Life, no matter how idealistic one tried to be, had never been fair. The protagonist—whose name would soon become irrelevant in the world he once knew—had once believed otherwise. He had clung to the notion that hard work, perseverance, and unwavering faith in oneself would inevitably lead to success. That was what the self-help books preached, what the lectures of accomplished individuals reinforced, what the motivational videos he watched in between study sessions promised.
So, he worked tirelessly. From childhood onward.
His school years were a blur of perfect grades, neatly written notes, and an insatiable hunger for knowledge. Teachers praised him; classmates, if they didn't respect him, at least tolerated his presence. His ultimate goal was to enter a prestigious university—and he did.
Then came the grueling years of higher education: sleepless nights spent poring over textbooks, nerve-wracking exams, a ceaseless cycle of studying and working part-time jobs to stay financially independent. While his peers partied, he remained steadfast, pushing forward.
And it paid off.
A well-paying job awaited him upon graduation. Financial stability followed. He secured a comfortable rental apartment in the city, indulged in occasional luxuries, and felt the satisfaction of standing on his own two feet.
All of it—every ounce of effort, every sacrifice—was for her.
The girl he had adored since school. The one he had pursued tirelessly. The one he had placed on a pedestal, showering her with gifts, completing her assignments, treating her to fancy dinners, devoting his time, his money, his very soul.
He had convinced himself that one day, she would see him—the real him.
But when he finally confessed…
She merely cast him a dismissive glance, lips curling into an amused smile before delivering the words that shattered him:
— "You're a good guy, but… you're just not my type."
And in that moment, he understood.
He had never been anything more than a convenient background character in her story.
That was the day everything changed.
His parents died in a car accident soon after.
The last fragile thread holding him together snapped.
All the money he had saved—painstakingly accumulated over years of discipline and sacrifice—was squandered. His once-meticulously structured life collapsed into a spiral of self-indulgence and escapism.
Days blurred into nights.
He drowned himself in novels, losing himself in fictional worlds where protagonists wielded power, where justice prevailed, where hard work was always rewarded. He binged video games, consumed endless fast food, and became a prisoner of his own lethargy.
He had once looked down on people like this. People who wasted their lives, who lacked discipline, who surrendered to their circumstances.
Now, he was one of them.
Time passed.
His funds dwindled. The overdue rent notices piled up. His landlord's threats of eviction became more frequent, but he remained unmoved.
Then, the knocking began.
At first, it was faint—so subtle he dismissed it as the wind rattling his windowpanes. But night after night, it grew louder, more insistent, more menacing. As though something—or someone—was lurking beyond the walls, waiting.
Yet, he did nothing.
And then… they came.
The door was kicked open with brutal force, blinding white light spilling into the dimly lit apartment. Figures in uniform stormed inside, their faces twisted in disgust.
— "God… he's already decomposing."
The stench was unbearable.
Hands seized his arms, dragging him from the filth he had allowed to consume him. And just as he felt himself being lifted…
His heart stopped.
He woke up.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—distant voices, muffled and distorted, as though he were submerged in water.
His head throbbed. His chest no longer bore the crushing weight that had suffocated him for so long.
Slowly, painfully, his senses returned.
First, the unfamiliar sensation of lightness. Gone was the sluggish, bloated weakness that had once defined him.
Second, the smell. No longer the overwhelming stench of decay, but the faint scent of dust and aged wood.
Third—the walls.
Rough, cracked stone. A wooden ceiling, old but sturdy. Doors that, while still functional, creaked at the slightest disturbance.
Panic stirred within him.
Where… was he?
— "So, you're finally awake."
A voice.
He turned his head.
A young man stood before him, dressed in simple clothes, his expression laced with indifference—and a trace of condescension.
But the strangest thing was the way he spoke.
The words were intelligible, yet foreign. As though he understood their meaning but couldn't quite grasp the nuances.
— "What…?" His own voice was hoarse, unfamiliar.
The young man sighed, rolling his eyes.
— "Figures. You really are an idiot."
Something was wrong.
Why was this man speaking to him with such blatant disrespect?
And most importantly…
Why did his own body feel so utterly foreign?
Then, the young man spoke again.
A name.
A name he knew.
A name that did not belong to him.
A name belonging to a minor character in a novel he had read countless times.
He froze.
Realization struck like a thunderclap.
He had been reincarnated.
Not as a hero.
Not even as a villain.
But as a destitute, ridiculed aristocratic nobody.
And the worst part?
If the story followed its original course…
This body was doomed to die soon.
— "Shit."
Lucian Vaelmont.
The name didn't just sound familiar. It was painfully known to him.
And the moment the servant uttered it with lazy disdain, everything clicked into place.
He knew who he had become.
Lucian Vaelmont—the most pitiful excuse for an aristocrat in "Heir of the Fallen House." A minor noble born into a ruined lineage, possessing neither wealth, power, nor influence. In the original novel, he existed only to be humiliated—a convenient stepping stone for the true protagonists, a disposable background character meant to highlight the greatness of others.
And the worst part?
He was going to die.
One month after the story's beginning, the Vaelmonts would lose their last possessions. Lucian, desperate and powerless, would become a pawn in a political game he couldn't comprehend, only to be discarded and slaughtered like a rat.
And now he was Lucian.
…Damn it.
— "My lord, have you lost your tongue?"
The voice of the servant was disrespectful.
No honorifics. No deference. Just barely concealed contempt.
The man stood there, his posture exuding the air of someone who ran this household rather than merely serving in it. His clothes were threadbare, his expression weary, yet his presence carried an unmistakable arrogance.
And honestly?
Lucian wouldn't be surprised if this man did have more authority than him.
Because this wasn't the kind of mansion that inspired reverence.
It was a rotting corpse of a once-great estate—narrow corridors, damp stone walls that reeked of mildew, wooden furniture that clung stubbornly to the last shreds of its former dignity.
At a glance, it might pretend to be a noble's residence, but a closer look revealed the truth.
It was a graveyard of forgotten glory.
Lucian ran his hands over his body.
Thin. Not as flabby as before, but definitely weak.
Yet…
He flexed his fingers. His movements were smoother. Lighter. Faster.
— "How did I lose weight so quickly…?" he muttered.
— "What?" The servant scowled. "Have you gone even more stupid overnight, my lord?"
Lucian ignored him.
He needed to think.
He had reincarnated into a world he knew inside and out. He knew the heroes. The villains. The timeline of events.
He knew that if he followed the script, he was doomed.
But most importantly…
He didn't feel the System.
Every isekai protagonist was supposed to awaken their cheat abilities upon reincarnation. That was the law of the genre.
Lucian took a deep breath.
— "System?" he whispered.
Nothing.
— "Status? Menu?"
Silence.
His stomach clenched. No way…
Then—
A flicker of light.
[DING!]
[Initializing System…]
[Welcome, User.]
[Processing host compatibility…]
[Error detected.]
[Adjusting parameters…]
[Complete.]
Lucian froze as a semi-transparent window materialized before him.
And at that moment, he realized the cruelest joke of all.
[SYSTEM SHOP]
[Fireball – 100 System Points]
[Basic Swordsmanship – 500 System Points]
[Body Strengthening – 2000 System Points]
[Legendary Artifact – 50,000 System Points]
…
[Balance: 0 System Points]
— "My lord, are you unwell?" The servant's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Lucian had seen one.
Only this ghost was called "The System"—and it looked like a cursed online cash shop.
On the left, a neat little shopping cart icon.
On the right, a "Buy Now" button.
And in the corner…
Lucian's throat tightened.
[Earn Points]
He tapped on it. Two options appeared.
1. Complete System Quests (Earn points by completing assigned challenges.)
2. Exchange Currency (Trade in-world money for System Points.)
And at the bottom, the final nail in the coffin.
Conversion Rate: 100 Gold Coins = 1 System Point
Lucian felt the world tilt.
This was outright theft.
In this world, 100 gold coins was an insane amount of money. Ordinary knights earned 3 to 5 gold a month. Even wealthy nobles would hesitate to throw around that kind of cash.
And if he wanted just the basic swordsmanship skill for 500 points?
50,000 gold coins.
Lucian closed his eyes.
— "I'm doomed."
But then…
His lips curled.
— "…Or am I?"
He looked at the arrogant servant. At the decrepit, but still standing mansion. At his empty future, waiting to be rewritten.
And for the first time in years…
He felt alive.
He was at rock bottom. Stripped of all privilege. Trapped in the most unfair, predatory system imaginable.
But this time, he knew the rules of the game.
If the System was against him…
He would simply break it.
Since he read many novels about the system, he firmly decided for himself. He will not be a stupid protagonist who will miss opportunities, but someone who will squeeze all the juice out of this system.