Inside a luxurious, fancy bedroom.
Tall windows lined one wall, the curtains half-drawn to let in slivers of soft morning light. The walls were smooth, pale stone, cool and clean, with dark wood beams crossing the ceiling overhead. Everything felt expensive—but not flashy. Old money.
There was a fireplace near the far wall, cold now, with burnt logs still crumbling in the hearth. A thick rug covered most of the stone floor, deep red with gold trimming around the edges. Heavy furniture was spaced neatly throughout—an oak writing desk, a tall wardrobe, a cushioned armchair near a low table with half-finished tea left out.
The bed sat in the center of the room, easily king-sized, its carved posts stretching upward toward the ceiling. Dark wood. Polished. The bedding was all layered silk and velvet—shades of cream and gold, with dark blue sheets underneath. Pillows everywhere. It looked soft enough to drown in.
And in that oversized bed, a young man lay curled into the blankets.
His long, sandy blond hair spilled across the pillows like silk, strands catching the light. His face—sharp jaw, straight nose, lashes too long for a guy—looked like something off a magazine cover. But the pale tone of his skin made it feel off. Too light. Almost sickly. Sweat stuck to his brow. His lips were parted. He didn't look peaceful. He looked… off.
His brow twitched. Then his whole body tensed.
Like something was crawling through his head.
Then—
He shot upright with a gasp. Shoulders shaking. Chest rising and falling like he'd just surfaced from deep water.
"Agh—!"
His voice was rich, but hoarse. Deep, not rough.
Like it hadn't been used in a while.
He blinked hard, breathing heavy.
"…Was that a dream?"
Silence.
Even his voice sounded wrong.
He reached up, fingers to his throat. The tone wasn't right.
Too clear. Too smooth.
Too not him.
His eyes flicked around the room.
This wasn't his apartment.
It sure as hell wasn't a hospital, either.
He looked down. Silk robe. Not his.
Hands—slender, pale, the light bouncing off them like porcelain.
Too perfect.
And then it hit him.
"What the fuck?!"
Huh?
A second ago, he was just—
Wait.
He blinked hard. His chest still rising and falling, sweat sticking to his skin.
It hit him in pieces. The rain. The street. That damn truck.
"…Did I die?"
His voice sounded weird again. Too smooth. Like someone polished it.
Fuck.
"Going out like that is crazy work," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Getting trucked over a rant about fiction? That's one hell of a send-off."
He looked around again.
This place—
This huge-ass room, these stone walls, velvet curtains, everything—
This was not his apartment.
Hell, this wasn't even a place he could afford to dream about.
His eyes scanned the space again. The walls were pale stone, smooth, with dark wooden beams above. The bed he sat in looked like it belonged to a royal drama set—massive, carved wood, silk sheets tucked around him, soft pillows everywhere. There was a fireplace across the room, not lit, but neatly stacked with wood. A big, heavy desk sat under the window, a wardrobe that looked older than him in one corner. A dressing screen stood off to the side. Everything was clean. Rich. Unreal.
"What the fuck is going on…" he whispered.
And just then—
Click.
The doorknob turned.
Creeeak…
The door opened slowly, hinges whining, and in stepped a young woman.
Mid-twenties maybe. Dressed in a maid outfit—simple black and white, apron tied tight at the waist, skirt swishing softly.
She froze.
Eyes wide. Hand flying up to her mouth like she just saw a ghost.
Ash stared back at her, just as confused.
The girl gasped—soft, shaky—and without a word, turned and bolted.
Footsteps echoing as she rushed down the hall, the door left hanging wide open behind her.
Ash sat there, still half-wrapped in silk, brows furrowed, completely lost.
"…Okay. What the actual fuck is happening?"
Ash sat there for a second, still breathing heavy. Then slowly, he pushed the sheets off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor was cold under his feet. Stone, smooth, no rugs close enough to reach.
He stood up—
And nearly stumbled.
"…What the—?"
His balance was off. His center of gravity felt lower. Lighter.
This body—
It felt weird. Not in pain, just… unfamiliar.
He looked down at himself again. The silk robe clung to his frame, loose but not oversized. His legs looked slender. Arms leaner. Even just standing there, he felt smaller than he used to be. Shorter.
"The hell is this?"
He turned and spotted a tall mirror near the wardrobe. The frame was dark wood, carved with little flowers and gold lining around the edges. It looked expensive. Like the kind of thing you'd see in some old noble's mansion tour video.
Ash walked over slowly, bare feet making soft sounds against the cold floor.
And then he saw it.
The reflection.
He stopped. Stared.
That wasn't his face. Not even remotely close.
Gone was his messy black hair, his half-grown facial scruff, the tired eyes from too many nights of screen-glow insomnia.
Instead—
This guy in the mirror had long, soft blond hair falling around his face, the ends brushing his shoulders.
His skin was smooth. Pale. Like porcelain.
His jaw was sharper. Nose straighter. Lips full. And his eyes—
He leaned in closer.
Purple.
Not brown. Not even hazel. Purple. Like full-on, glowy anime purple.
He blinked.
The mirror blinked.
"...Huh?"
He reached up, touched his cheek.
The reflection copied him.
He pulled at his lower lip. Scratched at his chin. Ran a hand through his hair.
Everything mirrored him perfectly.
"What the fuck…"
He turned his hand over. Long fingers. Slim wrist. No scars. No calluses.
He looked like some noble kid from a romance drama. Pretty in a way that didn't feel real.
"This… this clearly isn't me."
He stared again. The silk robe. The perfect skin. The fancy-ass room.
Then it hit him.
"No way."
He turned away from the mirror, hand on his face.
"Am I in some kind of transmigration bullshit…?"
His voice sounded too calm for what was happening, but inside, his brain was doing cartwheels.
This was like every cheap webnovel he'd ever dunked on. The setup. The new body. The whole you died and woke up somewhere else deal.
"…Fuck me," he whispered.
He sat down on the nearest chair.
Rubbed his temples.
"Of all the dumbass ways to go out… I got Truck-kuned into a noble twink."
He sat there, rubbing his temples, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.
Then something popped into view.
Right in front of him. Floating in the air.
A flat panel. Transparent. Glowing softly.
It looked like a screen from a game. No frame. No device. Just… there.
Ash blinked.
It didn't go away.
The text on it was clear:
[TRANSMIGRATION COMPLETE]
Successfully downloaded: Incubus System
Ash squinted. "…What."
He looked around. No projector. No screen. Nothing.
Still there.
The words changed.
You may now synchronize with the previous host's memory.
Proceed?
[ YES ] [ NO ]
His eyes narrowed.
"Incubus system?" he muttered under his breath. "What the hell kind of hentai-ass setup is this…"
He stared at the options.
No timer. No extra info. Just a calm little screen waiting for him to press something.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "So I did die. This is real. And I'm apparently in someone else's body. With a system. A literal system."
He looked back at the mirror. At the face that still didn't feel like his.
Then back at the screen.
Syncing the memories might at least give him some answers.
Maybe even tell him who the hell this guy was.
"…Guess I'm pressing yes."
His finger hovered.
And he tapped [ YES ].
Ash wasn't even sure if he actually tapped the screen. He was just thinking about it, finger hovering, when suddenly—
Click.
The YES option lit up on its own.
Before he could react, the screen vanished—and something hit him.
Hard.
His head jerked back like it got punched from the inside.
Then the pain started.
It wasn't just a headache. It wasn't even a migraine. This felt deeper. Like something was trying to stretch his mind open from both ends. a sudden, sharp pressure pushing into the center of his skull and spreading outward in every direction.
He grabbed at his temples instinctively, but his hands were useless. There was nothing to stop. No source to shut off.
His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, elbows hitting the rug. The stone underneath did nothing to cushion him. He curled forward, jaw clenched, breathing fast, heart racing like it was trying to escape his chest.
It wasn't just pain. It was like an invasion.
Something was being shoved into him. A presence. A rush of images, emotions, pieces of someone else's life flooding into his brain without permission. It didn't come in clean. It came in like water through broken glass—fast, messy, jagged.
He felt his body twitch, muscles locking up one by one like he was seizing, but still fully awake. Fully aware.
His vision blurred. Not from tears. From overload. Like his brain couldn't process all of it at once. His ears rang, and every sound—his breath, the soft patter of rain outside, the faint creak of wood in the ceiling—got drowned out under the static pounding in his skull.
He wanted to scream, but even that felt like too much work.
And then, just as fast as it started—
It stopped.
The pressure vanished. The pain faded out like someone had let go of his brain.
Ash collapsed sideways onto the rug, chest heaving, mouth dry, arms limp beside him. Sweat clung to his skin, dripping down his face and neck, soaking into the collar of the robe.
His eyes stayed open, but he couldn't move yet. Everything inside him felt scrambled. Disconnected.
Like someone else's memories had been shoved into his head and were now sitting there, uninvited. He didn't see them clearly, but he knew they were there. Like a weight behind his thoughts.
He stayed on the floor, eyes fixed on nothing.
Not breathing right.
Heart still hammering.
"…Oh no."
The pain finally dulled. Still throbbed in the back of his skull, but the sharp edge was gone.
Ash sat there on the rug, slumped forward, one hand gripping his head like it might fall apart if he let go.
"...Fuck," he muttered, voice dry.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing. Sweat was cooling on his skin, the robe sticking to his back, and the stone floor didn't help. The silence stretched out around him, heavy and a little unreal.
And then it started to make sense. The pieces clicking together one by one.
This wasn't just some random body. This wasn't a generic fantasy world.
He knew this story.
This was The Academy's Sword Genius Can't Live a Peaceful Life. The very same novel he'd been hate-reading for years.
Except…
He wasn't Kaine.
He wasn't the MC.
He was Lucen.
His stomach sank.
Lucen Ferndale. The supposed "late game villain" that barely had ten chapters to his name. A character introduced way too late in the plot. Described like some over-romanticized pretty boy—pale skin, long lashes, silky voice, almost glowing with beauty.
The fandom mocked it hard. Called him "twink boy."
And in the story?
He was born sickly. Father died before he was even born—some war hero general who went out in the final battle against the demon invasion. His mother took over the Marquess household. Raised Lucen like a glass doll. Doted on him. Protected him. Loved him.
Then he awakened his Light affinity.
Rare. Powerful. The kind of magic tied to heroes and healers.
But no one realized it was tainted. Twisted.
A mutation deep in the Ferndale bloodline. Something ancient. Forgotten.
It wasn't an illness. It was something else.
Incubus blood.
Lucen was the only one in family history to ever trigger it. And it didn't kill him like they thought. Later on in the story, it changed him. He lived. Grew stronger in secret. And turned into a monster.
Not with claws. Not with fangs.
But with something no one saw coming.
And in the story…He snapped.
He didn't just turn evil. He turned cruel.
Lucen kidnapped the empire's princess—one of Kaine's main love interests—and did things to her that made even hardened readers drop the novel. Played with her. Broke her. Destroyed her body and pride while Kaine, the great chosen hero, was forced to watch.
And after that?
Lucen died. Brutally. More brutal than even the final boss.
The fandom hated him. Called him the worst character in the whole series. Disgusting. Deranged. A waste of a beautiful face.
Ash sat there, jaw tight.
Lucen Ferndale. The sickly noble with the pretty face, cursed blood, and the worst fate imaginable.
"…You've got to be fucking kidding me."