Min-ah lay sprawled on his cushion, the soft fabric conforming to his relaxed form like a well-worn glove. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting dust motes dancing in the air a golden hue. The results of his aptitude test, or rather, the spectacular lack thereof, echoed in his mind. "F level," they had said, the examiner's voice dripping with barely concealed pity. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, a sound devoid of mirth, laced instead with a quiet, almost smug, satisfaction.
He reached for a plump, perfectly ripe melon, already sliced into manageable wedges on a nearby table. He popped one into his mouth, savoring the sweet juice that exploded on his tongue. "F level," he repeated to himself, the words somehow tasting even sweeter than the melon.
In truth, the device hadn't failed. It simply hadn't been capable of measuring the depths of his power. He knew this, had known it from the moment he'd felt the machine's feeble probes attempt to decipher his mana signature. It was like trying to measure the ocean with a teacup, or perhaps, more accurately, like trying to capture the sun in a butterfly net.
His apparent weakness was a carefully crafted illusion, a shield he had erected to protect himself from the burdens of his past. A past that was not of this world. A past that, even now, sent a shiver of weariness down his spine.
In his previous life, he had been a prince, a scion of the Azure Empire, a vast and powerful realm spanning continents and capable of wielding magic beyond the comprehension of this backwater world. But his birthright had been a curse, a magnificent, gilded cage that had crushed him beneath its oppressive weight. His siblings, consumed by jealousy and ambition, had seen him as a threat, a rival to be eliminated, even though he had never desired the throne.
They had burdened him with endless tasks, with responsibilities that would have broken a lesser man. He had been forced to mediate disputes between warring factions, negotiate treaties with treacherous neighbors, and oversee the intricate workings of the Empire's vast bureaucracy – all before breakfast, it seemed. They had whispered poison in his ear, twisting his words, manipulating his actions, until he was left isolated, alone, and utterly exhausted.
"Brother, surely you can dedicate just one more hour to this pressing matter of the Northern provinces," his eldest brother, Prince Jian, had said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with a subtle edge of mockery. "Your insight is invaluable, even if it means sacrificing a few precious hours of sleep."
Min-ah remembered the burning in his eyes, the throbbing in his temples, the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion that had clung to him like a shroud. "Of course, brother," he'd replied, forcing a smile. "The good of the Empire comes first."
He had worked tirelessly, driven by a misguided sense of duty, by a desperate hope that he could earn their respect, their affection, even a modicum of acknowledgement. He had believed that if he proved his worth, they would finally see him as a brother, not a rival. But his efforts had been in vain. They had seen only weakness, only an opportunity to exploit his dedication.
"Look at him, toiling away like a common laborer," his sister, Princess Mei, had sneered, her voice a venomous whisper that he had overheard while passing through the palace gardens. "He thinks he can impress father with his diligence. He's a fool."
He had worked himself to death, his body failing under the relentless strain, his spirit broken by their relentless cruelty. And then, mercifully, he had been reborn.
Reborn as Kang Min-ah, the youngest son of a family that valued strength and discipline, but also, surprisingly, tolerated his profound lack of ambition. A family that, for all their stoicism, didn't seem to care if he lazed about all day, as long as he wasn't causing trouble. His older brother, Kang Tae-hyun, a renowned hunter known for his stoicism, would occasionally grunt a greeting as he passed Min-ah lounging on his cushion, but there was never any judgement in his eyes. His mother, a pragmatic woman who ran the family's small business with an iron fist, would simply shake her head and sigh, but even her disapproval lacked any real bite.
It was a gift, a second chance to live a life free from the burdens of his past. He had vowed to himself, in the agonizing moments of his previous death, that he would never again be a pawn in someone else's game, that he would never again sacrifice his happiness for the approval of others.
His laziness was not a flaw, but a deliberate choice, a rebellion against the expectations that had crushed him in his previous life. He would live as he pleased, free from the demands of others, free from the weight of responsibility. He would embrace the simple joys of existence, untroubled by the burdens of power.
He opened his eyes, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "F level," he murmured, a smile playing on his lips. "Perfect."
The machine's inability to register his true power was a blessing in disguise. It would keep him safe, hidden beneath a veil of mediocrity. No one would expect anything from him, no one would demand anything of him. He could blend into the background, a shadow in the corner, unnoticed and undisturbed.
He could spend his days in blissful idleness, free to pursue his own desires, free to indulge in the simple pleasures of life. He would become a master of leisure, a connoisseur of comfort, a champion of the art of doing absolutely nothing. He would perfect the art of the afternoon nap, become a scholar of the art of cloud-gazing, and dedicate himself to the pursuit of the perfect cup of tea.
"They think I'm weak," he thought, his smile widening. "Let them. Let them underestimate me. It's their mistake."
He closed his eyes again, his mind drifting back to his dreams of endless fields and warm sunlight. He was content, at peace, finally free. He was Kang Min-ah, and he was going to enjoy his second chance to the fullest. And right now, that meant going back to sleep.