No one ever really figured out why Lucen turned out the way he did.
Some said it was the collapse of his family later on in the story.
Some blamed the death of his sister.
Others thought it was just bad writing—Author S pulling a cheap twist with no buildup. Just shock factor. Just another character ruined for an edgy MC let loose plot.
Now Ash—Lucen could only sit with that.
He didn't know what pushed the guy off the edge.
Maybe he'd find out. Maybe not.
But for now, he had to deal with the fact that he was stuck in this body.
He let out a breath, pushed himself up, hands still a little shaky. The robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, loose and annoyingly soft. He moved slowly, steadying himself with the edge of the chair. His legs didn't feel weak, just unused. Like this body hadn't done anything physical in a while.
Then he heard voices outside the door.
Soft at first. Then clearer.
"Lady Arwen, I swear—I saw the young master move!"
Footsteps. Quick. Urgent.
Then louder—running.
Ash turned toward the door just as it flew open.
And in came the last person he expected to see.
She rushed in fast, blonde hair flowing like a soft curtain behind her, eyes wide with panic. But even in the blur of movement, the details burned into him instantly—maybe from Lucen's memory, maybe just because her presence hit hard.
She was beautiful. The kind that didn't fade with age.
Soft gold hair that reached down to her waist, not curled, just long and smooth, swaying with every step. Her skin pale, almost creamy, untouched by sun or stress. She had the same purple eyes as him—but deeper, richer. Like the color belonged to her first.
Her figure was impossible to ignore.
She wore a form-fitting dark violet gown that hugged her tightly from chest to waist. The top dipped low—very low—revealing a heavy, round pair of breasts that barely seemed contained by the lace-trimmed neckline. They moved when she moved. The kind of chest that pulls stares without trying. Her waist was slim, her hips wide, the dress curving perfectly around her thighs with just a hint of leg showing through the slit.
She looked more like a nobleman's secret mistress than a marquess' widow. Mature. Sharp. Soft in all the right places. And glowing with that subtle, natural authority that came from running a house alone.
Ash didn't need to guess. He knew her.
Lady Arwen Ferndale.
Lucen's mother.
He didn't even have time to process it.
Without a word, she rushed straight to him.
"Lucen!"
She wrapped her arms around him without warning.
Her body pressed into his, firm and warm.
His face landed straight into her chest. Full. Heavy. Bare skin pushing against his cheek as her arms squeezed around his back.
He barely managed to suck in air.
Soft flesh pressed against his face, her perfume light and floral—just barely sweet. Her breath hitched as she held him tighter, like she thought he might vanish.
He couldn't even speak. Her breasts were smothering his mouth, his nose—his entire upper face.
She was warm. Her skin soft. Her grip desperate.
She didn't say anything else. Just held him.
And all Ash—Lucen—could do was sit there, half suffocating in her tits, while his brain screamed What the fuck in seven different languages.
Lady Arwen Ferndale.
Formerly Princess Arwen of the royal house of Valmont, first daughter of the Evarion Empire. One of the rare-born wielders of Light Magic in a bloodline already blessed with power, and once known as the most beloved daughter of the Emperor himself.
Her life wasn't meant to be difficult.
She was raised behind palace walls, draped in silk, trained in etiquette, magic, and the politics of court. Doted on. Protected. Groomed for either alliance or influence. Many expected her to marry a noble from a high house or become the figurehead of the Church of Radiance.
But the war changed everything.
When the Demonfront broke through the eastern borders and the Empire needed heroes, not politicians, the Emperor made a bold move.
He married her off.
Not to a prince. Not to a duke.
To a common-born soldier.
Cullen Ferndale. A man with no name, no family, no crest. Just a sword in his hand and a talent for killing enemies faster than his own could die. The hero of the Third Border Massacre. The one who pushed the empire's line back with fewer than a thousand troops.
The marriage was political. Quick. Practical.
Against expectations, Arwen never once treated Cullen like he was beneath her. And he, in turn, never bowed to her title.
They were equals. Somehow. A strange pair that never made sense on paper—but everyone who saw them knew it worked. And when Lucen was born, the Ferndale name, once a blank, carried weight even in royal courts.
Then Cullen died.
Cut down in the final battle of the Western Reclamation.
No body. No last words. Only the sword he carried returned, its blade cracked down the middle.
After that, Arwen didn't return to the palace. She didn't call for her father. Didn't lean on the Valmont name. She took over the Ferndale house herself.
And she ruled it better than any man before her.
She kept their lands prosperous. Turned old war debt into trade. Used her magic sparingly, relying more on negotiation and strategy than power.
The nobles called her cold behind closed doors.
But her people called her brilliant.
Her arms tightened.
"Tch—mmph—" Ash let out a half-strangled sound, face still buried in her chest.
Her body was trembling.
He felt it through the soft swell of her breasts, the way her arms wrapped tighter and tighter around his back like she thought he might disappear again. Her perfume filled his nose—warm, faintly sweet, like jasmine mixed with something softer, skin-like.
And then—
"Lucen… my Lucen…"
Her voice cracked on his name.
Tears were already rolling down her cheeks, dropping onto his shoulder one by one—plip… plip…—soaking into the silk of his robe.
She pulled him closer, impossibly close, her hand cradling the back of his head, fingers gently weaving into his hair.
"Haah…Goddess Thalia, thank you… thank you…"
Her whisper came out like a prayer.
"I've prayed every night… every hour… begged for anything," she choked. "And now— you're awake. You're awake."
Her lips brushed the top of his head as she whispered again, softer.
"You came back to me…"
Ash didn't know what to say. He could barely breathe—not just from her hold, but from the way she was holding him. There was no distance. a flood of emotion, clinging to him like warmth that hadn't touched another person in too long.
He tried to shift, just enough to look up, and her grip finally loosened.
He pulled his face free and looked at her.
Tears still trailed down her face, but she was smiling now, shaky, but full of emotions. Her eyes were wide, glassy, glowing violet under the dim morning light filtering through the window.
She raised a hand to his face and cupped his cheek.
Her thumb brushed just under his eye. Her skin was cool, soft, trembling slightly.
"For two years…" she said softly, "you've been asleep. Your body was breaking down. You couldn't move. You couldn't speak. Every day it got worse."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"But I never gave up on you. I never did. Neither did your sisters. We've stayed by your side… every night. Every morning. Every breath."
Ash swallowed. His heart thumped—thud… thud… thud—loud in his ears.
It made sense now. Why she was this close. Why she was crying like this. To her, Lucen was supposed to die. Bedridden. Fading. And now he was sitting up. Warm. Awake.
A miracle.
"Goddess Thalia…" she murmured again, pressing her forehead against his. Her breath hit his lips, warm and shaky. "You really did give him back to me…"
Ash blinked. It wasn't like he could exactly blame her. Everyone thought Lucen was going to waste away in bed. Not a single physician could explain why his condition kept worsening. The mana exhaustion, the bleeding, the fevers, the fainting.
But he knew.
It wasn't sickness.
It was a mutation.
An incubus bloodline buried deep in the Ferndale ancestry. Twisted together with Light affinity—a rare, holy magic not meant to coexist with anything dark. The original Lucen's body couldn't handle it. It was like burning a candle from both ends while bleeding out from the middle.
Arwen let out a small sound—half a sob, half a shaky laugh—and leaned into him again, arms wrapping around his waist this time. Her cheek pressed against his bare chest where the robe had slipped open.
"You're really warm," she whispered, voice full of wonder. "Your heart is beating again…"
He felt her chest press against him again—soft, heavy, plush. He could feel her breath now, how her body molded against his, every curve fitting too perfectly. Her hug was motherly. But… not only.
Ash froze a little.
She was still crying. Still shaking. Still holding him like a boy she thought she'd lost.
And all he could do was sit there, breathing her in.
Ash's breath hitched.
He was still trying to focus, to act like this was just some emotional reunion and not insanely overwhelming. Her arms wrapped around him. Her body so close it was like she was trying to absorb his warmth.
Then—
A flicker in the air.
His vision twitched—just slightly. Something floated into view again.
Another transparent screen, soft and silent, blinking into place right above her shoulder.
[SYSTEM]
Incubus Bloodline Stabilized.
Host contact confirmed. Passive Ability Activated: Irresistible Touch.
(Subconscious aura that heightens sensual response to physical contact. Scales with emotional proximity and skin contact.)
♥ Desire +4
[Lady Arwen — Affection: 99/100 | Desire: 42/100]
Ash stared at the panel, heart skipping a beat.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
But it made sense.
She was holding him tighter. Breathing deeper. Her fingers pressing softly against his bare back now. Not in a creepy way—just… too much. Her palm had slipped lower during the hug, not groping, just staying there longer than needed. Her cheek against his chest had shifted slightly, lips barely brushing his skin now. Her breaths? Shaky. Slightly heavier.
He didn't say anything.
But he could feel it. The system wasn't lying.
This wasn't just normal mother-son contact anymore.
And the numbers didn't help.
Desire forty-two out of a hundred? Wasn't that supposed to be zero?
Her lips parted slightly. He didn't hear her say anything this time. Just the soft sound of her exhale—hahh…—and the way her hands trembled as they stayed flat against his lower back, clutching the fabric of his robe.
She didn't move away.
Didn't seem to notice the robe had slipped down past one of his shoulders.
Didn't seem to care that her chest was practically flattened across his.
Ash felt the warmth build in his stomach. Not lust, not yet—but something more primal. Like a scent in the air, a shift in the room. Not his doing. His body's. This wasn't his power, not exactly.
It was Lucen's.
Or the bloodline's.
And she was reacting to it.
Soft gasps left her lips now and then. Nothing loud. But closer. Throatier. She didn't even pull her head back when his hand lightly brushed her arm, trying to steady her.
Instead, she leaned in more.
Ash swallowed.
The fuck am I supposed to do with this…?