Chapter 1: The Asset That Shouldn't Exist
Death arrived without ceremony.
No tunnel of light.
No replay of memories.
No final regret.
The blade pierced cleanly through his chest, severing muscle, breaking bone, and puncturing something vital. He knew that much—not because it hurt, but because his body informed him it should have.
Pain never came.
Instead, there was an absence. A sudden and complete removal of sensation, like a switch being turned off.
The world froze.
The shouting soldiers, the smell of iron and mud, the burning torches lining the encampment—all of it stalled mid-motion, suspended in an invisible grasp.
And in that stillness, something else opened its eyes.
[Host state: biological death confirmed.]
A voice—not sound, not thought, but information—unfolded inside him.
[Searching for compatible core…]
He tried to breathe. His lungs didn't respond. He tried to move. His nerves ignored the command.
So this is dying, he thought.
Except… it didn't feel like an ending.
[Compatibility detected.]
The frozen world fractured.
Memories that were not his surged forward, forcefully stitched into his awareness. A different life. A different body. A name he didn't recognize but somehow knew belonged to him now.
A lowborn nobody. A nameless camp follower. A man stabbed and discarded behind the military tents for overhearing something he shouldn't have.
So I died twice, he realized.
Once in his original world.
Once here.
[Host designation confirmed: Non-Human Core.]
That phrase finally stirred something resembling emotion.
Non-human?
Before he could question it, the stillness shattered. Time lurched forward violently, dumping sensation back into his body all at once.
Cold mud pressed against his cheek. The smell of blood flooded his nose. The weight in his chest returned—not as pain, but as pressure, like an object lodged where his heart should be.
Footsteps crunched nearby.
"…check the corpse again," a woman's voice said, sharp and commanding. "I don't want loose ends."
Boots stopped inches from his face.
A shadow fell over him.
"Commander, he's definitely dead—"
His eyes opened.
The soldier recoiled, stumbling backward with a curse. "H-he's alive!"
The woman stepped into view.
She was tall, broad-shouldered beneath her crimson-trimmed armor, her posture rigid with the confidence of someone accustomed to issuing death sentences. A longsword rested at her side, its blade darkened with dried blood.
Her gaze locked onto him—cold, assessing, utterly unhesitant.
Seraphina Valecrest.
The Knight Commander of the Northern Front.
His borrowed memories screamed her name, along with everything else that mattered.
Executioner. Strategist. War hero.
A woman who could kill him without paperwork.
His body still didn't respond. He lay there, chest unmoving, eyes staring straight up at her.
"Interesting," she said flatly. "You should be dead."
Her hand tightened around her sword hilt.
This was the moment a normal person would panic.
Beg.
Scream.
His mind did none of those things.
Instead, something inside him… recalibrated.
Fear registered as a data point. Threat level: extreme. Survival probability: negligible.
And beneath that calculation, something else pulsed—cold, patient, observant.
[Villain Internship System activated.]
Her sword cleared its sheath with a whisper of steel.
[Purpose: ensure host survival through hierarchical employment.]
She raised the blade, angling it toward his throat.
[Condition: host must serve dangerous women.]
Time slowed—not externally this time, but internally. His perception stretched, taking in minute details.
The slight tension in her wrist.
The controlled angle of her stance.
The absence of hesitation.
This woman did not bluff.
[First Internship Available.]
The words appeared like a contract burned into his consciousness.
[Candidate: Seraphina Valecrest.]
[Threat Level: High.]
[Authority: Absolute.]
[Acceptance required.]
He understood instantly.
This wasn't a choice between life and death.
It was a choice between being discarded and being useful.
The sword descended.
His body moved.
Not fast. Not strong.
Just… correctly.
He rolled to the side as the blade struck where his neck had been a fraction of a second earlier, carving a deep groove into the mud.
The watching soldiers shouted in alarm.
Seraphina's eyes narrowed.
He pushed himself up on one arm. His chest wound should have collapsed him. It didn't. Something dense and unfamiliar occupied the space where a heart should be, pulsing slowly, deliberately.
"Stop," he said.
The word came out calm. Flat.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to give orders."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm offering employment."
Silence fell over the encampment.
One of the soldiers laughed nervously. Another tightened his grip on his spear.
Seraphina didn't laugh.
She studied him the way one examined a defective weapon—curious whether it was salvageable.
"Employment," she repeated. "You were spying."
"No," he said. "I overheard."
"Same thing."
"Spies plan," he replied. "I didn't. That makes me careless, not treacherous."
Her sword tip hovered inches from his face.
"And why shouldn't I finish what my men started?"
Because you'll waste an asset.
He didn't say it out loud.
[Warning: disclosure of system prohibited.]
Instead, he met her gaze.
"Because I didn't die," he said. "And you don't strike me as someone who ignores anomalies."
That earned him a pause.
Not mercy. Not curiosity.
Calculation.
Seraphina slowly lowered her blade.
"You have ten seconds," she said. "Convince me."
He didn't rush.
He pushed himself to his knees, ignoring the way his torn flesh knit itself back together with unnatural efficiency.
"I heard you discussing the supply route collapse," he said. "The western path is compromised. You suspect sabotage, but you don't know where."
Her eyes sharpened.
"The quartermasters are loyal," she said.
"Not all of them," he replied. "The one with the silver ring on his left hand—he reports to House Blackvale."
That name rippled through the soldiers.
Seraphina's jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't know that."
"I shouldn't be alive either," he said evenly. "Yet here we are."
Five seconds passed.
Her sword lowered completely.
"Bind his wounds," she ordered. "If he dies, I'll kill the medic."
A soldier rushed forward.
Seraphina crouched in front of him, lowering herself to eye level.
"You work for me now," she said. "You eat when I allow it. You speak when spoken to. You disobey once, and I end you."
He inclined his head.
"Understood."
[Internship Accepted.]
The moment the system confirmed it, something inside him shifted again.
A pressure spread through his limbs, not painful, not pleasant—efficient.
[Internship Phase 1: Employment initiated.]
[Survival condition: remain useful.]
[Failure penalty: termination.]
As he was dragged to his feet, supported by rough hands, he took stock of himself.
His pulse was slower than it should be. His breathing optional rather than necessary. His thoughts… sharper.
This body was human.
The thing animating it was not.
Seraphina straightened, already issuing orders to mobilize the camp.
She didn't look back at him.
But she didn't order his execution either.
That was enough.
As he followed her into the heart of the encampment, the system spoke once more.
[Evaluation note: Host adaptation rate exceeds projections.]
He felt something close to amusement.
Good, he thought.
Because if he was going to survive this world—
He wouldn't do it as prey.