the light at the end of the tunnel, right?
Turns out it’s real.
Big glowing doorway.
Very dramatic.
Felt like walking into the world’s cleanest hospital waiting room.
I remember thinking, ‘Huh, that’s not too bad’.
Was even starting to let go.
Feet moving toward the light.
Ready to pass on.
But then—
“Oh, you have gotta be kidding me.”
There he was.
That son of a bitch.
Limping ahead of me.
That stalker bastard, just strolling toward the light like he was checking into a spa.
My incorporeal eye twitched.
I felt every drop of calmness in my body immediately evaporate into the metaphysical atmosphere.
“Oi. OI! MOTHERF—WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!”
He turned.
Saw me.
And the look on his face?
Absolute horror.
I bolted after him.
He shrieked, like a haunted squirrel and started running too.
That smug little creep booked it through the afterlife.
“Oh no you don’t! You don’t get to shank me and then waltz into eternal peace, you cabbage-brained scum pancake!”
We ran.
Through the void.
Around the tunnel.
Past what I’m pretty sure was someone’s dead dog ascending.
I think I shoulder-checked a monk on the way.
I was too furious to care.
I had no idea if I was becoming an evil spirit or what.
Frankly, I was too pissed to die properly.
For a split second, the thought crossed my mind: ‘What if this fury binds me to the mortal plane? What if I become a vengeful wraith?’
“…Eh. Worth it.”
If I was gonna become a demon, that bastard’s soul was gonna be my first meal.
But he was faster than I expected; that little shit of a man was surprisingly nimble in death.
We looped that damn tunnel three times.
Him squealing like a piglet as I gave chase like a demon with a grudge.
And then?
The coward jumped into the light.
No hesitation.
No look back.
I barely had time to scream.
“You better PRAY reincarnation comes with a witness protection program—!” before I dove in after him.
If that prick thought dying was going to save him from the beating he had coming…
Well.
He clearly didn’t understand how petty I could be.
***
I don’t know what I expected when I jumped into the light.
Maybe a second death.
Maybe an afterlife courtroom.
Maybe God waiting with a bat to bonk me for spiritual misconduct.
What I didn’t expect?
Gameplay footage.
Like, full-on high-definition cutscene montage.
The scenery faded in, vivid and romantic—sparkling cherry blossom petals, orchestral background music, and the POV of a heroine with her inner monologue in elegant cursive.
‘What the hell…’
I blinked.
There he was.
The main love interest of my sister’s favorite visual novel—perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect smile that made you want to punch it.
‘Wait…’
‘That smile.’
That same smile.
My eyes twitched as my mind finally caught up.
“That’s the same f**ing smile!!*”
The charming, prince-like love lead of the visual novel.
The one who was supposed to be the “ideal man.”
The one my sister used to gush about every evening…
“Was the STALKER?!”
I felt my ghostly jaw drop.
I was watching his backstory unfold—how he saved kittens, flirted with the heroine, got his romantic CGs, played the perfect nobleman—and all I could think was,
‘You slimy, manipulative, gaslighting piece of anthropomorphic dog crap.’
I surged forward.
“Get back here! I swear to the stars, I’ll choke you with your own sparkles!”
My hands stretched out, ready to throttle that smug bastard’s soul into retroactive pixels, but then—
CLANG
Chains.
Thick, glowing, supernatural chains burst out of nowhere and wrapped around my arms and legs mid-lunge.
“What the hell?! I’M THE VICTIM HERE!!”
Didn’t matter.
The stalker-turned-love-lead twinkled off into his canon storyline like some divine K-drama reject, while I got yanked backwards, the cosmos themselves pulling me away like a bouncer removing a very angry, very vengeful patron from a divine nightclub.
“THIS ISN’T OVER, YOU ANIME-LICENSED GOBLIN!!!”
And then.
Darkness.
Silence.
And…
I gasped.
Waking up.
At the crack of dawn, drenched in sweat.
My heart was hammering, my skin felt cold, and I swear I could still hear the sound of cherry blossom petals being used as sound effects.
‘What the hell kind of dream was that…?’
I started laughing.
Honestly, I couldn’t help it.
“God, I really am losing it,” I chuckled, wiping my forehead.
“Imagine… that bastard reincarnated into a game? What am I, a protagonist in a revenge isekai?”
The laughter faded.
Because as I finally took in my surroundings, my face froze.
Silken canopy bed.
Lavish dark-wood furniture.
Gold-embroidered drapes.
Bookshelves and oil paintings and candelabras.
‘This isn’t my room…’
I slowly stood up, knees shaking, and stumbled around the room like a baby deer.
The place screamed “old money”—as in, aristocrats with generational wealth money.
“What the hell is this place?”
I whispered.
I turned a corner and found it.
A mirror.
A full-body, gilded monstrosity of a mirror.
I shuffled up to it, still in disbelief.
And there, staring back at me, was not my old, scrawny, shut-in self.
But him.
Lucien Crowley.
The playboy noble.
The canon bad ending love interest.
The villainess’s secret boyfriend.
“…Well, f***.”
Authors Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
This chapter’s a bit more on the silly side. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope it gives you a few laughs or at least a smile.
Also… a small confession: I’m really not great at naming characters. (TーT)b
So if some names sound oddly familiar… they probably are. Lots of little nods to stuff I love from other stories, games, and shows.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read—seriously, it means a lot!