He woke up to the sensation of something wet pressing against his nose.
"Young master, please stop bleeding on the sheets. They're imported silk."
Lucius opened his eyes to a face he didn't recognize.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with an annoyed expression and a bloody handkerchief in one hand. Behind him, the room swam in red and gold. High windows. Tall bookshelves. A fireplace with no smoke. A noble's room.
'This isn't my bed.'
Lucius blinked slowly. His body felt… wrong. His limbs were too light. His bones too soft.
He shifted his gaze and saw a mirror across the room.
A young man stared back—red eyes, black hair tousled like a storm had passed through it, and a swollen bruise blooming under his right eye.
"…Hah."
He laughed softly. The voice that came out wasn't his own.
'That's… Lucius Valehart.'
He knew that name.
He knew this world.
A novel. One he had read on a whim. Fangs of the Dawn.
A classic tale: war, politics, sword and sorcery. The rise of a commoner hero, the fall of corrupt nobles.
Lucius Valehart.
Third villain to fall.
The arrogant son of Duke Valehart. Known for mocking the hero's family, trying to frame him in a petty dispute, and getting punched clean through a table for his trouble.
Lucius closed his eyes again.
'So this is my second life?'
He'd been a king.
Cold. Ruthless. Feared.
And now?
A brat who gets beat up ten chapters in.
"Perfect," he muttered.
"Young master, should I summon the healer again?"
"No need," Lucius replied calmly.
The man blinked. "…No need?"
Lucius sat up. His head throbbed. "Where's the other boy?"
"You mean the guest?" the servant said. "Still in the reception hall. After your… confrontation."
'Right. That's where it started. The original Lucius insulted him over wine. Called him a street rat or something equally stupid.'
Lucius stood up.
He had maybe thirty seconds before the novel's future hero walked out that door and left him for dead—socially, at least.
'Think, Lucius. What would a king do?'
Apologize? Grovel? No.
He straightened his collar and brushed the blood from his chin.
He walked out of the room with the poise of a man far older than his body and found the boy in the front hall.
Tall. Grey cloak. Worn boots. Hands calloused from work.
'Rowan Edevane. Future swordmaster. Future hero. Future royal pain in the ass.'
Lucius smiled.
"About earlier," he said smoothly, voice calm, noble. "That was a test."
Rowan turned slowly, eyes narrowed. "A test?"
Lucius spread his arms like an old friend. "I insulted you on purpose. Wanted to see if the rumors were true. About your temper."
"…"
"You passed."
Rowan stared.
Lucius nodded. "Very well. I have decided you're interesting. From now on, consider yourself under my protection."
Rowan's eyebrow twitched. "What?"
Lucius patted him on the shoulder like he hadn't just threatened to duel this same boy five minutes ago.
"I'll see to it no one lays a hand on you while you're on Valehart land."
Rowan opened his mouth, then closed it.
Lucius smiled internally.
'Step one: Don't get punched. Step two: Make the future hero owe me. Step three: Survive the novel and retire to a vineyard.'
He turned and walked away.
Rowan stood frozen in the hallway, stunned.
Lucius allowed himself a small smirk.
'A quiet life, please. Just give me a quiet life.'