The chlorine burns my lungs as water floods in.
Seriously? I think, vision darkening at the edges. Thirty-two years old and I'm drowning in three feet of water at the company pool party?
My coworkers' muffled screams fade to nothing. My last coherent thought is that I never submitted that quarterly report. Somehow, that bothers me more than dying.
Then—
Pain.
Not the burning of chlorinated water, but the sharp crack of a leather whip across my back. I gasp, except the air tastes wrong—dust and copper instead of chemicals. My eyes snap open to harsh sunlight filtered through iron bars.
"Finally awake, Your Highness?" The voice drips with mockery—a woman's voice, harsh and commanding. "Thought we'd lost you to the fever. Would've been a shame—ex-princes fetch good prices if they survive long enough. Even worthless male ones."
My head pounds as two sets of memories collide like freight trains. Kevin Mitchell, electrical engineer, dead at thirty-two. Prince Marcus Aurelius, brother to Empress Livia, alive at twenty-four.
No. No, no, no.
The memories crash over me in waves. This world—gods, this world. Women hold all positions of power, command magic, lead armies. Men are decorative at best, breeding stock at worst. The lucky ones become scholars or artisans under female patronage. The unlucky ones...
Well, I'm in a slave cart, so I guess I know which category I fall into.
"I said, are you awake?" The slaver cracks her whip again, catching my shoulder. "Can't have you dying before the army recruiters arrive. They're paying extra for you—apparently the Empress wants her pretty brother to die properly, in battle, not from fever."
Army recruiters. Right. This is where Prince Marcus gets sent to die on the frontier. As a man, he couldn't inherit, couldn't hold titles, couldn't even own property without a female guardian. His only value was as Livia's brother—and now not even that protects him.
The cage rocks as wheels hit a pothole. Through the bars, I glimpse the capital's crystal spires growing distant, their magical aurora still pulsing against the sky. Even from here, I can see the smoke columns—the Praetorian Guard's coup failed three days ago. All female, of course. No man would dare raise a hand against the Empress. They'd tried to replace Livia with her cousin, Duchess Octavia. Now Octavia's head decorates the palace gates, and her supporters burn in the Grand Colosseum.
A notification flickers in my peripheral vision—this world's System, showing my pathetic status:
[Marcus - Male, Ornamental Class]
Level: 10
Strength: 8
Agility: 7
Endurance: 9
Intelligence: 14
Mana: 0 (Gender Locked)
Skills: None
Combat Experience: None
Special Traits: [Property of House Aurelius] [Decorative Value - High]
I want to laugh at "Decorative Value - High." Marcus was pretty, I'll give him that. These memories show silk robes, jewelry, being paraded at court functions like a prized pet. He'd been raised to be married off to one of Livia's generals eventually, a political gift to ensure loyalty.
Then he'd made the mistake of speaking against her latest purge. Men don't speak against women here. They definitely don't speak against the Empress.
"You're lucky," the slaver continues, counting gold coins. "Your sister's letter was very specific. 'Don't kill him, don't permanently damage his face, deliver him functional to the Third Legion.' Even paid in advance." She grins, showing teeth filed to points—a fashion among warrior women. "Must have sentiment for her pretty brother."
I almost laugh. Sentiment? She had me beaten unconscious and thrown in a slave cart. But she's right—I did save her once. Prince Marcus saved her, anyway. These memories burn clear through the fog. We were ten. A failed assassination—a rogue mage had summoned a shadow beast in the palace. Marcus had pushed Livia aside, taking claws meant for her. He'd nearly died. She'd held him for hours, crying, promising she'd always protect her brave little brother.
Fourteen years later, she rules over mountains of corpses and sends that same brother to die in chains.
The cart stops. Through the bars, I see them—a century of female legionnaires in formation, their enchanted armor glowing with protective runes. The men among them are few, carrying supplies, tending wounds—combat servants, not soldiers. The centurion examining papers has the kind of scars that speak of twenty years of magical warfare. Her eyes glow faintly blue—mana sight, marking her as at least Level 50.
"Prince Marcus Aurelius," she reads without inflection. "Sentenced to auxiliary military service, indefinite term. Legion assignment at commander's discretion." She looks up at me, and something flickers in those glowing eyes. "You're the one who spoke at court. A man, telling the Empress to show mercy."
I don't remember the exact words, but Marcus's memories show the horror of it. Standing in that throne room, surrounded by female nobles who looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Men didn't speak at court unless asked a direct question. They certainly didn't argue with women about matters of state.
"Take him," the centurion says. Two soldiers unlock the cage—both women, naturally. They haul me out with casual strength enhanced by mana. My legs, unused to movement after three days of fever and beatings, collapse immediately. They drag me like a sack of grain.
That's when it happens.
The world... tilts. Not physically, but something deeper. Information floods my brain like ice water, too much, too fast. The System notification burns across my vision:
[Special Trait Unlocked: Foresight of Calamity]
[Ten years hence, the truth shall be revealed]
I see—
The capital in flames. Not Livia's controlled burns, but real destruction. Barbarian warriors—men and women united under a foreign banner—standing in the throne room. Their leader, a man wielding impossible magic, breaking every law of this world's nature. The eagle standards broken, trampled in mud. Noble daughters in chains, marching north. The magical academies burning, centuries of female magical supremacy ending in a single night.
Ten years. In ten years, everything ends.
I vomit, heaving bile onto the dusty ground. The soldiers step back in disgust.
"Weak," one mutters. "Males always are. He won't last a day in combat."
My head spins as more knowledge settles. I know things—not specifics, but patterns. The barbarian king who'll unite the tribes, he's somehow gained magic despite being male. The plague that weakens the eastern legions—it targets female mana users specifically. The three generals who betray the empire—they're all women who've grown too comfortable with power, too sure of their superiority.
"Get him up," the centurion orders. "He marches with the supply corps."
They haul me to my feet. Someone shoves a blood-contract at me—magical binding that will kill me if I desert. My hands shake as I press my thumb to it. The contract burns into my skin, another chain to add to the collection.
"Congratulations," the centurion says flatly. "You're now Auxiliary Marcus. No family name, no protection. You carry supplies, you maintain equipment, and when we run out of bodies, you hold a spear and die for the Empire. Questions?"
Yes. So many questions. Like: how does a man gain magic in this world? How do barbarians overcome centuries of female magical dominance? How do I survive when the System itself declares me worthless?
But what comes out is: "No, Domina."
The proper address for a female superior. Marcus's muscle memory provides that much.
"Good. Fall in with the other males."
They direct me to a group of thirty men—all young, all pretty, most crying. These are household slaves, pleasure servants, men who've never held weapons. One looks at me with recognition.
"Prince Marcus?" he whispers. He's maybe eighteen, with the soft features that mark him as another decorative male. "They said you were dead."
"I am," I tell him, and mean it. Kevin died in a pool. Marcus died in a palace. Whatever I am now is something else.
They give me a supply pack that weighs more than my entire PC setup from my past life. No armor—males don't get armor. No proper weapon—just a knife for cutting rope and preparing food. The female soldiers march in formation, their magical auras overlapping in a defensive net. We males stumble behind, carrying their spare equipment.
As we march toward whatever hellhole they're sending us to, I study my updated status:
[Marcus - Male, Auxiliary Class]
Level: 10
Strength: 8
Agility: 7
Endurance: 9
Intelligence: 14
Mana: 0 (Gender Locked)
Skills: None
Combat Experience: None
Special Traits: [Foresight of Calamity] [Property of Third Legion]
The average female legionnaire is Level 30 minimum. Veterans push 60. This centurion is probably 70. And Livia...
Livia is Level 200.
She could shatter mountains with a gesture, burn armies with a word, stop time itself if the rumors are true. She's not just an Empress—she's approaching the realm of demigods. No wonder the coup failed. You can't fight a natural disaster with swords.
And she's my sister. The same girl who used to sneak into Marcus's room during thunderstorms, who demanded bedtime stories, who promised she'd make him her special advisor when she grew up—before they both learned men couldn't be advisors.
The sun sets behind us, painting the sky crimson. Tomorrow we'll reach the frontier fortress. Tomorrow I'll learn what happens to pretty princes who forget their place.
But as we make camp, as female soldiers laugh and cast warming spells while we males huddle together for heat, one thought keeps burning:
The barbarian king in my vision—he was male, and he wielded magic that made Livia's power look like candlelight.
In this world, that should be impossible. Men can't use magic. It's not just law or tradition—it's supposedly biological fact. The System itself enforces it.
So how does he do it?
And more importantly—can I learn?
I lie on the cold ground, no bedroll, no blanket—males make do. Above me, two moons chase each other across foreign stars. This isn't Earth. This is a dying empire with impossible rules and an expiration date written in blood.
Ten years to figure out how to break those rules. Ten years to learn how a man gains magic in a world that says he can't.
Ten years to become something more than decorative.
The female guards change shifts, their magical lights dancing in the darkness. One stops near our group, and I recognize her—Tribune Cassia, Level 85, Livia's former lover before my sister grew bored. She looks down at me with something between pity and disgust.
"Prince Marcus," she says softly. "You should have stayed quiet. Should have stayed pretty. Men who forget their nature always die badly."
She's probably right. But Kevin was an engineer. Engineers don't accept "impossible"—they just haven't found the right solution yet.
And if a barbarian king can break the rules in ten years, maybe an electrical engineer in a prince's body can too.
At least I never have to submit that quarterly report.