My head was pounding, my thoughts a foggy mess.

  I had just died in a car crash, and the next thing I knew, I was here, watching a man slam the door of my study after selling me his daughter in marriage.

  A desperate measure for a desperate man.

  And the reason I knew all that, besides the river of memories now starting to flood my brain, was because I knew exactly who, and where I was.

  I was inhabiting the body of Valen Ashmoor, a Count in the Kingdom of Eldoria, from a novel I’d read a decade ago. Long story short? I had reincarnated into the Devil himself. And no, that was not an exaggeration.

  This “boy-made-Count” had inherited his title young, after his father died in a rebellion, along with a large swath of territory and all the retainers that came with it. He was his mother’s son in every way, looks, cunning, and ambition, and that had left him untaught, unchecked, and untempered.

  He had made himself cruel. Manipulative. Ambitious. Lustful. All at once. He executed his own mother, blackmailed and schemed within the Royal Court, and amassed a private army that numbered close to ten thousand. He built factions, used his economic and geographic power to bend others to his will, and took what he wanted. Especially women. The Kingdom had a name for him: the Count of Anguish.

  He was hated from one corner of the Kingdom to the next. And now… that was me. Or at least, that was becoming me, as the fog lifted and I slowly felt control over this new body.

  Minutes later, it was done.

  The fog lifted. The vision was clear. The pain and headache were gone. I felt so alive that for a moment, I just sat there, enjoying the silence, a single wooden tap echoing outside in the distance.

  But then, I suddenly recalled who I now was and what that meant for me.

  Problem number one.

  I am fucking hated, and in this damn novel, the preferred way of solving hate feuds is not some grand duel or some war between great powers. No. It is more simplistic. Assassinations.

  Whether it was catching the fucker while shitting, or while napping in his velvet-covered bed, it didn’t matter. It was easier, subtler, and cheaper to do so. And I just reincarnated into the assassins’ wet dreams.

  Problem number two.

  The people Valen pissed off the most were also the people he had marriage alliances with. Every fiancée he chose was the daughter of a man who wanted him dead. By inheritance? They hated him, too. A fuck ton.

  Problem number three.

  A knock came at the door.

  “C-Come in,” I stuttered, taken aback by the depth of my new voice. For a man barely twenty years old, Valen had the voice of an avid smoker.

  At my invitation, a maid came in, her eyes glued to the ground, hands folded tightly, footsteps almost silent against the polished floor so as not to look in my direction or disturb me.

  “She is here… my Lord,” she said quietly.

  “Who is?”

  “Lady Elowen, sir. Weren’t you… expecting her? Should I tell her to leave?” she questioned, back pressed hard against the now-closed door.

  I felt a pang of guilt for ignoring the maid's terror… and then promptly ignored it. My brain had bigger problems. All my brain activity was quick to attach itself to the name she mentioned.

  Elowen Richmond, the future first wife of Valen, was, by all definitions, a problem.

  She was part of a noble lineage, but was also the daughter of the Archbishop himself. A religious figure with as much might as a Grand Duke.

  And because why not, Valen had to make such a man an enemy before pressuring him into marrying his only daughter to none other than him.

  “Lord?”

  The maid’s voice snapped me back to reality. I looked at her, and she yelped, slamming herself against the door before apologizing in a rush of stammered words.

  I shook my head and clenched my fists, testing the response. The body answered instantly. I was strong.

  “Bring her to the dining hall,” I said.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The command came out cold. Too natural to my throat.

  The maid nodded sharply and was gone in an instant, putting as much distance between herself and the air I now breathed as humanly possible.

  For the next five minutes, I paced the study. The room was large, lavish, and unmistakably built to intimidate, much like its owner. In there, I stretched my fingers, rolled my shoulders, adjusted to the weight of this body while my new reality settled in.

  It still felt unreal. Like a dream. And yet, deep down, I knew it wasn’t. This was real. As real as the car crash. As real as my own death.

  But... keeping people waiting was customary for Valen. A calculated slight. A reminder of where they stood beneath him. Part of me hated the idea, part of him loved it, but another part recognized the necessity. I didn’t need arrogance right now. I needed time.

  Time to think.

  Time to remember the story.

  Time to figure out where in the hellish timeline I’d landed.

  Preferably, I need at least a few days to properly settle in.

  Valen Ashmoor was barely mentioned in the novel until Volume Two. Even then, he was more shadow than man, bits and pieces scattered through dialogue, rumors, and threads the author never fully explained. He was a looming obstacle. A dangerous unknown right until the end, and that made my job infinitely harder.

  But first things first.

  I had been given a second life. A cursed one, maybe, but a life nonetheless. And since the cards had already been dealt, all that remained was to play the game.

  Fiancées. Assassinations. Manipulations. Plots and timelines. All of that could wait.

  Survival came first. And the first step toward that was meeting the woman who, according to the story, was supposed to become my first wife.

  Valen...

  I... was tall. Lean but athletic. A six-foot-tall bastard who walked stiffly upright, like I had something lodged firmly up my ass. And the worst part? It felt natural.

  That was the strange thing about it. My mind still belonged to me, but my body moved like it had done this for a lifetime. Every step felt both alien and familiar, as if I were borrowing muscle memory from a man who’d never hunched his back.

  But as I walked through the hallway, one I knew, without thinking, would lead to the dining hall, I passed a large silver platter resting against the wall. Curiosity got the better of me, so I glanced into it.

  God Almighty.

  If the bastard hadn’t been a lunatic, he could’ve passed for a model. A sharp, chiseled jawline. Prominent cheekbones. Pale skin from a life spent indoors, ruling rather than laboring. Dark ash-brown hair, neatly kept, with subtle streaks of silver at the temples that only added to the man’s infuriatingly refined look.

  His eyes, my eyes, were a piercing light blue, pupils naturally narrowed, giving him a permanently sharp, predatory gaze. The kind of look that made people lower their eyes before they realized they were doing it.

  And the clothes didn’t help either.

  A dark velvet doublet. Black silk trousers. Boots made of something expensive enough that I didn’t want to know what died for them. Gloves embroidered in silver, as if I were trying to hide leprosy, or, as per the constant feeling in the back of my head, a reminder to everyone that I never had to dirty my hands myself.

  No wonder they hated him. No wonder they feared him. I was a bloody idiot. A handsome, fancy, disgustingly rich idiot.

  Knowing I couldn’t delay Elowen any longer, I kept walking.

  I reached the dining hall within the minute, a minute that should have stretched into an hour if it were up to me.

  The doors swung open at the guards’ hesitant push, and I was immediately faced with the problem.

  Black hair.

  Crystalline white dress.

  Yellow eyes.

  A problem that rose the moment she saw me.

  “Count Valen,” she said, curtsying with effortless grace. “Congratulations on yet another… fruitful engagement. May the Goddesses show you love.”

  That bite at the end wasn’t accidental.

  “Lady Elowen,” I replied, bowing lightly, an act that made something itch in my brain, as if the body refused the motion I carried. But I kept on moving, taking my seat at the head of the table. “Welcome. I had forgotten you were coming today.”

  “…Is that so?” She took her seat opposite me, folding her hands neatly. “Should I leave?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. I wanted to say yes. Desperately. Time and distance were exactly what I needed right now. But something in my gut twisted at the thought. Saying yes felt… wrong, for some reason.

  “No need,” I waved the question aside. “But tell me, what is the occasion of your visit?”

  “My Lord,” she blinked slowly, disbelief creeping into her tone, “Have you truly forgotten? What of the promise you made to the Arch-bishop?”

  Ah.

  Right...

  What promise?

  She sighed and stood, seeing my confusion. “Unbelievable. I am exhausted from the road, my Count. I will not be joining you for dinner tonight. If you will excuse me.”

  And just like that, she moved to leave. Also, from her phrasing, it was clear that she, unfortunately, planned to stay the night.

  Alarm bells screamed in my head. I was on my feet in an instant, blocking her path just as she was about to pass.

  She stopped, eyes narrowing, posture stiff. Ready. As if she expected me to strike her for the disrespect she showed earlier.

  I forced myself to breathe. I wasn’t here to reenact the novel. I was here to survive it.

  “Lady Elowen, forgive me,” I said, keeping my commanding voice even. “I’ve been busy these past days and have slept poorly. Please, remind me of the purpose of your visit.”

  She stared at me. Confusion crossed her face. Then disbelief. Then something closer to awe, before confusion returned in force.

  Somehow, that short-circuited her brain, making her offer a reply.

  “The Conclave Feralium,” she answered.

  Ah.

  That was a problem. A significant one. And one I desperately hoped the bastard whose body I now wore had already dealt with, before handing me the mess.