I was reincarnated into this world.
When I opened my eyes for the first time, I thought I'd woken up in heaven itself. My reflection in the river nearly made me choke, a tall man, six-foot-three(190), broad-shouldered, with hair so pale and golden it shimmered like threads of light. The way it fell to my shoulders… people called me an angel long before I'd even learned the language of this world.
How was I from Japan?
They weren't wrong. Wherever I went, eyes followed me. Men stared with jealousy, women with curiosity, and sometimes outright hunger. Vendors would forget their prices mid-sentence. Children whispered about how I was "too beautiful to be real." It should have been flattering, but all it did was make me lonelier.
I'd always believed in something simple, even in my old life: one love, pure and unbreakable. Not bought, not borrowed, not shared. Just me and her, whoever she would be. That conviction only grew stronger here.
Which is why I turned down all the offers.
Wealthy widows who promised me mansions. Merchants' wives who slipped me invitations under their sleeves. Even noblewomen with "arrangements" that would have given me more luxury than a king. All of them I refused. They looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was, in their eyes. But to me, it was simple: love isn't a transaction.
That's when the nightmare began.
A few days ago, a glowing interface burned itself into my vision.
[System Installation Complete.]
[Designation: Netorare System. Congratulations, User.]
I nearly fainted right there. At first, I thought it was some kind of cosmic joke. I'd read plenty of isekai novels back in my old world. Systems usually meant strength, magic, adventure. Mine? A curse with three letters I hated more than anything else: NTR.
I didn't even want to click the menu. But I did, because who wouldn't? What if it killed me if I ignored it?
And this is what I saw:
Status - Host: Lucien Arclight (Imagine if Albert Wesker from Resident Evil had a lovechild with Helldivers' "Friendly Fire" guy, raised by Counter-Strike griefers, and then got isekai'd into a hentai manga by mistake. Also, he's allergic to plot armor.)
Name: Lucien Arclight - "The 'Angel from the Sky' who crash-landed into a hentai manga and is still trying to figure out how to file a complaint with Heaven's HR department. Think Adam Jensen from Deus Ex, but if his cybernetics were powered by bad decisions and self-loathing. His wings got clipped for 'misuse of divine grace,' and now he's stuck playing the villain in someone else's romance route. The System calls him 'Host.' His therapist calls him 'a lost cause.' His harem calls him 'Daddy.'"
Strength: 15 (Average Human: 10) - "Strong enough to carry the weight of his own regrets (and maybe a small couch, if he really commits to the back pain). Can bench-press his own guilt, but not his standards. In a zombie apocalypse, he'd be the guy who tries to hold the door shut but ends up getting bitten because he hesitated to decide if saving the hot redhead or the nerdy brunette was more 'morally justifiable.' In Helldivers, he'd be the teammate who accidentally friendly-fires the entire squad because he was too busy flirting with the automated turrets."
Real-World Translation:"Can open a jar of pickles, but not the jar of his own emotions."
Speed: 14 - "Can outrun his problems… unless his problems have a car. Or a bicycle. Or basic motor functions. In Resident Evil, he'd be the guy who almost makes it to the safe room before the Licker eats his face because he stopped to monologue at a dramatic window. In Counter-Strike, he'd be the last man standing who could clutch the 1v5… if he didn't spend the entire round typing in chat instead of shooting."
Real-World Translation:"Fast enough to ghost you after the first date, but not fast enough to outrun his own bad decisions."
Endurance: 13 - "Can endure the existential dread of his life choices, but not a long queue at Starbucks. In Dark Souls, he'd be the Chosen Undead who could beat the final boss… if he didn't rage-quit after dying to the same hollow 17 times because 'it's the principle of the thing.' In Helldivers, he'd be the guy who almost completes the mission, but then the ship crashes because he forgot to fuel it while arguing with his squad about who's really the main character of the game."
Real-World Translation:"Can pull an all-nighter playing games, but naps through his own alarms like they're optional."
Resolve: 1 - "'I will resist the System's evil schemes… right after this one nap.' Also known as the 'I'll start my diet tomorrow' of moral fortitude. In Resident Evil, he'd be the guy who could save the day, but instead takes a quick detour to flirt with Ada Wong and ends up as a B.O.W. snack. In Helldivers, he'd be the teammate who swears he'll stop friendly-firing… right after he 'accidentally' blows up the entire squad again."
Real-World Translation:"Has the willpower of a golden retriever in a room full of tennis balls."
Magic: 0 (Locked) - "Error 404: 'Hallo, Sarr? Magical power not found.' Have you tried turning it off and on again? Lucien's magic stat is like Skyrim's 'Bound Bow', technically there, but good luck getting it to work when you need it. The System says 'Locked.' His exes say 'Thank God.'"
Real-World Translation:"Tried to cast 'Fireball' once. Set his own hair on fire. Now sticks to 'strongly worded letters.'"
Charm: 99 (Broken) - "So charming, it's practically a superpower. Unfortunately, it's also broken, like a fancy sports car with no engine. Or a Resident Evil save file corrupted by Leon's terrible one-liners. In Helldivers, he'd be the guy who convinces the entire squad to charge into a bug nest 'for the memes' and somehow still gets them all to blame him when it goes wrong. In Counter-Strike, he'd be the smurf who talks his way into a pro match and then gets VAC-banned for 'suspicious charm levels.'"
Real-World Translation:"Could charm the pants off a nun… and then feel guilty about it for three weeks."
Affinity: None - "Currently single and ready to mingle (but not by choice). The System says 'Host.' His dating profile says 'It's complicated (I'm cursed).' His harem says 'We don't care, just touch us.' Seriously, Lucien, what are you doing? Go get a sugar mommy. Or a therapist. Or a restraining order."
Real-World Translation:"The only thing he's attracting right now is bad luck and STDs from plot armor."
Titles:"System Host" – "Basically, the universe's most unwilling Airbnb for a demonic AI. Think SHODAN from System Shock, but if she had to deal with a tenant who never pays rent and keeps 'accidentally' summoning eldritch horrors."
"Angel from the Sky" – "Close enough. Welcome back, Anakin Skywalker. (The 'Chosen One' thing was a metaphor, dumbass.)"
"Unwilling Villain" – "The guy who trips over his own feet and accidentally becomes the bad guy in someone else's story. Like Walter White if he became a drug lord because he stubbed his toe on a chemistry set."
System Function: "Obtain rewards through 'stealing' the affections of women already in relationships. Think of it as being the world's most reluctant homewrecker, but with more existential crises and fewer power tools. It's like playing Grand Theft Auto, but the mission is 'Seduce the NPCs' and the cops are your own guilt."
When I read that last line, I felt sick.
Me? Steal someone's girlfriend? Betray someone who trusts her? Shatter love just for a number boost? That wasn't strength. That was evil dressed up as progress.
The first night after, I couldn't sleep. My body shook every time I remembered the word "Netorare." I thought maybe it was a prank. Maybe the system wouldn't activate unless I did something. And for days, nothing happened. No quests, no punishments. Just the mocking menu glowing faintly when I closed my eyes.
But I can't shake the dread.
Old stories taught me how systems lie. They dress themselves up as opportunity and whisper of destiny, then slowly bend the host until the only thing left is whatever rewards the system wants. I keep replaying that menu in my head: "Obtain rewards through 'stealing' the affections of women already in relationships." Every time the words loop, they unmake whatever confidence I've tried to build here.
Maybe that's why I cling to the smallest pieces of normality. Before all of this, before the hair, before people stopped me on the street to ask for my portrait, I had a life that taught me to prize fidelity. My parents split when I was young; it wasn't dramatic, no shouting in public, just a soft, inevitable arrangement where one person left the house and the other learned how to be quiet. I watched how compromise could calcify into selfishness. I grew up thinking love was an action you kept doing, not a list of favors to tally. That's a childish way to be stubborn, I know, but it's mine. It's the compass I refuse to drop.
Here, that stubbornness looks like sanctimony to half the city. "A moralist angel," they call me, with that half-resentful awe that people give to somebody whose beauty they can't own.
To others, it's a challenge. I've had offers arranged with the professionalism of a contract: "Meet at the Crescent Parlor, bring discretion and your signature," and come-ons whispered by men who think my refusal will somehow be more satisfying the more I deny it. I turned them down because I mean it. Because I honestly want that one honest love, no ledger, no witnesses, no brokered feelings.
I don't like being pushed into sin, so I experimented with small kindnesses. I smiled at a couple arguing over a pastry stand and helped untangle the scarf of a girl whose boyfriend was fumbling with a coin purse. I forced my hand to be as neutral as possible, nothing flirtatious, nothing excessive. The system flickered and nothing. If it was a predator, it was full of patience.
The world around me feels biased toward performance. City councils are obsessed with lineage and titles; merchants buy favor like spices; even romance has a market. Here, "love" can be signed and notarized. It can be arranged with dowries, sealed with vows and witnesses.
Maybe the NTR System chose me because of optics. Maybe it wants to watch what happens when the prettiest boy in town refuses the market for affection and then, intentionally or not, becomes the agent that breaks the market. The idea sickens me, but thought and fear are slippery; both make racehorses of my imagination.
Some rules of this world are comforting in their predictability. The city's market days happen on the same weekday; the guild of smiths rings the same noon bell. The Academy schedule is no different: bells, classes, clubs, and a social calculus that never sleeps. I tell myself I can hide in rhythm, be invisible inside the predictable routine of lectures and library hours. Maybe in a place as structured as this, the system's appetite will be dulled by the sheer mass of ritual obligations. Maybe it'll be starved into inertia.
Before I came to the Academy, I bought a cheap journal and wrote about everything: what the system said, how the city smelled at dawn, the odd little ways people looked at me like I might break if they pressed too hard. Writing made the fear less like a roaring animal and more like a manageable, recordable beast. I wrote down the menu every day. I sketched the icons the system used. The act of committing details to paper was my small rebellion against the idea that some invisible program could make me forget who I was.
I tightened my coat around my shoulders and took a breath. The chime of the gates carried across the courtyard, a sound that in any other life would have tasted like possibility. Today it tasted like the threshold of something I had no right to be naïve about.
The gatekeepers were as stoic as their posts: one with a ledger, another with an iron glaive. They barely glanced at me in passing, which, in truth, felt like a kindness, and as I stepped into the Academy grounds, the noise of the city softened behind me.
For a moment, with my journal pressed to my chest and the system's menu humming faintly at the back of my eyes, I allowed myself one small, dangerous wish: that today might pass quietly, unremarkably, and without a single note from the NTR System demanding its due.
Then I pushed the thought down and kept walking toward the main building, because wishes were luxuries I couldn't afford. The stone archway rose ahead, and beyond it lay classrooms, dormitories, and the kind of routines that might keep a system guessing for a while.
That's when I saw her.
Saki.
She stood just off the path, a nervous hand brushing the hem of her skirt, as if even now she wasn't used to the attention her new self commanded. Her hair, once unstyled and plain, was now neatly brushed, shining under the morning light. She'd swapped the thick glasses and timid hunch for contact lenses and a more confident posture. To anyone else, she looked like a new girl altogether, the kind of girl people would stop and stare at.
But I remembered the old Saki, the one who used to hide behind stacks of books, the one who stammered when she spoke, the one who thought she was invisible. We'd been friends when she had no one else. We never put a name to what we felt, but I'd seen the way her eyes softened when she looked at me, and I know she'd seen the same in mine.
That's why my stomach turned when I saw him.
Hayato.
An older guy, the kind who looked slick but carried rot under his skin. He leaned against the wall, pretending to be casual, but his eyes lingered on her in a way that made my blood burn. I could hear his voice as I drew closer.
"You've really blossomed, haven't you? A beauty like you shouldn't waste her time with school. How about a little karaoke later? I'll show you a real good time."
Saki flinched, her lips parting, unsure of what to say. She wasn't used to attention like this, not from men who exuded the kind of confidence she hadn't yet learned to fend off.
The system flickered in my vision.
[Target Marker Detected: Yoshida Saki]
[Affinity Locked: Relationship Path - Hayato]
My pulse spiked. No. Not her. Of all people, not Saki.
Before I could think, my legs carried me forward. I stepped between them, close enough that Hayato had to back up or risk bumping into me. My voice came out lower, sharper than I expected.
"She's not interested."
Hayato blinked, then smirked, "And who are you supposed to be? Her bodyguard? I was just paying her a compliment."
"Then take your compliment and leave. Because the next word out of your mouth to her is the last one you'll get with all your teeth."
His smirk faltered. For a second, the cocky act cracked, and I saw what he really was: a man who preyed on hesitation, on weakness. But I wasn't hesitating. Not with Saki behind me.
"Relax, pretty boy," Hayato muttered, hands raising as if to calm me down. "No need to get violent. I was just being friendly." His eyes slid to Saki one last time. Then he clicked his tongue and walked off.
Saki's voice was small when it finally came. "…Lucien?"
I turned, and for a moment, the world softened. Her eyes, the same shy, earnest eyes I remembered from before her transformation, were wide with relief. Relief that I was there. Relief that he was gone.
And underneath it all, I could see it: that faint, trembling affection we'd never said aloud.
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say more. I wanted to hear it. I wanted to anchor myself in that familiarity, that fragile warmth between us that had somehow survived my death, rebirth, and this cursed beauty I wore like borrowed skin.
A sharp chime detonated in my skull. My vision dimmed, the menu blazed to life.
[New Quest Assigned.
Target: Yoshida Saki.
Objective: Attain physical intimacy (consummation required).
Time Limit: 24 hours.
Reward: [Locked].
Failure Condition: Death.]
I froze.
Death? The letters pulsed red, like blood vessels throbbing behind my eyelids. For a moment, my body wasn't mine like the system had shoved a blade under my ribs and whispered, "Move, or bleed."
I stumbled back a step, forcing my face to remain calm. Saki's eyes darted to mine, worried. "Lucien… are you okay?"
Okay.
The word rattled around inside me until it turned bitter. No, I wasn't okay. How could I be okay when the system had just painted a target on the only girl I'd ever wanted to protect?
And yet my thoughts betrayed me. This wasn't like the description I'd seen in the status screen. Wasn't this supposed to be about "stealing" women already claimed? NTR. The ugliest three letters in romance. But Saki wasn't anyone's. Not yet. She was just Saki the girl who used to trail behind me at the library, the girl who tried so hard to disappear that she'd become invisible to everyone but me.
What would "consummation" mean to her? To us? Would it be love? Or would it be me, a puppet of some cruel algorithm, using her as a shield to dodge my own grave?
Saki tilted her head, that small, unsure smile tugging at her lips. She still didn't see it. She still thought I was the angel everyone else saw.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Behind her, the school bells rang again, summoning us deeper into the grounds. Students bustled past like water around rocks, their voices a blur.
But I couldn't move. Not with that glowing red countdown now hovering at the edge of my vision:
[23:59:52]
The system had given me a day to decide whether I was a protector, a hypocrite… or a monster.