Lucian lumbered down the corridor behind the maid, his heavy breathing the only sound breaking the silence. She gestured to a wooden door and scrambled away.
He pushed the door open. Steam drifted from a large copper tub set before a crackling fireplace. The heat felt divine against his clammy skin.
Lucian locked the door and turned to face his reflection in a tall mirror. The golden curls on his head were greasy, but the face beneath was soft, pale, and distinctly European in appearance.
He stripped off the rough nightshirt. A massive gut spilled out, pale and dimpled, hanging over his waistline. His thighs were thick, his arms lacking any definition.
Lucian heaved his leg over the rim of the tub. The water surged violently, sloshing over the edge as he lowered himself in. Heat wrapped around him at once, seeping into aching muscles he had not yet learned to call his own.
As he sank deeper, the water cooled around his shoulders. His thoughts drifted back to the sterile white of the hospital room, a place that somehow felt more solid than this stone tub ever could. He was Gyeong In. A ghost haunting a fat kid's meat suit. That wasn't real. This wasn't real.
He lifted a doughy arm from the bath, watching droplets trail down soft, flaccid skin. It felt wet, heavy. And yet his mind rejected it, screaming that this was artificial. A simulation stitched together by god know who.
"I can't lie to myself…" he whispered, the words rasping through his throat. "But can I consider the people here as real? I'm real, that much I know. But are our two worlds really the same?"
His fingers trembled as they sank back into the water.
"From my point of view, this is an alternate reality. So… should I treat them as equals?"
"Pfff… who cares. First I'll see what the deal is with the family, then I'll worry about morals."
The water in the tub turned murky as Lucian scrubbed at his pale skin. He grabbed a bar of soap and worked it into a lather, the sharp scent of lavender filling the cramped room. He washed methodically, forcing suds into the thick folds of his neck and beneath the heavy roll of his belly. It was slow, tedious work. His arms tired quickly, a dull burn creeping into his shoulders.
A flash of light intruded on his vision. Text scrolled through the steam, hovering in the air.
[It is possible to acquire information regarding your new environment. Cooperation is the recommended path to optimization.]
Lucian snorted, flecks of spit dotting the bathwater. He swiped at the air, physically batting the notification aside. It flickered, but stubbornly remained. Scowling, he willed the interface shut.
The window vanished instantly, replaced by a fresh prompt.
[Why the rejection?]
"I don't negotiate with kidnappers," Lucian muttered to the empty room.
[Hostility detected. Clarification: I am not the architect of your transmigration, merely the facilitator. Your biological hardware is currently rated as "Inadequate." Cooperation would accelerate the adjustment period.]
Lucian leaned forward, water sloshing loudly against the copper rim. "Oh, what, you want me running on a treadmill so you can feel useful? You want me to beg for help?"
He seized a washcloth and scrubbed his legs with aggressive strokes.
"Either be actually useful so I don't die in this lard-ass body, or shut up and show me my stats. That's your primary function."
Lucian hauled himself from the cooling water, droplets cascading off his mountain of flesh. He reached for a towel, his breath hitching as he had to bend at an awkward angle just to reach his hips. Wrapping the cloth around his waist proved to be a struggle; his arms strained as he struggled to dry the hard-to-reach areas on his back. Every movement felt sluggish, encumbered by the sheer mass he was forced to drag around.
He left the bathroom and entered the bedroom, shuffling toward a mahogany wardrobe. He pulled out a silk shirt and trousers, the fabric fine but likely tight. He slipped the trousers on, the waistband digging into his soft stomach, and pulled the shirt over his head. The buttons strained against the swell of his chest. He let out a long, frustrated sigh. He caught his reflection in the glass again. The golden-haired noble stared back, looking soft and utterly undisciplined.
"I can't live like this," he muttered. "I need to lose this fat. No, I will lose it." His gaze hardened. He would make this body strong, or die trying.
Lucian left the bedroom and navigated the unfamiliar corridors until he found the main living room. The rug was thick, the furniture dark and heavy. As he stepped inside, the heavy oak doors swung open and two men entered. The elder wore a fine velvet doublet that strained against a thick neck; his hair was a salt-and-pepper mess, eyes sharp and utterly unimpressed. Beside him stood a younger man, tall and lean, with a cascade of long blonde hair tied back with a leather thong.
Lucian's mind raced. The Lord and a brother?
He lowered his gaze slightly, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. He stood straight, suppressing his natural slouch. If he played this right, they would ignore him and leave him be.
"Look at that," the older man, Hildebrand, rumbled. His voice was like gravel grinding together. "The fat pig decided to stop choking himself. When did you learn to stand straight?"
Hildebrand paused, his eyes sweeping over Lucian's frame with visible disgust. He didn't wait for an answer. "I don't have the patience for your silent treatment today. Move."
Without a backward glance, Hildebrand marched past, his boots heavy on the floorboards as he headed for the stairs leading to the second floor. The tension in his shoulders was visible; he was radiating irritation.
The younger man, Craith, followed in his father's wake. He didn't even turn his head as he passed Lucian, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The air around him felt cold. They ascended the stairs, their footsteps fading, leaving Lucian standing alone in the center of the room, a strange mix of relief and humiliation churning in his gut.