[The Next Day]
My morning started early—a brand-new habit in a brand-new life. This body, Evan's body, seems to be pre-programmed to wake up at 5 a.m., which is a colossal shift from my old existence on Earth. Back then, 8 a.m. was a heroic achievement, a day well-begun.
I know, I know. Five and eight in the morning are two entirely different universes, a chasm of lost sleep and forgotten dreams. But you get the gist—I'm a morning person now, and I'm still figuring out how I feel about it. It's a bit like getting a pet that wakes you up at the crack of dawn—you love it, but you also kind of hate it.
My mornings are a textbook example of discipline, and it's honestly a little exhausting. First, I head to the estate grounds for a morning run—yes, a run, not a leisurely jog. This isn't for fun; it's to maintain the image of the "perfect young master" I've inherited. Then, I gulp down a "protein shake" (or whatever overly complicated name Roselyn, my maid, has for it, probably something involving a rare herb and a celestial blessing).
After that, it's off to the private training yard, built just for me, where I practice my spear techniques. The yard is vast, the ground meticulously raked, and the only audience is the silent stone gargoyles perched on the walls.
Yep, I'm a spear user. Why not a sword? Well, I do like swords. Big fan, actually. They're all about dramatic flourishes and hero moments. But I didn't get to transmigrate early enough to claim one as my "signature cool weapon." Otherwise, I'd be out here swinging a blade with twice the flair and a dozen more dramatic, slow-motion moves, probably with my hair flowing in a non-existent wind.
But hey, spears are cool too. I mean, just look at that maid over there. She's trying to hide behind a bush while blatantly staring at me. She's definitely admiring my perfect spear form—the swift thrusts, the elegant spins, the way the sunlight glints off the polished steel. It's not my abs. Nope, not at all. Not even a little. Even though I am shirtless right now. And even though she looks like she's about to faint from the sheer spectacle of it all. It's a good feeling, the quiet admiration. It's a part of the perks of this new life, a small, selfish joy I allow myself.
After my hardcore training session, my sweaty body dragged itself back to my room, a monument to physical exhaustion and my new physique. Before the bath, I took my sweet time to admire myself in front of the full-length mirror—because why not? In this world, I'm objectively handsome, and I have every right to enjoy it. This isn't just "passable on a good day" handsome. No, this is head-turning, conversation-stopping, make-your-enemies-jealous handsome. My old self wasn't bad-looking, but this?
This is a serious promotion. I've gone from a friendly "Hi, Evan" to a far more intriguing, "Come to my room, Evan." And trust me, that's a hell of an upgrade. It's the kind of face that can get you out of trouble, the kind that makes people trust you a little too easily. I haven't figured out how to use it yet, but the potential is there.
Only after a good half-hour of admiring my perfect jawline and a chest that could probably stop a sword did I finally drag my sweaty self into the bathroom for a long, luxurious shower. When I stepped out, the air instantly filled with my scent—clean, fresh, and just the right amount of smug.
I slipped into my usual classic style: a fitted gray shirt with tight sleeves and formal black pants. My signature look. The one that says, "Yes, I look this good, and no, you can't." I only let the staff help me dress for formal events; everything else, I do myself. I'm not helpless. I'm just particular.
So why am I even telling you about my average, uneventful routine? Well… because this perfect life is a lie. This is the calm before the storm, the prelude to my inevitable demise. Yes, I'm in a novel world. Yes, I've read the story. And no, I haven't forgotten my fate as a third-rate villain. I swear, I didn't forget it when I woke up the next morning thinking I'd dreamed about meeting some chick in a garden with her maid—those damn long legs are still burned into my brain. And I definitely didn't forget it when I tried to go back to sleep… only to realize I couldn't. My mind, now a repository of a novel's plot points, refused to be silenced.
So, what's the catch? Well, you know how I've read a lot of web novels? This one—Grace of the Light—happens to be one of them. I read it a while ago… and then dropped it when I found something more interesting. Hey, don't judge—I'm not the loyal, diehard fan type. And now? Yeah, I regret it. I'd sell my soul for a few spoilers right now. The irony is so thick I could choke on it. The universe throws me into this world, and it's one I barely remember.
Who would've thought I'd end up here of all places? And honestly, why couldn't that so-called goddess ask for my preference first? Like, "Hey, which novel would you like to be thrown into?" But no, apparently divine beings don't believe in customer service.
So yes, I'm blaming her. And no, I'm definitely not going to admit that any of this might be my own fault. I'm a victim of cosmic negligence, and I'm sticking to that story.
So, that's my situation. I've read the earlier chapters, sure, but that's about it. I don't have much knowledge about this world. No handy list of cheat opportunities the protagonist will stumble across, no upcoming meet-ups I can crash, nothing that screams "adventurous journey." It's just me, stuck living an average life… in my ridiculously luxurious mansion, just waiting for the hero to arrive and ruin everything. I'm a supporting character with a tragic fate, and all I can do is watch and wait. The feeling is like being on a rollercoaster—you know the drop is coming, but there's nothing you can do but brace for impact.
I sigh, a small puff of breath leaving my lips. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet elegance of the dining room, it feels like a gunshot.
"Young master, is the breakfast not to your liking?" Roselyn asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her voice was polite, but I caught that faint trace of concern in it. Her eyes, as gentle and blue as a forget-me-not, searched mine.
"No, it's not about that," I replied, shaking my head. My tone was flat, the cheerfulness of the monologue now a distant memory. I offered a small nod to assure her it wasn't her cooking, even though the food was an exquisite symphony of flavors I could no longer fully appreciate.
"Hey, Roselyn… what's my schedule for today?" I asked, needing a distraction from the heavy thoughts.
"Well, there's nothing special planned for today, young master," she said after a brief pause. Her voice was soft, as if she knew I was asking for a reason other than curiosity.
"Hmm… where's Father? Is he still busy with business affairs with Count Valentine?"
"Yes, the proposal is still on its way, and he hasn't returned for the time being." Her words were a rehearsed answer, one she had given me many times before.
The lack of a definite return date was a familiar ache.
"I see," I said, picking up my fork and eating the rest of my food in silence. The metallic taste of the fork, the buttery sweetness of the pastry, the aroma of the brewing tea—they were all muted, like a memory of a flavor. I just went through the motions, a puppet on a string, performing the role of the "dearly beloved son."
After breakfast, I made my way to leave the mansion, my steps unhurried. My destination was the church.
We usually went to the church as a family. But after the death of my mother, everything changed—not in a bad way, not in a good way either. The only thing that remained the same was that everyone started making themselves busy, almost as if to walk away from the grief. My father, with his new business ventures and late nights. Roselyn, with her meticulous attention to my needs. And me, with my absurd training regimen and internal monologue. We all had our ways of running.
My father always seemed to be in the middle of some deal, a new business project, or anything that could add to his workload. The consequence? More money, more influence… and less time for me. Less time for the ghost of his wife to haunt the halls.
But I can't blame him. The poor man had loved his wife very dearly, so dearly that he refused to remarry. He couldn't bear to replace her, couldn't bring another woman into the house that she had made a home. And it's not like he neglected me. I am quite the charm of his eyes, the pride he takes in. He spoiled me a lot, tried to make up for my missing mother in every way he could.
Still… the missing gap couldn't be filled easily. My eyes and my stiff smile probably said otherwise. Since the gap doesn't fill easily, the scar is left behind—even when the deepest wound has healed. It's a phantom limb, an ache you can't quite place, but know is always there.
He's not the only person who loved her. I also loved my mother very deeply. I don't know if you've heard this line before: a man's first love is his mother. She is the first person you hold, the first warmth you feel, the first voice that can melt a frozen heart while you listen. To me, she was a sun in a world of shadows, a kind and gentle soul who made this cold, hard existence feel warm and safe.
Maybe that's why Father had arranged my engagement early—to a promising young lady. Strict but kind. Cold but warm. Elegant, with a beauty that shines like the warm sun chasing the darkness away. He saw her and perhaps saw a reflection of the woman he had lost, a chance for me to have the kind of love he had known. Or maybe, he just wanted to ensure my future, to make sure I wasn't alone in this mansion once he too was gone.
Well… anyway, enough with the sob talk. I've already had my fill of that back in my previous life when I lost my father. And now, in this life, it's my mother. It's a sick, twisted joke. The universe ripped one parent from me, only to give me a new one and then rip her away too.
Probably just the universe trying to balance things out, you know? One trauma cancels out another. A messed-up kind of equation, but… whatever. I'm done with the math.
So yeah—I'm what you'd call a numb guy now. Nothing really gets through to me. Not truly sad, not truly happy. It's like there's this invisible wall between me and my own feelings. The emotions are there, somewhere, but they're muffled, distant. They're like a radio station I can no longer tune into, just static and a faint memory of a song.
Right now? I can see colors. That's already a big deal for me. If I can notice the green of the grass, the pale blue of the sky, or the golden glow of sunlight on stone… that's enough to satisfy me in my own strange way. It's a sign that I'm not a complete ghost yet, a small victory against the encroaching emptiness.
I stepped outside and went straight to my coachman, a kind, older man with a weathered face and a quiet dignity. I told him my destination—the church. He gave a polite nod and began preparing the carriage, his movements slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to my internal chaos.
The church. It's just me going there these days — me and myself. Keeping the old traditions alive as best I can. Not because anyone asked me to, but because it feels like a duty. A quiet one, the kind that no one else bothers with anymore.
And maybe that's just the way of things. The gentleman always have their part to play, even when they don't want to. And I guess… this is mine.