The train hissed as it pulled into the station, steam curling into the winter air.
Elliot stepped off slowly, eyes trailing across the familiar skyline of the capital. Snowflakes landed on his lashes and melted instantly.
He didn't feel the cold.
Not after what he'd been through.
He adjusted his coat — thick fur lined the collar, stitched with his family's crest. He was a noble now. Baron's son. Wealth, land, servants.
None of it felt real.
Because just a month ago… he was someone else.
A different world. A different body.
And a death he barely remembered.
---
He'd read this story before.
In his past life, Lumenheart Chronicle was a popular fantasy novel. The kind with noble houses, beautiful girls, gods and demons, and a destined hero.
Lucien Halward.
The illegitimate son of a duke. The light of humanity. Gifted by Aurelion, the god of war and justice. Strong. Brave. Loved.
He had a harem, of course. Beautiful girls, fierce girls, even royalty.
And then… there was the best friend.
Elliot Halgrave.
A kind, loyal, slightly flirtatious noble from the northern barony. Helpful, but never the center. Never the hero.
Now?
That's who he was.
Literally.
---
Elliot chuckled under his breath as he stepped into the carriage waiting for him.
The driver bowed. "Welcome back, young master."
He gave a quiet nod.
The seat inside was warm. Embroidered. The family crest of a hawk and pine stitched into every cushion.
He leaned back and looked out the window.
He didn't care about stealing the spotlight. He didn't want to rewrite the story.
He just wanted to survive.
Because he knew what was coming.
This world was beautiful now — glowing, golden, thriving.
But in five years?
The demons would come.
Not the minor monsters or bandits. The real devils. From the void between realms.
And the continent would burn.
---
His hand moved to his chest, brushing over his shirt.
He remembered that night. A week ago. Alone in the forest behind the villa.
The pain had been sharp, like fire pressed into his skin. The sigil that appeared there — deep crimson, swirling with desire, was one he recognized instantly.
Asmodeus.
Demon god of lust. Forbidden. Dangerous. Feared.
And now… inside him.
He still didn't know why. Or how. But he knew what it meant.
His power grew through lust.
But not just sex — it had to be with those already emotionally tied to someone else.
It was sick. Twisted.
And effective.
He hated it.
He wasn't some depraved deviant, not before — not even now. But the mark pulsed when he got too close. When a woman's eyes lingered too long. When feelings brushed past boundaries.
And once it started, the craving didn't fade.
He'd tried ignoring it.
But he'd woken up hard and aching, dreams soaked in sensations that weren't his own. A pull beneath his skin, always stronger around people in love.
That was the worst part.
It wanted to ruin things.
---
The carriage stopped.
Elliot stepped down onto the stone path leading to his family's estate — a quiet villa outside the academy district. Snow covered the roof. Lanterns glowed at the entrance.
The villa was elegant but reserved. White stone walls gleamed faintly beneath the snow, giving off a soft, pristine glow.
Dark wooden beams framed the structure with a quiet strength, and tall, arched windows lined the facade like solemn eyes watching the frozen landscape.
Delicate vines curled along the stone like veins, brown and brittle in the winter chill, adding a touch of age and life to the otherwise still exterior. Iron lanterns hung at the entrance, casting gentle pools of warm light onto the frosted steps.
It looked more like a noble's private retreat — quiet, dignified, and built for solitude than a bustling family home.
The head butler and maids were already lined up.
They bowed in unison. "Welcome home, young master."
He gave a polite smile. "Thank you."
The warmth inside hit immediately — fragrant woodsmoke, heated floors, the gentle flicker of sconces lining the hall.
His boots echoed faintly against the marble.
---
Dinner was quiet.
Just him and the staff.
The dining hall was too large. The table stretched across the room like a bridge. Velvet drapes hung from windows overlooking the frosted gardens.
Only the closest seats were used. Mira, the cook, stood off to the side with folded hands. She was in her mid-thirties, neat brown hair, calm eyes.
Her husband, Edric, served the wine. A bit older, cheerful, with faint scars on his hands from years of kitchen work.
Other maids brought dishes: roasted pheasant, creamy mushroom soup, buttered roots, glazed apples.
Elliot took his time eating.
It wasn't like his old world. Food here was slower. Heavier. Real.
"You've all done well keeping this place running," he said between bites.
The staff bowed again. Mira spoke, voice gentle. "It's an honor, young master. This home has been quiet for too long."
Edric chuckled. "We're glad to see it used properly again."
Elliot met Mira's eyes for a second. She looked away first.
Not awkward — just… polite.
But he caught something in her posture. A tension. Like she didn't know how to act around him yet.
Understandable.
He was a teenager wearing a man's name. A stranger in a familiar body.
Still, she hadn't hesitated when their fingers brushed as she set down the bread. Her hands were warm, calloused slightly from cooking. Her eyes had lingered just a heartbeat too long before retreating.
The mark on his chest pulsed.
He ignored it.
---
After dinner, Elliot wandered through the halls.
Firelight danced across the walls.
Paintings of old family members lined the corridor. He paused at one — a woman in silver armor, eyes stern, holding a sword.
He touched the frame. "Wish you were around to give advice."
His voice echoed faintly.
He stepped into his study next. Books lined the walls, floor to ceiling. A map of the kingdom stretched across the far wall. His desk had a crystal inkpot, parchment, a ledger.
He poured himself a glass of wine and stood by the window.
Out there, in the capital's heart, Lucien would be arriving too.
They were to start the academy next week.
He could already imagine the meet-up.
---
"You're late," Lucien said, arms crossed.
Elliot raised an eyebrow. "You counting minutes now?"
"Just making sure the legendary noblewoman-chaser didn't get lost in the red-light district."
"Please. I'm reformed."
Clarisse rolled her eyes beside Lucien. "You say that every year."
Elliot grinned. "And every year, you believe me."
Lucien laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you, brother."
"You too, hero."
---
He missed that kind of banter.
They had been genuine friends in the novel. And now that he was Elliot, he didn't want to change that.
But Asmodeus didn't care about intentions.
That was the danger. Not the lust. The emotions it stirred in others. The slow corrosion of loyalty, of bonds.
But Mira…
She was married. Content.
And her husband worked long hours. She stayed late. She smiled politely, but sometimes her eyes drifted. Curious. Tired. Longing for something small — attention, a voice that listened.
It wouldn't take much.
A few glances. A conversation. A touch during a shared meal.
He clenched his jaw.
He had to be careful.
---
There was a knock on his chamber door.
He turned. The head maid stood outside, bowing lightly.
"Apologies for disturbing you, young master. Carla, your usual maid, has taken ill. We've asked Lady Mira to assist you this evening. For your bath."
Elliot blinked once.
Then smiled, polite as ever.
"That's fine. Send her in."
As the door closed, the mark on his chest pulsed — hot, eager.
He loosened his collar and muttered, "You're not in charge, damn it."
But part of him wasn't so sure.
---