Pacing. That's all he could do.
Up and down the marble floor of his room, back and forth like a man on the verge of snapping.
"This is bad," Owen muttered, dragging a hand through his tousled black hair. "This is so bad."
His breath came shallow, his nerves were frayed, and his mind raced with one repeating fact:
He was in the body of Gram Yuval.
The NTR villain. The sleazebag. The bastard.
He wasn't just stuck in a fantasy world. He was stuck in one designed to chew characters like him up and spit them out. A world full of monsters with teeth the size of houses, kingdoms that waged war for sport, and spellcasters with enough power to flatten cities just to make a point.
And him?
He didn't even have magic.
Or cheats.
Or plot armor.
Or any idea how he got here.
Each time he tried to remember what led up to this—whether it was a freak accident, a deal with a god, or some cursed hentai site—it all turned up blank.
No flash of light. No truck. No death.
Just… here.
"Goddammit," he hissed. "Why couldn't I have been the protagonist?! Or a background knight?! Hell, I would've taken the talking slime at this point!"
Frustrated, Owen yanked a robe from the bedside and threw it over his shoulders. He had to move. Sitting around wasn't helping.
Maybe the estate had a clue. A magic scroll, a cursed artifact, a plot device lying around he could trip on and trigger a full explanation. Anything.
He stepped out into the hallway, marble floors gleaming beneath his feet. Velvet curtains, oil paintings, priceless sculptures—it was like a mansion straight out of a noble's wet dream.
—
He wandered the estate, poking through rooms, checking bookshelves, drawers, even under furniture.
"Nothing," he muttered after the tenth study room. "Nothing, nothing—seriously, how rich was this guy?!"
As he turned a corner, two attendants spotted him.
"Young Master?"
He froze. The two maids bowed quickly, startled by his sudden presence. One of them started asking if he needed anything, while the other looked concerned.
Owen blanked. "Uh—I mean—just go. I'm busy. Go… go do maid things."
They didn't move.
Shit. Right. That's not how Gram would respond.
He straightened his back, furrowed his brow, and scowled. "Are you deaf? I said get lost."
They flinched, then bowed low and scampered off.
Owen exhaled slowly. "Guess being a dick has its uses."
—
Still, every hallway he walked down, he felt eyes. Raised brows. Whispered conversations that paused as he passed. No matter where he went, he was being watched like a tiger out of its cage.
Of course they'd notice.
He wasn't acting like Gram. Not really.
Gram wouldn't look worried. Gram wouldn't mutter to himself. Gram wouldn't search the mansion like a man hunting for a hidden Wi-Fi router.
Eventually, Owen stumbled into the main hall.
And stood there.
Defeated.
His shoulders slumped. His hands dropped to his sides.
Nothing.
No divine intervention. No clue, no magical glowing trail, no helpful system voice whispering "Congratulations, you've been chosen!"
Nothing to take him back.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't temporary.
He was Gram Yuval now. For real.
"…I hate this," he muttered.
Then—
"Gram."
A voice—smooth, confident, with just the right amount of irritation to make you feel like a child being scolded.
Owen looked up.
A woman stood at the top of the grand staircase, arms crossed. Tall. Elegant. Her long legs peeked out from beneath a tight business-cut gown that hugged her frame unfairly well. Her silver hair was braided back with gold thread woven through it, and her crimson eyes studied him with scrutiny.
Owen's jaw slackened for half a second before he snapped out of it.
Who the hell—?
She descended the stairs like a queen inspecting her court, never once breaking eye contact.
"You going to answer me, or just stand there gawking like a simpleton?" she asked coolly.
"…What do you mean?" he said, trying to play dumb.
She stopped three steps from the bottom and tilted her head slightly. "You've been wandering around like a headless chicken. The staff's been talking. Pacing, muttering, digging through rooms—what exactly are you looking for?"
Owen's heart pounded. Seriously?! They snitched already?!
He scrambled for an answer. "I, uh… I dropped some coin. Rare piece. Sentimental value."
She squinted at him for a long moment. Her gaze was sharp. Too sharp.
Then, she rolled her eyes.
"Whatever it is, stop making a fool of yourself. You're lucky this is happening inside the estate. If you acted like this in public, it'd be more than your pride getting trampled. The Yuval name doesn't bend for sentiment."
She turned away and walked off, her heels clicking across the floor, her hips swaying with a confidence that made a few nearby staff discreetly glance—before immediately looking away like they'd just seen a god.
Owen stood frozen.
Then it hit him.
Gloria Yuval.
Gram's older sister. Third Eldest of the Yuval family. A beautiful, cunning, cold business shark who could charm a devil and rob him blind while doing it. She wasn't a main player in the novel—but she was popular in the forums.
A lot of readers wished she'd been a love interest for the protagonist.
Mostly just to spite Gram.
Owen remembered agreeing at the time. Now, though?
"Yeah, glad that didn't happen…" he muttered, scratching his head. "I'd rather not get on her bad side…"
—
He spent another hour roaming the estate, but nothing changed.
No clue. No voice. No way out.
Eventually, Owen returned to his room—Gram's room—and flopped down onto a velvet couch like a dead man.
Everyone here hated him.
He could see it. The tension. The flinches. The way everyone tiptoed around him like they were one word away from getting executed.
The staff. The attendants. Even his own sister treated him like a loaded weapon pointed at their image.
The original Gram was an arrogant, self-centered aristocrat who saw people as tools and women as trophies.
Of course everyone hated him.
Owen let out a long breath.
From what he remembered, the story hadn't started yet. Gram hadn't enrolled in the Imperial Academy. Which meant…
He still had time.
Time to change things.
Could he run away?
No. The Yuvals had money, influence, trained knights, mages—they'd find him in a day. Maybe less.
Pretend he had amnesia?
Also a bad idea. Gram was too prideful and spiteful. No one would believe it. No one would pity him.
Every option… led him back to Gram's path.
But then, a thought sparked.
What if I didn't NTR the protagonist?
What if he just… stepped off that road entirely?
What if he stayed out of the way, got strong, and lived for himself?
No stupid schemes. No seductions.
No stealing anyone's girl.
No ticking off the hero.
Just… live.
Not as Gram.
But as someone better.
Slowly, Owen stood.
He looked up at the ceiling, at the intricate gold molding and chandeliers, and raised a clenched fist.
"I refuse," he whispered. "I refuse to NTR the protagonist."
This world may have handed him a villain's face.
But it wouldn't decide his fate.