Ardyn Cross sat hunched over a flimsy fold-up table in the suffocating heat of his shoebox apartment, neck stiff and back sore from hours spent slumped in a cheap plastic chair. The dim glow of his battered laptop flickered unevenly, casting faint shadows across the stained walls. On the screen, an anime played in fits and starts, the buffering wheel spinning in protest. A girl with an impossibly oversized sword struck a heroic pose, frozen mid-frame. A bowl of instant noodles, now cold and congealed, sat untouched beside him. The faint hum of a tired desk fan buzzed from the corner, doing little more than shuffle the warm air in lazy circles.
He was live on stream, barely.
Five viewers tuned in, if you counted the bots. He knew most were fake, probably from some random engagement site he'd forgotten to cancel. Still, he talked anyway, his voice hollow with sarcasm.
"Honestly, if Truck-kun hit me right now, I'd probably wake up in some other world with a broken-ass cheat system and a badass sword. Better than getting clapped by twelve-year-olds in Silver rank."
He gave a dry laugh that barely left his throat. It sounded brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering. A new comment popped into the chat.
'Do it lol. Reincarnate, loser.'
Ardyn snorted and stirred the soggy mess of noodles. He forced a mouthful, but the moment it slid down, something went wrong. It lodged sharply in his throat. His eyes flew wide.
He froze, instantly alert. His hands shot to his neck, fingers scrabbling at his skin. A cough tore from his chest, then another, more violent. No air came. The panic was instant, primal. He shoved away from the table. His chair toppled backward with a crash, bowl flinging off the edge and splattering broth across the filthy carpet. His legs kicked as he flailed blindly, throat spasming. The laptop clattered to the floor.
His vision blurred. The sounds around him dulled as pressure built behind his eyes. He stumbled toward the door like it could save him, but he never made it. His knees gave way. He collapsed against the fridge, fingers still clawing helplessly at his neck. One hand stretched toward the counter. The other trembled over his throat, useless and frantic.
The last thing he saw was the blinking light on his webcam.
Then, darkness.
But not silence.
A strange light filtered in. Not the sterile white of hospital fluorescents or the warm glow of his laptop, but something ancient and raw, like sunlight seen through trees. Heat rolled across his skin, slow and rising, as if the sun were beating down on him directly.
He groaned, eyelids twitching, the faint sting of consciousness dragging him back inch by inch. He blinked slowly, and for a second, he thought he was still lying in his apartment, maybe passed out from stress or hunger.
But the moment his vision cleared, that illusion shattered.
Wooden beams, cracked and dusty, stretched above him. Rough, mismatched boards made up the walls, and a strange damp scent clung to the air. He was lying on a thin straw mat that smelled faintly of mold and earth. No laptop, no fan, no ramen.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his spine popped. The silence was unnerving.
"What the…" His voice came out dry, hoarse.
He looked down and stilled. His arms were thinner. Pale. His hands looked delicate, like they belonged to someone else. Panic prickled the back of his neck.
He stumbled toward a warped, cracked mirror propped against the wall. The reflection staring back wasn't his own.
The man in the mirror was younger—maybe eighteen or nineteen. The skin was smooth, untouched by years of stress or cheap takeout. His hair was lighter, tousled and slightly curled. The jawline was sharper, the nose slimmer. And his eyes—they were amber. Not brown. Amber, glowing faintly like wildfire caught in crystal.
"No. No, no, no."
He touched his face. No glasses. No stubble. Nothing that belonged to Ardyn Cross.
"This isn't real. I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming."
He backed away from the mirror, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. His gaze swept across the room, but it only confirmed what he feared. The place was small, bare. A chipped jug of water sat on a low table. A cracked oil lamp leaned against the wall. No electronics. No city noise. Only quiet.
Then, a voice spoke. Not out loud, but inside his head.
[Welcome, Host. Synchronization Complete.]
He froze. The voice was cool, female, eerily smooth. It echoed like a whisper through his skull.
"What the hell was that?" he asked aloud, voice cracking as he turned in place, searching for someone—anyone.
But the room was empty.
[You have been chosen by the Forbidden Harem System. Resistance is futile.]
Then it hit him.
A flood of information surged into his brain, like a thousand wires plugging in at once. His head throbbed. He clutched it, staggering backward, eyes squeezed shut. Visions flared behind his eyelids—warriors, women, strange powers. Rules, mechanics, lore. He saw names he didn't know. Faces. Skin. Blood. Bonds. Intimacy. Pain.
It felt like someone was rewriting him.
When it passed, he collapsed to his knees, breathing hard. Sweat beaded across his forehead.
This wasn't the cheat system he'd joked about.
This one didn't offer magic missiles or God-tier swords. It was far more invasive. Power came through connection—deep, consuming bonds with women of strength and influence. The more devoted they became, the more power he could draw from them. Skills, bloodlines, elemental talent—all transferable.
But only if they were his.
And once they were bound, they couldn't leave.
Sin. That word kept echoing. Not as a curse, but as a resource. Lust. Obsession. Envy. Betrayal. These weren't pitfalls to avoid—they were tools. Fuel.
Ardyn looked down at his hands, chest heaving.
"What kind of twisted setup is this?" he whispered, torn between fear and morbid fascination.
The system pulsed in the back of his mind, silent but present. Watching.
"I died," he muttered, the memory of choking still vivid, raw in his chest. "I really died choking on cold-ass noodles. And now I'm in some fantasy world with a system that wants me to collect women like power-ups?"
He let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. It started soft, disbelieving, then grew louder, rougher. He covered his face, sliding down against the wall.
"Of course. Of course this is how my story goes. I die pathetic, and now I'm stuck being some cosmic gigolo with an S-tier libido stat."
But when the laughter faded, he sat there quietly, letting it all sink in. His breathing steadied. His thoughts sharpened.
"Fine," he said under his breath. "If this world wants me to play a game… I'll beat it."
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
He froze, heart jerking.
Another knock, this one quieter. Then a woman's voice, calm and steady.
"You're awake, aren't you?"
Her tone was beautiful in its restraint, but beneath it, something colder hid. Ardyn approached the door slowly, uncertain. He had no idea who he was in this world. No memories to fall back on. He could've inherited the body of someone hated. Feared.
His fingers pressed against the wood.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low, wary.
There was a pause, and then the words came like a dagger to the chest.
"I was told to kill you if you woke up."
Everything inside him lurched.
He stumbled back from the door, scanning the room for anything remotely useful. A weapon. A shield. Hell, even a chair leg. But there was nothing. Just bare walls and trembling fists.
The door creaked open.
She stepped inside.
She was tall, wrapped in a simple robe tied at the waist, but nothing about her was simple. Her every movement carried the kind of grace that only came from training—lethal, controlled. Silver hair was tied tightly at the back. Her eyes were ice, pale blue and sharp as broken glass. In her right hand, a curved dagger gleamed.
Ardyn didn't move.
She watched him for a moment. Then, quietly:
"You're not screaming. That's rare."
He tried to smile, dry and sharp.
"Would that make you hesitate?"
She considered it. "No."
She moved closer. He could feel her presence like a storm brewing, pressure thickening in the room. Her gaze flicked across his features, eyes narrowing.
"You're… different."
"Different how?" he asked, genuinely confused.
She didn't answer. Instead, she stopped just in front of him. Her blade rose.
He didn't flinch.
Something passed between them then. A strange energy, like static clinging to skin. A warmth that shouldn't have been there. Her hand hesitated.
Her expression shifted. Her jaw tensed. The dagger trembled slightly.
"What's your name?" he asked, quietly.
She blinked, caught off guard. Her hand lowered a fraction.
Inside his head, the system chimed again.
[Potential Thread Detected: Assassin Class. Emotional Conflict Present. Begin Thread Initiation? Y/N.]
He hesitated.
She hadn't struck.
That was enough for now.
He took a breath, heart pounding in his chest.
"Yes."