Blake's eyes opened to unfamiliar silence.
No screaming. No pain lancing through his skull. No sensation of his body being torn apart by forces beyond mortal comprehension. Just... quiet. And warmth.
The warmth was strange. Concentrated. It pooled somewhere just below his navel, a sensation he'd never experienced. Not heat exactly, but presence—like a warm heater in the from of sphere had taken residence in his abdomen , visual of it came to his mind . He pressed his palm against the spot experimentally .
Separate from him yet intrinsically part of him, like discovering a new organ his body had somehow always possessed but never acknowledged.
What the hell is that?
Cautiously, Blake sat up. The movement didn't trigger the expected avalanche of agony. His muscles ached—a deep, bone-tired soreness—but nothing felt broken or torn. His head throbbed dully rather than splitting apart. Even his breathing came easier, lungs expanding fully without the sensation of broken glass grinding against tissue.
The other presences—those violent, warring forces that had nearly destroyed him—were still there. He could sense them in the deepest recesses of his consciousness, like predators sleeping in distant caves. The demon fragment lay coiled and dormant, its hunger satisfied for now.
They weren't gone. Just... sleeping. Waiting.
But for the moment, Blake was alone in his own head. The relief was overwhelming.
He glanced toward the system window, which materialized obediently at the edge of his vision.
[USER STATUS]
Name: Blake Dunzel
Age: 18
Strength: 98 (+14)
Mana: 38 (+17)
Agility: 45 (+11)
Constitution: 64 (+13)
Skills: Basic Etiquette (Lv. 2), Basic Sword Technique (Lv. 1), Vaultegg Mana Technique (Lv. 2)
Blake blinked. Then blinked again. The numbers swam before his eyes, refusing to make sense.
Fourteen points in Strength? Seventeen in Mana? And the technique already at level two?
"I almost died," he whispered to the empty room. "I screamed until my throat bled, felt like every vein in my body was going to explode, and your response is to give me stat points like I just completed a tutorial quest?"
[Suffering builds character]
[Also builds muscles, apparently]
[Congratulations on not dying]
"I hate you so much."
[Your feedback has been noted and filed appropriately]
Despite everything, Blake felt a laugh bubble up from his chest—weak, slightly hysterical, but genuine. He was alive. Stronger, somehow. And the warm energy core below his navel pulsed with steady reassurance that he wasn't about to spontaneously combust.
Small victories.
He swung his legs off the bed, testing his weight. His knees held. His vision didn't swim. The borrowed commoner clothes still reeked of sweat and fear, but his body beneath them felt fundamentally different—more solid, more real, like he'd upgraded from a paper doll to actual flesh and bone.
Morning light streamed through the barred window, painting prison stripes across the floor. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the estate coming to life—boots on cobblestones, horses neighing, the clank of armor being adjusted.
Time to face whatever fresh disaster awaits.
Blake moved toward the door, pressing his ear against the heavy wood. Voices filtered through—muffled but audible. Two men, stationed just outside. Guards. No, knights, based on the formal cadence of their speech.
"—still can't believe it," one was saying, voice pitched low in that particular tone people use when sharing gossip they shouldn't. "I overheard the night commander and Lady Ferolina talking. This kid hit the jackpot. They're taking him to the royal palace. The queen herself is demanding this guy."
Blake's heart stopped. Then restarted at triple speed.
The queen? Demanding me? Why would—
"No way," the second knight responded, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "Why would the queen want some run-of-the-mill baron's kid? He's not even skilled. And between you and me, I saw him get hauled in yesterday—he's not exactly what you'd call handsome."
Blake's eye twitched. Rude. I'm standing right here. Well, technically on the other side of the door, but still.
"You know what this might be?" the first knight continued, voice dropping to conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried perfectly through the door.
"What?"
"Love."
Silence. Then: "You've lost your mind."
"Think about it! Why else would the queen demand some countryside baron's son? There are proposals from ducal houses lining up at the palace gates. Ancient bloodlines, political alliances, wealth beyond measure—and she ignores all of them for this kid?" The knight's excitement was palpable. "It has to be love. Maybe some childhood connection. A promise made years ago before she ascended to the throne."
"That's..." The second knight paused. "Actually, that would explain a lot."
"Right?! And get this—she's coming of age now. The Harvest Festival is tomorrow. What if she's planning to declare her fiancé during the ceremony? That's why they're rushing to get him to the capital!"
"And all those assassination attempts..." The second knight's voice gained conviction. "They weren't random. Someone's trying to prevent the queen from choosing him. Rival nobles, maybe? Or foreign powers who don't want the alliance?"
"Exactly! I'm telling you, it's a whole conspiracy." The first knight sounded immensely pleased with his deduction. "And now the Chief Inquisitor himself is going to escort the lucky bastard personally. Full guard, maximum security. This kid's fallen into the queen's grace, and half the kingdom wants him dead for it."
"My shoulder still aches from fending off those attacks yesterday," the second knight grumbled. "If this is what courtship looks like for royalty, they can keep it."
On the other side of the door, Blake stood frozen, mind reeling.
The queen. In love. With me. Marriage. Palace. Festival tomorrow.
The thoughts cascaded through his consciousness like a waterfall of pure, undiluted wish fulfillment. His knees went weak for entirely different reasons now.
Rich wife. The words echoed in his skull like divine revelation. A queen. Literal royalty. Which means... a palace. A massive, luxurious palace. Servants everywhere. No more running from assassins—I'd have an entire army protecting me. No more cold rooms and barred windows—I'd have silk sheets and feather beds and probably those fancy pillows that cost more than a house.
His imagination took flight with the desperate enthusiasm of a man who'd spent the last several days convinced he was going to die horribly.
He saw himself dressed in fine clothes—not stolen commoner rags, but actual noble attire with gold threading and probably a cape that billowed dramatically in convenient breezes. Saw himself riding through the capital on a magnificent horse (one that actually listened to commands, unlike the demon beast that had dragged him through the forest). Crowds would line the streets, cheering, throwing flowers, praising their queen's chosen consort.
"Long live Blake Dunzel!" they would shout. "Champion of the realm! The queen's beloved!"
Children would aspire to be like him. Bards would compose songs about his romance with the queen. History books would dedicate entire chapters to their legendary love story—conveniently omitting the parts about truck accidents, demon possession, and general incompetence.
He'd eat food that didn't come from suspicious taverns or grudging kitchen staff. Real food. Feasts. Multiple courses. Desserts that probably had names in foreign languages he couldn't pronounce but would eat anyway with dignified appreciation.
And no more death threats! Well, probably still some death threats—jealous nobles and all that—but he'd have the Chief Inquisitor personally escorting him! Knights by the dozen! Maybe even his own personal mage for protection!
For the first time since Truck-Kun had ruined—no, blessed—his life, Blake felt genuine gratitude surge through his chest.
Thank you, he thought toward the cosmic force that had orchestrated this insanity. Thank you, Truck-Kun. I take back every curse, every complaint. You weren't destroying my life—you were upgrading it! From lonely office worker eating instant noodles to royal consort with a queen who apparently loved him enough to send the kingdom's most powerful religious authorities to collect him personally.
A promise formed in his mind, solemn and binding: When I have my first son with the queen, I'll name him Truck-seong. In honor of the divine accident that brought me here. It'll be a family heirloom name. Future generations will ask about its origin, and I'll tell them it represents destiny's vehicle delivering me to greatness.
His chest swelled with emotion that was definitely not hysteria masquerading as hope.
Blake straightened his torn, sweat-stained clothes as best he could, running fingers through hair that desperately needed washing. If he was meeting the Chief Inquisitor—the man who would escort him to his destiny—he should at least try to look somewhat presentable.
He pulled open the door.
Both knights snapped to attention immediately, conversation dying mid-syllable. Their expressions shifted from relaxed gossip to professional alertness in the span of a heartbeat.
"Young master," the first knight said, recovering quickly. His face betrayed nothing of the wild speculation he'd been spinning moments before. "You're awake. The Chief Inquisitor requests your presence in the front courtyard. Immediately."
"Of course," Blake said, trying for noble dignity and achieving something closer to nervous enthusiasm. "Lead the way."
They flanked him as he descended the stairs—not quite prisoners' escort, but not exactly honor guard either. Something in between. Protective but wary.
The courtyard was busier than yesterday. Knights moved with purpose, checking armor, sharpening weapons, loading supplies onto horses. Morning sun painted everything in shades of gold that made the decrepit estate look almost majestic. Almost.
A figure stood near the center, reading a leather-bound book with apparent absorption. Middle-aged, massively built, armor worn from use rather than display. The purple cloak marked him as someone important even before Blake registered the symbols of office.
The Chief Inquisitor.
The man looked up as Blake approached, gray eyes assessing him with the casual thoroughness of someone who'd spent decades evaluating threats.
"Blake Dunzel?" His voice was gravel rolling down a mountainside—rough but not unkind.
Blake's mouth went dry. This was it. The moment that would launch him toward palace life and royal marriage and everything his previous existence had denied him.
"Y-yes," he managed, then cleared his throat and tried again with more confidence. "Yes, sir. I'm Blake Dunzel."
The man closed his book with deliberate care. "I am Aldric Varn, Chief Inquisitor of the Olura Kingdom. I've been sent to verify your identity and escort you to the capital, where the queen herself has requested your presence."
Blake's heart soared. It was true. All of it. The knights hadn't been speculating—they'd been repeating actual facts.
"However," Aldric continued, and Blake's soaring heart stumbled mid-flight, "I must ask you some questions first. Standard procedure when dealing with... unusual circumstances."
"Of course," Blake said quickly. Too quickly. He forced himself to slow down, to think.
This was a test. Obviously a test. And he was about to fail it because he knew nothing about Blake Dunzel's actual past, couldn't recognize people he was supposed to know, had no memory of childhood connections with queens or anyone else.
Think. Think! What would an isekai protagonist do in this situation?
And then, like divine inspiration from his former colleague who'd read those stories aloud during every lunch break, the answer arrived fully formed.
Memory loss. The classic excuse. The perfect explanation for any gaps in knowledge or strange behavior.
Blake arranged his expression into what he hoped looked like confused regret. "Sir, I... I need to tell you something first. When the assassins attacked in the forest, I was injured. Not physically—at least, not badly—but..." He touched his temple uncertainly. "Something happened. My memory is... fractured. I can't clearly recognize people I should know. My past feels like trying to see through fog. I know who I am—I know my name—but everything else is just... pieces."
There. Perfect. Exactly how it always played out in those stories. The protagonist claims amnesia, gets sympathy instead of suspicion, and everyone accepts it because head injuries are mysterious and convenient.
Hwi-seong's consciousness, still mostly dormant, stirred with smug satisfaction in the depths of Blake's mind.
Aha! I knew these kinds of scenarios would come up. That mad colleague of mine—always reading those web novels aloud whenever he sat beside me at lunch. "The protagonist always loses his memory after possession or reincarnation," he'd say. "It's narrative shorthand for starting fresh!" And I'd tune him out, but apparently some of it stuck.
Blake felt absurdly pleased with himself. Look at me, solving problems with borrowed knowledge. Maybe I can survive this world after all.
But across from him, Aldric's expression had shifted.
The casual assessment in his gray eyes sharpened into something colder. More calculating. His posture changed subtly—weight shifting, hand drifting closer to his sword hilt. Not threatening yet, but ready.
"Memory loss," Aldric repeated slowly. "From the attack."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I wish I could remember more, but—"
"Interesting." Aldric's voice had gone flat, empty of warmth. "Very interesting timing for such an affliction."
Blake's smugness evaporated. Wait. Why is he looking at me like that?
In the Chief Inquisitor's mind, suspicion crystallized into near-certainty.
A demon in its wounded state would struggle to maintain perfect mimicry. It would make mistakes—gaps in knowledge, behavioral inconsistencies, memory failures conveniently explained by trauma. And if the boy had been present at Redfront during the ritual's culmination, if he'd been possessed by the fragment that escaped...
The demon would be riding this body like a stolen horse. And the creature speaking to me right now might not be Blake Dunzel at all.
Aldric's jaw tightened. His hand closed around his sword hilt—not drawing, but making his readiness clear.
"Blake Dunzel," he said carefully, each word weighted with purpose. "I'm going to need you to answer some very specific questions. And depending on your answers..."
He let the sentence hang, unfinished but heavy with implication.
"We'll determine whether you're fit to meet the queen. Or whether you need to be purified first."
Blake's stomach dropped through the courtyard stones and kept falling.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no—
What did I just do wrong?!
The knights tensed around them, hands moving to weapons. The busy courtyard stilled, attention shifting toward the confrontation brewing at its center.
And Blake—caught between a suspicious Chief Inquisitor and a future that had looked so promising just moments ago—realized he'd just made a terrible, potentially fatal mistake.
But he had no idea what it was.