LI'm in a bed.
Not a bed. The bed.
It's the size of a small country. There are silk sheets. There are velvet pillows. There are so many bodies that the laws of physics have filed a formal complaint.
And the girls—yes, girls, plural like a threat—are everywhere. Laughing. Whispering. Draped over me like decorative scarves. Hair spilling across my chest, my arms, my face, my entire life. The room smells like perfume and warm skin and the kind of trouble that ruins a man in three chapters.
Somewhere near my left shoulder, a girl with pink hair says, "He's waking up."
Somewhere near my right ear, another voice purrs, "No, no. Let him sleep. We're just… appreciating him."
I try to sit up, but I can't. I'm pinned by sheer volume. A leg over my thigh. An arm around my waist. A cheek pressed to my neck. Someone's fingers tracing lazy shapes on my forearm like I'm a doodle.
"Hello," I croak, because apparently my mouth has decided to betray me by being polite.
One hundred pairs of eyes turn to me like a spotlight.
It's dead silent for one second.
Then, chaos.
A girl climbs onto my stomach like she's scaling a mountain and announces, "Claiming the high ground!"
Another girl immediately protests, "Unfair! He's mine first! I called him in the prophecy!"
A third one, wearing something that is definitely not enough fabric to be legally considered clothing in my old world, leans down until her hair curtains my face and whispers, "If you're a dream, don't wake up."
My brain does a hard reboot.
My body does an even harder reboot.
The bed shifts as if the entire mattress is breathing. Hands squeeze my shoulders. Someone nuzzles my cheek. Someone else kisses the corner of my mouth like they're testing a button.
"Wait," I say, trying to sound in control and absolutely failing. "Why are there… so many of you?"
A voice from somewhere in the pile answers, extremely casual, "Because you're the hero."
Another voice adds, "And also because you looked sad."
A third voice goes, "And because you're cute when you panic."
My dignity takes one look at the situation and resigns on the spot.
I'm swallowed by warmth and laughter and too-soft voices saying too-close things. My face is hot. My heart is a drumline. My brain is a tiny animal trying to escape through my ears.
Then a girl with silver eyes leans close, her lips near my ear, and murmurs, "Say yes."
The world tilts. The air thickens. A hundred giggles bloom like fireworks.
I open my mouth—
And someone slams a stamp on my forehead.
The sound is comically loud.
Thunk.
The room freezes.
A bright red word appears floating in the air above me like a notification from the universe.
UNLICENSED.
Every single girl gasps like I just swore in church.
Then, the entire dream collapses like a stage set.
The bed vanishes.
The girls vanish.
My dignity comes back briefly, sees where I am, and dies again.
I wake up face-down on a marble floor.
—
Above me: a sky that isn't a sky, pastel and smug, with heart-shaped clouds drifting like the universe is making fun of me on purpose.
In front of me: a woman holding a clipboard.
She looks like divine office staff. White blouse. Pencil skirt. Hair in a bun so tight it could erase sins. Glasses that have never seen mercy.
"Oh good," she says. "You're awake."
I sit up too fast, because apparently embarrassment carries momentum even into the afterlife. "Where am I?"
"You are deceased," she says.
"I— what?"
She flips a page. "Cause of death: noodle-related incompetence."
"Come on."
She doesn't blink. "Name?"
"Ren," I say automatically, because my old name feels like it belongs to a different person who didn't die to noodles. "Ren."
"Full name?"
My brain scrambles and produces something that sounds believable in exactly two continents. "Ren Varga."
She writes it down like she's filing a tax form. "Age?"
"Twenty-two."
"Congratulations," she says, with the enthusiasm of a stapler. "You have been selected for Fantasy World Variant 12-B."
I stare at her. "Why?"
She checks her notes, then pauses like she's deciding how much she hates her job today. "Because you have a certain… compatibility."
"What compatibility?"
She reads the line out loud, flat as a courtroom. "You are, quote, extremely susceptible to teasing."
My soul tries to crawl under the marble and hide.
"That's not a reason," I say.
"It is here," she replies. "Also, your dream proves the assignment algorithm is working."
"That was a test?"
"That was your onboarding."
I press my palms to my eyes. "So I'm getting reincarnated."
"Yes."
"As the hero."
"Yes," she says. "Technically."
"What do you mean technically?"
A translucent blue window pops into existence above my chest with a cheery chime that feels like it should come with an apology.
WELCOME, HERO REN VARGA
CLASS ASSIGNED: RELUCTANT HAREM HERO
WORLD: LUSTRA, CITY OF EROS MANA
WARNING: HIGH FATE AFFINITY
STATUS: EXTREMELY TEASABLE
I stare at the last line until it blurs.
"No," I say softly.
The screen updates as if offended by my denial.
SYSTEM GRANTED: THE CHASTITY SYSTEM
PRIMARY RULE: RESISTING TEMPTATION GRANTS XP
SECONDARY RULE: CONSENT RITUALS GRANT BONUS XP
TERTIARY RULE: GIVING IN WITHOUT RITUAL = DEBUFF "SHAME HANGOVER"
I look up. "Why is it called that."
The clipboard woman smiles like an automatic door closing. "Because the gods enjoy branding."
"So the whole world is horny, and I level up by not being horny."
"Correct."
"And I'm… a reluctant harem hero."
"Correct."
"And that dream—"
"Was a preview," she says. "Please do not panic. Panic creates paperwork."
"Can I refuse?"
"No."
"Can I at least get a sword?"
She reaches behind her, produces a small pouch, and drops it onto my lap.
It jingles.
I open it.
Inside is a candle.
A single white candle with a gold label.
Consent Candle — Starter Edition
When lit, all parties within three meters must verbally confirm consent and boundaries before romantic actions.
Candle extinguishes if anyone is unsure, uncomfortable, or lying.
I hold it up like it might bite me. "This is my weapon."
"Yes."
"This is my heroic artifact."
"Yes."
She adjusts her glasses. "This world runs on Eros Mana. Romantic tension powers magic. Your candle prevents accidental disasters and keeps everything consensual."
I swallow. "So… it's basically horny magic with rules."
"Civilized horny magic," she corrects.
Before I can process that sentence, she points behind me.
A shimmering portal stands there, pulsing like destiny has a heartbeat.
Beyond it, a city of stone and banners and towers glows in warm sunlight. Right at the edge of the portal is a huge statue of a goddess posed like she's advertising perfume.
A plaque at the base reads:
WELCOME TO LUSTRA
PLEASE REGISTER YOUR FLIRTING LICENSE AT THE GATE
I turn back. "Flirting license?"
The clipboard woman nods. "You'll need one."
"I'm going to pass out."
"Good luck," she says.
Then she shoves me through the portal like she's late for lunch.
—
Warm air hits me like a sigh. The city smells like spices, sweet fruit, and perfume so strong I swear it's a debuff.
At the gate, two guards in polished armor stop me. Their helmets have tiny hearts engraved into them like somebody tried to make war cute.
One guard, built like a wall with arms, grunts, "Name."
"Ren."
"Age."
"Twenty-two."
"Flirting license."
"I just got here."
He sighs like my existence is his twelfth inconvenience today. "Take a number."
He hands me a wooden tag.
It says 69.
I stare at it.
He stares back, face completely neutral. "Next."
I stumble into the plaza holding my number like a curse.
A billboard overhead announces:
TODAY'S EROS MANA FORECAST: HIGH FLIRT CONDITIONS. STAY HYDRATED.
"I'm going to die again," I whisper.
Immediately, I collide with someone.
Soft.
Warm.
Very close.
Hands grip my shoulders to steady me, and I look up into steel-gray eyes that could condemn me without raising their voice.
She's wearing shining silver armor with a white cape. Blonde hair in a strict ponytail. A paladin's crest at her throat.
And her expression is the exact face of someone who has seen sin and is about to lecture it for forty minutes.
Her gaze drops to my wooden tag.
Then to the candle pouch at my belt.
Then back to my face.
Her cheeks flush, just barely, like her body betrayed her before her pride could stop it.
"You," she says.
"Me?"
She steps closer. One step. Then another. Her voice lowers, sharp and controlled, like she's trying not to be affected by the fact that I am apparently breathing.
"I am Dame Elise von Hartmann," she says. "Paladin of the Sun Oath. Protector of Lustra."
"That's… great," I say. "I'm Ren. I'm new. I'm confused. And I think I'm in danger."
Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second, like a stray thought slipped out.
Then she clears her throat so violently it sounds like an exorcism. "You are holding Number Sixty-Nine."
"Yes," I say, because it's true and also because the universe hates me.
Elise inhales through her nose like she's counting to ten. "That number is… considered provocative."
"It's just a number."
"In Lustra," she says, very seriously, "numbers can be flirting."
My brain shorts.
Elise takes my wrist, not gently, not roughly, but with authority. The contact sends a ridiculous shiver up my arm like my nervous system is a traitor.
"I will escort you," she says.
"To where?"
"To the licensing office," she replies, still holding my wrist. Her thumb shifts slightly, a tiny accidental stroke that makes my stomach flip.
Then she leans in just enough that her breath brushes my ear, and in the smallest voice imaginable, she adds:
"Also… if you are truly the hero… you must be tested."
I swallow. "Tested how?"
Elise's eyes flick down to the Consent Candle pouch again. Her lips press together like she's trying to lock the thought inside.
"Properly," she says, and starts walking, dragging me with her through the plaza while I try to remember how to breathe like a normal person and not like a man who just woke up from a hundred-girl dream into a world that requires a flirting license.
The system chimes happily in my skull like it's enjoying my suffering.
NEW QUEST: GET LICENSED
BONUS OBJECTIVE: DO NOT FALL OVER FROM BLUSHING
WARNING: PALADIN IN CLOSE PROXIMITY
TIP: YOUR CANDLE IS ABOUT TO BECOME VERY IMPORTANT
I look at Elise's hand around my wrist.
I look at her very serious face.
I look at the sunlight catching the edge of her armor.
And I think, with complete doomed certainty:
I am not surviving this city.