Chapter 4: The Villain Forgot to Be Evil
Alright.
Let's not panic.
We can work with this.
New body, new world, clean slate.
All I need now is that one little spark to get me started.
You know the one.
The thing every Isekai protagonist gets.
I raise my hand dramatically and shout, “Status Window!”
…Silence.
Not even a ding.
Okay.
No worries.
Sometimes it’s voice-specific.
Let’s try variations.
“System Menu!”
“Character Sheet!”
“Cheat Engine!”
“Open Sesame!”
Still nothing.
No glowing blue screen.
No pixelated chime.
No anime HUD floating in front of my face telling me I have a secret hidden stat called ‘Plot Armor.’
Just the same fancy-ass wallpaper and an unreasonably opulent ceiling.
I squint up at the chandelier like maybe it’s judging me.
“…Appraisal.”
“…Analyze.”
“…Inventory.”
“…Reincarnation Debug Console??”
I throw in one last desperate whisper.
“…Admin privileges?”
At this point, I am just embarrassing myself.
I fall back onto the overly fluffed bed with a groan and bury my face into what might as well be a goose that died for luxury.
No system.
No powers.
No stat sheet.
I would have better luck if I was a background character in a farming simulator.
‘Yeah. No.’
All I get is a gust of wind from the window and the soft flutter of the ridiculously high-thread-count curtains like they’re mocking me.
I sit back on the edge of my bed and sigh into my hands.
“Of course I wouldn’t get a cheat,” I mutter.
“No system. No stat boosts. Just my brain, my memories, and a face that probably comes with a public scandal or two.”
Okay.
Fine.
That’s fine.
I’ll just have to strategize.
The problem is… I don’t actually know much about Lucien Crowley outside of what happened at the Academy.
The game, for all its branching routes and wild scenarios, was basically a boarding school soap opera with magic and makeouts.
Anything beyond the campus gates?
Total blank.
I mean I know he is a perverted piece of shit.
But that’s on the inside.
He for sure hid it pretty well to end up in such a prestigious academy.
I only saw glimpses of his home life when my sister unlocked that Bad Ending where he goes full Yandere.
Which, uh, wasn’t helpful.
So when it comes to how Lucien behaved at home, with his staff, his estate, his family, I am going in blind.
My best guess?
Aristocrat Mode.
I mean, Lucien was a noble.
A proper, born-and-bred blue-blood.
Surely, even with his flaws, he acted with some semblance of grace and dignity, right?
He probably spoke with refinement.
Carried himself with dignity.
Treated others with class and meticulous etiquette.
Yeah.
That checks out.
That’s what I will do.
I will play the part.
Polite.
Sophisticated.
Understated, but commanding.
I push my shoulders back and practice a few noble expressions in the mirror.
Raised brow.
Half-smile.
Serious but approachable.
The kind of look that says, “Yes, I have read all the household ledgers, and also possibly committed tax fraud, but with flair.”
Perfect.
A knock at the door.
I stand, posture poised, and call out, “You may enter.”
A maid steps in.
She’s already pale.
Nervous.
I assume I must’ve startled her.
“Good morning,” I say with my warmest tone.
“I trust your morning’s been well?”
She freezes like a deer in the world’s fanciest headlights.
“I, um, y-yes, m’lord,” she stammers.
“I appreciate your efforts,” I nod.
“It must take considerable skill to keep this estate in such fine order.”
She blinks.
Looks like she might faint.
“Er, breakfast is… ready, sir.”
“Splendid,” I say, clasping my hands behind my back like I am posing for a Renaissance portrait.
“Thank you very much.”
She curtsies.
Trips.
Apologizes.
Flees the room like she’s escaping a war zone.
‘…Confusing, but maybe she’s just having a rough day.’
I head into the halls.
Spot another maid fluffing a cushion.
I offer a casual wave.
“You there. Good work with that pillow.”
She visibly jumps.
Another servant drops a tray in the distance.
‘…I am starting to think my tone might be off.’
But I swear, I am not doing anything weird.
I am not being creepy or loud or even condescending.
If anything, I am going out of my way to sound like an upstanding, well-adjusted human being.
Isn’t that what nobles are supposed to do?
Apparently not, because the staff are looking at me like I just told them I’ve taken a vow of pacifism and will no longer be performing blood rituals in the dining room.
I can’t figure it out.
I am literally just trying to be nice.
Or… aristocrat-nice.
But they are acting like I’ve either lost my mind.
I sigh and rub my temple.
“This might be harder than I thought…”
Still, better this than becoming Lucien 1.0, the Cursed Flirt of the Academy.
I’ll figure it out.
Eventually.
Probably.
…I hope.
***
To say the staff of D’Claire Estate were confused would be a grievous understatement.
They were horrified.
Not in the “we found a dead body in the kitchen” kind of way, though, with the old Lucien Crowley, that might have been a viable concern, but in the “my cat suddenly stood up on two legs and recited Shakespeare” kind of way.
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
It all began that morning, when the maid tasked with delivering Lord Lucien’s breakfast entered his chambers with her usual silent prayer that she wouldn't have to dodge any flying inkwells, lewd remarks, or spontaneous shirt removals.
And yet… none came.
Instead, she was greeted by a polite, “Good morning. I trust your morning’s been well?”
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
‘Was that… a real question? With a sincere tone?’
‘From him?’
She nodded, mute with terror.
Then came the real shocker.
“I appreciate your efforts,” he said.
“It must take considerable skill to keep this estate in such fine order.”
Now, let’s be clear: the previous Lucien Crowley did not “appreciate” anything.
The former young master expressed himself through the gentle dialect of grumbling, narcissism, and the occasional complaint that the staff walked too loudly and looked too poor.
His idea of a compliment was saying, “This tea is tolerable,” and his idea of bonding was asking the same maid to button his shirt while holding eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time.
So naturally, when the same man who once threw a tantrum because the roses weren’t “lustrous enough” thanked her for doing her job, she very nearly dropped the tray.
He had spoken to her like a person.
Not as furniture.
Not as air.
But like someone whose well-being he… cared about?
The news spread like wildfire.
By the time Lucien had made it halfway through the hallway, the estate was in full panic mode.
“He said good morning to me,” whispered the butler to the head maid.
“Did he say it aggressively?”
“No. Kindly.”
“…What?”
“And then he nodded at me. Like… a respectful nod.”
“…You’re lying.”
“I wish I was.”
Other reports came in fast:
“He complimented the hallway pillows.”
“He asked me how I was doing, twice!”
“He picked up the ledger, flipped through it like he understood what it said, then nodded like some kind of… competent person!”
Panic.
Absolute panic.
You see, the old Lucien didn’t ask things.
He demanded.
He didn’t walk through the house, he stomped, like a very angry, very dramatic gazelle.
There was always a mood of barely contained disaster about him, like a noble version of a toddler with magic.
But this Lucien?
This Lucien was calm.
Composed.
Curious, even.
Polite in a way that wasn’t performative.
He even bowed his head slightly when passing an older member of the grounds staff, who nearly had to sit down right then and there.
And the worst part?
The part that unsettled them all to the marrow?
There was no malice in it.
None.
Not a trace.
It would’ve been easier, reassuring, even, if he was trying to manipulate them.
To seduce them.
To set up a prank involving pudding and ceiling hooks again.
At least then it would’ve been familiar.
But no.
This wasn’t a ploy.
This wasn’t sarcasm.
This was… genuine.
And that was what terrified them most.
It was like watching a wolf stand upright, button a waistcoat, and ask if you would like some tea.
The beast might look like it was reformed, but there was always that twitch in your gut whispering:
This isn’t natural.
No one said it aloud, of course.
But there was an unspoken understanding among the staff:
This was not the Lucien Crowley they knew.
Whether that meant he had been cursed, possessed, or suffered an existential breakdown over breakfast was anyone’s guess.
But the estate’s veterans, those who had served for generations, knew one thing for sure:
Whatever had crawled out of Lord Lucien’s bed that morning…was not the same man who had gone to sleep the night before.
***
