The first thing I notice is that my phone feels…wrong.
Too smooth. Too heavy. Too there.
I peel my eyes open and squint at the rectangle hovering above my face. The screen is too bright, the icons too sharp, like someone turned the resolution up on reality.
And then my brain catches up.
That isn't my phone.
It's a holographic menu.
[SYSTEM BOOTING…]
A translucent window hangs in midair. My heart does a weird flip.
Title: Crimson Heirs of Everflame
Genre: FIRE 🔥
Mode: New Game+
Player Character:
Name: Lady Fiametta von Ardentis
Role: Villainess / Final Calamity
Status: Terminally Ill (Irreversible)
Difficulty: ???
I stare.
Then I do the only rational thing.
"I did not install a DLC like this," I croak.
Except—
That isn't my voice.
It's too soft. Too low-volume but clear, like silver bells under a blanket.
I sit up too fast. My body feels light, balanced wrong. Long strands of hair slide across my shoulders, cool and heavy. I look down.
And every neuron I have short-circuits.
White chemise. Burgundy corset laced tight around an unfairly tiny waist. Soft, pale hands with slender fingers and nails painted a delicate scarlet. And…yeah. Those are breasts. Those are definitely breasts. Full, lifted, the kind of ridiculous curves gacha artists give to bait whales.
My brain supplies a single, elegant thought:
This is a bug.
I swing my legs off the bed. A cascade of velvet and lace spills after them, a deep red dressing gown pooling on the polished stone floor. My feet land on a plush carpet, toes sinking into a pattern of roses and flames.
The room around me is huge. Four-poster bed with crimson curtains. A balcony framed by dark stone arches. Portraits of a woman who looks disturbingly like me if you added ten more years of "terrifying noble elegance."
I shuffle toward the mirror dominating the far wall.
The girl in the reflection moves with me.
She has hair like molten gold threaded with faint strands of red, cascading in absurd waves down to her hips. Skin like porcelain kissed by candlelight. Lips naturally tinted the color of rose petals. Eyes—
Her eyes are the kind of blue you only see in CGs: bright, burning, almost luminous, as if someone trapped twin flames inside sapphires.
She is, in short, offensively beautiful.
And I am her.
"…Nope," I whisper. "No way. I'm Fumiko. Twenty-two. Professional otome grinder. Failed college student. I fell asleep mid-route because the new event banner was trash and"
Memory slams into me.
Last night. Three cans of energy drink. The glow of my real phone in my dark room. Crimson Heirs of Everflame booting up for the first time, my excitement fading to confusion as I scrolled the store page.
"Why does the genre tag say 'Fire' and not 'Romance'?" I had muttered. "Is that a bug? Is this, like, metaphorical? Passion? Burning love? Come on, marketing team."
I'd laughed it off. The art promised a generic, straight romance game. Female protagonist, four gorgeous female leads—strange for an otome label, but hey, I'm not picky—and one overpowered villainess who existed purely to get ruined.
Villainess: Lady Fiametta von Ardentis.
The character glaring back at me from the mirror.
I press my fingers to my temples.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Let's establish some facts."
I hold up one hand, fingers trembling slightly.
"One: I am in the game Crimson Heirs of Everflame."
I wave vaguely at the status window hovering in the corner of my vision like some AR HUD no one asked for.
"Two: I am not the protagonist. I am the villainess. The final boss. The one all the female leads are supposed to hate."
My stomach twists, remembering the route charts. Fiametta was the kind of character whose bad endings were longer than her good ones even in the fan wiki. Betrayed. Imprisoned. Executed in a variety of aesthetically pleasing ways.
I swallow.
"Three: This body is…mine?" I wiggle my toes. They wiggle back, dainty and bare on the carpet. I can feel the fibers. The faint chill of air on my collarbones. The weight of my hair.
Too real.
"Four: The genre says Fire, and I still have no idea what that means, but if I had to guess it's not 'cozy marshmallows by the campfire.'"
My gaze drifts back to the status window, to the line that's been quietly screaming at me since I woke up.
Status Condition: Terminally Ill – Irreversible
Symptoms: Sudden collapses, loss of consciousness, hemoptysis (coughing blood), fatigue.
Pain Level: 0.
"Five," I whisper. "I am terminally ill. Except I don't feel sick at all."
I take a deep breath.
My chest rises smoothly. No tightness. No ache. My heartbeat is steady, maybe a little fast from panic, but not failing. I roll my shoulders, flex my hands. Nothing hurts.
If anything, I feel…good. Like a perfectly tuned weapon.
"So why," I ask the empty room, "do I have the most dramatic death flag in the history of death flags?"
As if triggered by my complaint, the HUD flickers.
Another window pops up.
AFFECTION SUMMARY – LADY FIAMETTA VON ARDENTIS
[Heroine 1: Princess Seraphine Lys Albrecht] ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ MAX
[Heroine 2: Knight-Captain Elira Voss] ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ MAX
[Heroine 3: Archmage Lyriel Neve] ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ MAX
[Heroine 4: Saintess Mira Solenne] ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ MAX
My brain bluescreens.
"…Excuse me?"
In the base game, Fiametta was universally despised. Every route started with the female leads distrusting, hating, or outright wanting her dead. Their affection meters for her were capped at -50. There were entire sections of the wiki on how to avoid "Fiametta Interference Events" because she would sabotage your progress.
But here, every heart is maxed.
Not just high. MAX.
"Is this…a prank?" I mutter. "Is this some kind of secret yuri mode? Did they release a patch while I was unconscious?"
A polite knock at the door makes me jolt three inches into the air.
"Lady Fiametta?" A voice calls through the wood—soft, melodic, slightly nervous. "It's Seraphine. May I come in?"
Every memory I have of Princess Seraphine from the game floods in at once.
The crown princess. Sunlight blonde hair. Candy-colored dresses. A smile that hid knives. In every route, she was the hardest to win over and the quickest to condemn you if you slipped. She hated Fiametta with a special, burning intensity.
My hand finds the bedpost to steady myself.
"Just…a second," I call, trying not to sound like I've been isekai'd into a nightmare mod.
I fumble with the dressing gown, tying it tighter, smoothing the front automatically. My body moves with a grace I absolutely did not earn. It feels like wearing a cheat code.
"Come in," I manage.
The door opens.
Sunlight spills around the silhouette standing there, turning dust motes into glitter. Princess Seraphine steps inside, closing the door carefully behind her.
In the game, she was cute.
In person, she's stunning.
Her hair falls around her shoulders in soft, golden waves. Her eyes are a pale, crystalline blue, wide with concern. Pastel ribbons and jewels catch the light as she moves, her dress a swirl of cream and rose. A faint scent of some expensive perfume—jasmine and something sweeter—trails after her.
But all of that is background noise because the way she's looking at me is—
Affection meter, my brain whispers.
I flick my attention to the corner.
[Seraphine Affection: MAX ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️]
Her expression softens the moment our eyes meet, like she's seeing something fragile she wants to protect.
"Fia," she breathes, and the nickname smacks me harder than any slap. She never called Fiametta that in the base game. Ever. "You're awake. I was so worried."
She's crossing the room before I can react, skirts whispering against the carpet, hands reaching for mine.
I freeze as warm fingers wrap around my own.
"Oh?" she murmurs, brows knitting. "You're cold."
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and soothing. My heart lurches into some kind of chaotic drum solo.
What.
What.
What.
"Y-you were worried?" I stammer.
Seraphine's eyes widen, like I've said something shocking.
"Of course I was," she says. "You collapsed in the garden yesterday. You were coughing blood and wouldn't let the healers near you. They said your condition is stable, but—"
Stable.
A memory surfaces—blurry, like a screenshot with motion blur. A garden drenched in sunset. The taste of iron in my mouth. People shouting my name. My vision narrowing to a bright, white tunnel.
"—I should have ordered them to sedate you," Seraphine continues, lower lip trembling. "I just didn't want to go against your wishes. You hate being treated like an invalid."
I blink.
Do I?
…Yeah. That sounds like the villainess. Proud. Stubborn. Too powerful to show weakness.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't my actual life now.
"I'm fine," I blurt, because that's exactly what someone with a terminal illness and zero pain would say. "Really. See? No coughing. No collapsing. Perfectly upright."
To prove it, I let go of the bedpost.
The world tilts.
A wave of dizziness washes over me. My knees wobble. Seraphine makes a soft, panicked sound and steps closer, arms sliding around my waist to steady me.
Suddenly I'm pressed against warm silk and perfume and princess.
My face turns into a furnace.
"Fia!" she scolds, voice somewhere between angry and desperate. "Don't push yourself!"
"I'm not—" I start, but it's hard to argue when my balance is being held together purely by royal concern.
Her hands tighten slightly.
"Please," she whispers, and that single word—pleading and very, very real—cuts through my instinct to deflect. "Don't scare me like that again."
Her affection meter pulses in the corner of my vision.
MAX.
They're supposed to hate me, I think, faintly hysterical. Every one of them. Did someone flip the flags? Did I load the wrong save?
"Seraphine," I say carefully, "why…do you care so much about me?"
The princess pulls back just enough that I can see her face.
Her cheeks have gone pink.
"Is that…a joke?" she asks quietly.
"No? I mean." I fumble. "Objectively. Narratively. We are…rivals?"
"Rivals," she repeats, like the word tastes strange. Her fingers twitch against my waist but don't let go. "Maybe to outsiders. To those who only see our titles. But Fia, you know that's not how I feel."
Do I?
Because the last time I played this game, she literally ordered my execution in three different endings.
"We grew up together," Seraphine goes on, voice softening as if she's reciting something sacred. "You've always been by my side. You took blame for my mistakes. You protected me from the council, from the nobles, from—"
Her eyes flash with something dark.
"—from everyone who thought they could use me as a tool. You're my flame, Fia. My fiercest knight and my—"
She bites the word off like it's too much. The silence throbs.
Affection: MAX.
I swallow.
"Seraphine," I say slowly, "if I were to…disappear. Hypothetically. What would you do?"
Her fingers dig into my waist, just a fraction tighter.
"The genre says Fire for a reason, my brain notes unhelpfully.
"I don't like that hypothetical," she says, with a smile that does not reach her eyes. It's too sharp, edge gleaming under the sweetness. "Anyone who tried to take you from me would burn. That's all."
Cool. Normal. Completely fine.
My throat feels dry.
"Right," I say weakly. "Of course."
She relaxes a little when I stop arguing. One hand rises, hesitating in the air before she gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
"There," she murmurs. "You look like yourself again."
The girl in the mirror looks like someone else entirely. I don't correct her.
Outside, bells chime the hour. Seraphine glances toward the window, then sighs.
"I shouldn't keep you standing," she says, reluctantly letting go and helping me sit back on the bed. "The council insisted on moving up the ceremony now that you've woken."
"Ceremony?" I ask, sinking into the mattress. My legs feel oddly hollow, like they're remembering being unconscious.
Her brows knit again.
"Have you truly forgotten?" she asks. "Fia, today is the day we announce our engagement to the empire."
My heart stops.
In the base game, the inciting incident was Seraphine's engagement to some foreign prince. The villainess tried to sabotage the party and got publicly humiliated. The protagonist stepped in, gained Seraphine's trust, and the routes diverged from there.
Engagement to the empire, not a prince. The fiancé is…me?
"But—" I start, brain trying to unscramble a plot chart that someone has clearly set on fire.
"Don't worry," Seraphine says, misreading my expression as nerves. Her smile softens, this time genuine. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Just stand beside me. Hold my hand if you like. I'll do the talking."
Hold her—
My thoughts glitch.
She pats my fingers.
"Rest for a bit," she says. "I'll send Elira to escort you when it's time."
Knight-Captain Elira Voss. Female lead #2. In the original game, she once said "I'll cut off Fiametta's head myself" with the brightest smile.
Now she's my…escort.
"And Fia?" Seraphine adds at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "If you feel even slightly unwell, promise me you'll call for me or the healers. I don't care what the diagnosis says. I won't let you fade away."
Her voice drops on that last line, almost a growl.
"I promise," I say automatically.
Seraphine smiles, radiant and relieved, and slips out of the room.
The moment the door clicks shut, the silence rushes back in.
I slump, burying my face in my hands.
"Okay," I mumble into my palms. "Let's recap."
I drop my hands and stare at the HUD.
YOU ARE:
– Fumiko, formerly male otome game addict.
– Now Lady Fiametta von Ardentis, villainess and literal walking death flag.
– Terminally ill but feel fine.
– Surrounded by female leads whose affection for you is MAXED.
– Apparently engaged to the crown princess.
"Cool cool cool," I whisper. "This was supposed to be a generic straight romance game. I was going to grind routes, unlock CGs, maybe complain about the gacha rates. Not star in a live-action…whatever this is."
The HUD blinks as if offended.
Another small icon appears in the corner. I focus on it and a tooltip pops up.
Genre: FIRE 🔥
A world where love burns bright, and everything you cherish can be set ablaze. Expect: heightened emotions, irreversible consequences, and reality bleed-through.
"Reality what?"
The word bleed-through squats in my brain and refuses to parse.
"Is this a joke?" I ask the empty air. "Is this some experimental horror tag? Did I download the wrong build? Why does everyone feel so real—"
I break off.
Because that's the thing, isn't it?
Seraphine's grip. The warmth of her hands. The way her voice shook when she said she was scared. The slight, unconscious shift of her weight as she braced herself to catch me.
You don't get that in scripted dialogue.
Not in the games I know.
"This isn't just…data," I say softly.
My heart beats once, hard and loud in my ears.
"Is this a real world based on a game?"
Silence answers.
The status window, unhelpful, simply hovers.
My gaze drifts to the line about my illness again. Terminal. Irreversible. No pain.
If this is real, that means—
I swallow.
"Nope," I tell myself. "We're not going there yet. We're going to think like a player."
I straighten, forcing my brain into familiar grooves.
Objective tracking. Flag management. Route analysis.
"Step one," I mutter. "Gather information. Talk to the other female leads. Confirm if their affection is also weirdly maxed and terrifying."
Knight-Captain Elira. Archmage Lyriel. Saintess Mira.
In the original game, they each had at least one CG of glaring at Fiametta like she'd kicked their puppy.
Now they might look at me the way Seraphine did.
My ears heat up just thinking about it.
"Step two: figure out what 'Fire' actually means in terms of mechanics. 'Reality bleed-through' sounds like a bug report waiting to happen but apparently it's a feature."
Step three.
My gaze drops to the word Terminally Ill.
"Step three," I say quietly, "figure out how to live long enough to do steps one and two."
As if I've summoned it, a faint tickle rises in my throat.
I ignore it.
It claws up, insistently.
"Not now," I mutter, pressing a hand to my chest. "You're a plot device, not my entire day—"
The cough rips out of me before I can finish, sharp and sudden.
My body folds around it, hand flying to my mouth.
Warm, metallic taste blooms on my tongue.
For a second, the world narrows, sound muffling, as if I'm underwater. My vision blurs at the edges, dark creeping in.
My fingers tremble as I pull them away from my lips.
Bright red streaks my pale skin. Not much. A few drops. But against the white of my hand, it looks obscene.
The HUD flashes.
Symptom Triggered: Hemoptysis
Vital Stability: 73%
Recommended Action: REST.
My head feels light, like someone pulled half the gravity out of the room. I sway.
"Fine," I whisper, my voice thinner than before. "Point…taken."
I lie back on the bed slowly, the mattress embracing me. My hair fans out around my head like a halo of gold and red.
The ceiling above is painted with scenes of flames turning into roses and roses into flames. The same motif is on the canopy, the curtains, the embroidery on my sleeves.
Fire. Fire. Fire.
"Generic straight romance game," I mumble, eyelids drooping despite my best efforts. "Sure. Totally. Nothing weird here."
My last coherent thought before darkness edges in is annoyingly practical:
If this is really a game world turned real…
…then there must be a way to hack the system.
Even if the genre is fire.
Even if the villainess is dying.
Even if all the heroines are already in love with her.
Especially then.
Somewhere beyond the stone walls and velvet curtains, bells toll again.
And in another part of the palace, four women feel a simultaneous, inexplicable urge to check on Lady Fiametta von Ardentis.
Their affection, after all, is already at MAX.
Why let anything threaten that?