Darkness.
The suffocating kind that pressed against his eyes and ears, heavy and endless.
Ren wanted to scream. His mouth opened. No sound came out. His throat was locked, sealed shut by something he couldn't name.
Then came the pain.
Sharp. Crushing. Radiating from his chest like someone had driven a spike through his sternum.
His lungs burned like he'd inhaled acid.
A memory flashed: Stacks of paperwork taller than his coffee mug. The monitor's glow burning his retinas at 3 AM. Energy drinks—how many? Four? Five? He'd lost count. Three days without sleep, all to finalize a merger that would make his boss millions while he got nothing but a "good job" email.
His vision blurred at the edges, tunneling down to a pinpoint.
He tried to reach for his phone. His arm wouldn't move.
His head slammed forward onto the desk.
The last thing he heard was the clatter of an empty energy drink can hitting the floor.
Black.
He gasped—violent, desperate, like breaking the surface after drowning.
Ren jolted upright, heart hammering. His hands clutched at his chest, expecting to find the crushing weight still there.
Nothing. Just smooth skin under soft fabric.
Silk sheets tangled around his legs. The air smelled expensive—sandalwood, old libraries, older money.
This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't even his shitty futon with the broken spring.
His eyes snapped open.
A massive canopy bed stretched overhead—gold thread, burgundy fabric, the kind of luxury he'd only seen in movies. Carved pillars rose like ancient trees. Velvet curtains. A glowing chandelier that probably cost more than his old apartment.
"What the hell...?"
The voice that came out was wrong. Foreign. Not his. Too deep. Aristocratic accent he'd never had.
He looked down at his hands.
Slimmer fingers. Longer. Smooth skin—no scars from paper cuts, no calluses from his keyboard.
These weren't his hands.
Cold panic surged through his chest.
He swung his legs off the bed, needing to move.
Warm stone met his feet. Not his apartment's cheap flooring—real stone. Heated from below somehow.
This wasn't his world.
A girl knelt by his bed. Gray dress, worn thin. Forehead nearly touching the floor.
She was shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Christ. When was the last time he'd seen someone this terrified?
"M-My Prince..."
Prince?
The memories slammed into him.
Not his. Someone else's.
Prince Draven. Fourth son. The useless one. Born to a concubine who died in childbirth. Ignored by his father. Mocked by his brothers.
The drunk. The embarrassment. The joke.
Yesterday's memory burned like acid: The Great Hall. Hundreds of nobles watching. The Kalinga Envoy's smile like a knife.
"My mistress has reconsidered the betrothal."
Silence.
"She seeks a dragon, not a worm."
Laughter. Whispers cutting deeper than swords. His father's face, carved from stone. His brothers smirking behind their hands.
The original Draven had crawled back to his room and drank himself to death. An entire cask of wine. Heart gave out before dawn.
And now Ren was here. In his corpse.
He gripped the bedpost until his knuckles went white.
He'd died at his desk and woken up in a dead man's body.
A disgraced prince in a world that already hated him.
"Fuck."
---
"I'm... a prince?"
The words felt absurd coming out of his mouth.
"Yes, Your Highness..." the girl whispered, terrified. She still hadn't looked up.
A prince. But a disgraced one. A man with servants but no authority. A shark tank with silk curtains.
Ren inhaled slowly. The breathing technique his therapist had taught him for panic attacks. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Panic was useless. In his old life, panic got you replaced. Here, it probably got you killed.
Ding!
A blue screen materialized in front of him, floating like a hologram.
Ren blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The screen stayed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He'd read enough web novels during late-night work sessions to know what this was. A system. A goddamn isekai system.
Of course. Because dying at your desk wasn't humiliating enough.
[Imperial Conquest System Initializing…]
[Host: Prince Draven]
[Rank: Mortal (Tier 1)]
Attributes:
Strength: 12 (Weak)
Agility: 11 (Below Average)
Vitality: 13 (Average)
Spirit: 15 (Above Average)
Charm: 10 (Disgraced)
[Core Function]
CONQUERED WOMEN → DYNASTY POINTS
Charm: Disgraced.
One word. An entire life summary. Brutal efficiency.
Draven—that was his name now, might as well commit—felt something settle inside him. Something cold and focused. The same feeling he got when reviewing a failing project, when the numbers were bad and the client was angry and someone had to fix it.
He wasn't a hero. He'd never been a hero. He was a manager. A corporate drone who'd climbed halfway up the ladder by being smarter and more ruthless than the people around him.
And this? This was the ultimate management software.
He looked at the kneeling girl.
Mina, his memory supplied. Young. Too young for the life she lived. The previous Draven's memories treated her like furniture—invisible until needed, irrelevant otherwise.
A new panel appeared over her head.
[Target: Mina]
Rarity: ⚪ White (Servant Girl)
Loyalty:12% (Fear)
Reward:+10 Dynasty Points
Asset #1.
The thought came automatically, cold and analytical. He should've felt guilty about it. He didn't.
"Mina."
She flinched like he'd struck her. "Y-Yes, Your Highness!"
His throat was dry. He needed water. And to think. His allowance was cut—the memory was clear. This body had the reputation of a drunken wastrel. He had exactly one servant who was terrified of him, no money, no allies, and three brothers who'd probably celebrate if he died.
Not exactly a strong starting position.
But he'd turned around worse. That failing project in Q3 last year—everyone said it was impossible. He'd done it by identifying the key leverage points and exploiting them ruthlessly.
This was just another failing project. Different metrics, same principles.
"Come here."
She crawled forward on her hands and knees, keeping her head low. The movement was practiced, automatic. How many times had she done this?
Something in his chest tightened. The old Draven had taught her to move like this. Had probably beaten it into her when she was too slow or too clumsy.
Whatever. He could work with fear. He'd managed corporate teams before—anxious junior analysts, terrified interns, middle managers one mistake away from being fired. This was just... different metrics.
"Look at me."
Draven lifted her chin with two fingers. Large brown eyes, shiny with unshed tears, met his. She was young—God, she was so young. Couldn't be more than seventeen. Thin face. Hollow cheeks. When was the last time she'd eaten a full meal?
"Why are you shaking?"
"I... I feared punishment, Your Highness." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Right. Because the old Draven would've been nursing a hangover and looking for someone to take it out on.
"I'm not angry," he said, keeping his voice level. Calm. The same tone he'd used with anxious junior analysts who'd fucked up a spreadsheet.
Her eyes widened slightly. Confused.
He needed to establish a new pattern. Something that would increase that loyalty percentage without being obvious about it. In management, they called it "resetting expectations."
"You're neglecting your duties."
Panic flashed across her face. Her whole body went rigid. "My... my duties, Your Highness? I—I brought your breakfast, I cleaned the chambers, I—"
"Not those duties."
Time to test how far he could push this. How much authority this body actually had, even disgraced.
"The morning service," Draven said, putting just enough certainty in his voice. Like it was obvious. Like she should've known. "Massage my legs."
Confusion crossed her face. Her mouth opened slightly. Closed. Opened again.
"I... yes. Yes, immediately, Your Highness!"
She scrambled forward, her hands reaching for his calves. Tentative. Scared. Her fingers were cold and trembling.
"Harder."
She obeyed, digging her thumbs into the muscle. It actually felt good—this body was tense, knotted up.
Draven watched her work for a moment, then placed a hand on her head, stroking her hair like one would a pet. The gesture felt wrong, manipulative, but the system was right there in his vision, tracking everything.
Mina stiffened under his touch. Then, slowly—so slowly he almost missed it—she relaxed. Leaned imperceptibly into the touch. Her shoulders dropped. Her breathing evened out.
She was used to cruelty. This calculated gentleness disarmed her completely.
Ding!
[Intimacy Event: Tier 1 – Physical Contact]
[Loyalty Increased: 12% → 35%]
[System Rewards]
+20 Dynasty Points (First Conquest Bonus)
Skill Unlocked: [Imperial Eye (Level 1)]
Passive Gained: [Domestic Comfort] (+10% Stamina Regen)
Warmth spread through his body. Like drinking strong coffee, but cleaner.
DP: 20.
It worked. The system actually worked.
He was about to say something when the doors exploded inward.
Bang!
The heavy oak doors slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame. One of them bounced off the wall with a crack that echoed through the chamber.
Mina practically threw herself backward, scrambling away from him on her hands and knees. Her face had gone white.
A tall man strode in like he owned the place. Broad-shouldered, maybe forty, wearing silk robes in deep blue that probably cost more than a servant's yearly wages. Gold thread at the collar and cuffs. A heavy ring on each finger. He didn't bow. Didn't even slow down.
Steward Kael.
The memory came with a flash of resentment so strong it made Draven's jaw clench. This bastard had been embezzling from the Fourth Prince for years. Skimming off the allowance, selling off gifts, pocketing bribes.
"Still in bed, Fourth Prince?" Kael's sneer could've curdled milk. His voice was loud, deliberately loud. "Sun's high. Or are you too drunk to notice? I heard you finished a whole cask last night. Impressive, even for you."
Draven's hand tightened on the bedpost. In his old life, he'd have swallowed the insult. Filed it away. Played the long game.
But this wasn't his old life.
And there was no HR here.