Tak! Tak! Tak!
The young master had not answered.
Clara knocked again, her movements mechanical, her expression blank. The sun had nearly reached its peak. This was unusual. Nathan Stormbane was never an early riser, but he always woke by sunrise. Yet today, silence.
Something was wrong.
She did not feel concern. That was not within her role. But if the young master did not answer soon, she would be forced to enter regardless.
Just as she reached for the door—
Click.
The lock turned, and the door creaked open.
Nathan Stormbane stood there, but something was different. His presence lacked its usual weight. His cold arrogance was gone, replaced by something hollow.
His gaze flickered with confusion, exhaustion—emotions she had no reason to acknowledge.
"Young master," she said, voice devoid of warmth, "do you require medical assistance?"
He pressed a hand to his temple. "No. Just a headache."
His voice was strange—like someone testing his own throat, as if even speaking was unfamiliar.
It did not matter.
She stepped inside, moving with the quiet efficiency that had been drilled into her since childhood. Without hesitation, she reached for the buttons of her uniform.
One by one, she undid them.
The black fabric slid from her shoulders. She folded it neatly and placed it on the table. Next, she loosened her apron, then her undergarments, each piece carefully removed and arranged without wasteful movement.
Finally, she knelt.
Seiza. Back straight. Hands resting gently on her lap. Head lowered.
She did not move. She did not speak.
She simply waited.
---
Nathan's POV
The sharp knocking on the door had dragged me back to reality.
Disoriented, I found myself lying on the cold floor, my mind still struggling to process the memories that had just flooded my consciousness.
It took a few moments, but soon enough, I understood reality.
I wasn't myself anymore.
I was Nathan Stormbane—a minor villain from World of Estroma, a game I had played obsessively. His memories had merged with mine, though they still felt like a jumbled mess.
Nathan was the only son of Duke Aldric Stormbane, heir to a powerful noble family who ruled over a southern part of Kingdom called Stormbane. His mother, Brielle, had been one of the greatest mages in the kingdom, but she had vanished during the battle against the demons. Her loss left a gaping wound in the family, one that Nathan had been expected to fill. The son of such a powerful mage must be extraordinary they thought. But when it was discovered that his magical talent was mediocre at best, admiration turned to disappointment. Then, to resentment.
"We shouldn't have expected him to reach Lady Brielle's level, but this… this is pathetic."
"A disappointing failure. An embarrassment to his lineage."
"The son of a lion turned out to be a mere house cat."
Whispers of scorn followed him everywhere. Isolated and bitter, he embraced arrogance as his shield. What he lacked in talent, he made up for with cruelty, using his noble status to assert dominance over the weak. What started as mere verbal harassment gradually spiralled into predatory behaviour, until he became infamously known as 'The Depraved Young Master.'
In game he is nothing but a stepping stone for MC.
His downfall had already been set in motion. Nathan had overstepped by trying to court a girl, protagonist was interested in. His fate was sealed the moment he crossed paths with the main character.
Killed. Forgotten.
His death wasn't just a turning point—it was a catalyst. His demise gave the protagonist the opportunity to grow even stronger, eventually getting hold of the entire Stormbane household and even marrying his sister.
I exhaled slowly.
"Of all the characters, why did I have to end up in his body?"
'If I had to transmigrate into the game, at least let it be as a supporting character or even as an extra,' I scoffed, ignoring my past life entirely. That world had lost all meaning after my mother passed away. World of Estroma had been my escape, my obsession. But now, it was my reality. Should I be happy? Was this some divine miracle? Or should I be terrified that I had inherited the body of a doomed villain?
At the very least, I had money and status, I would be happy, right?
Wrong.
Nathan's stepmother, the Duchess, despised him. His reputation was already in ruins. It wouldn't be long before she sent him off to the Demon Wall Tower—an isolated fortress where noble failures were discarded. In this body, that was as good as a death sentence.
I was still trying to decide my next move when the knocking on the door grew more urgent.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up and opened it.
And there she was—Clara, Nathan's personal maid if I was not wrong.
She was beautiful, in a delicate, almost fragile way. Her auburn hair was neatly tied back, her crisp uniform perfectly arranged. Freckles dusted her pale skin, giving the illusion of warmth—an illusion that shattered the moment I met her eyes.
They were empty.
She studied me for a brief second before speaking in a tone devoid of curiosity. "Young master, do you require medical assistance?"
I hesitated. "No. Just a headache."
Hearing Nathan's voice come from my lips was unsettling.
But Clara, seemingly satisfied, stepped inside without another word moving with practiced grace, her presence calm and submissive. The faint scent of lavender clung to her, blending with the polished wood and expensive fabrics of the chamber.
She didn't speak. She didn't hesitate.
Instead, she reached behind her back, her fingers deftly loosening the ribbon of her apron. With a practiced motion, she pulled it free, allowing the fabric to slide down her arms and pool silently onto the floor.
My breath hitched.
Her hands moved next to the buttons of her uniform. One by one, she undid them, the black fabric loosening against her frame. The high collar parted first, revealing the delicate curve of her neck, then lower—her collarbone, her shoulders—until the entire garment slid down her arms and past her waist.
Beneath the uniform, she wore a matching set of black lace undergarments—far too elegant for a maid. The contrast against her pale skin only heightened the surreal nature of the moment.
She didn't stop there.
Reaching behind her back once more, she unclasped her bra, letting it slip from her shoulders before folding it neatly. Then, with deliberate ease, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down her thighs, stepping out of them without a trace of hesitation.
Her expression remained composed, her gaze steady, as she folded each piece of clothing with care. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, as if this were part of a daily routine.
Once finished, she gathered her neatly folded garments and placed them on the nearby table, smoothing out the fabric with quiet precision.
Only then did she lower herself to the floor, settling into a perfect seiza position—her bare thighs pressing against the polished wood, her hands resting gracefully on her lap.
She remained still, poised, waiting.
My brain short-circuited.
My heart pounded in my chest and my mind raced.
She did not look at me. She did not react.
She simply waited.
For what? A command? An order?
This wasn't just seduction. It was discipline, submission—something deeper than mere obedience.
And as I stood there, still frozen in shock, one thought rang clear in my mind:
Just what kind of life did this bastard even live!