Ardyn Cross sat slumped over a cheap folding table in his cramped, dimly lit apartment, his back stiff and aching from hours stuck in a hard plastic chair. The faint flicker of his half-broken laptop screen showed a lagging anime scene impossibly oversized sword wielded by a determined girl. In front of him, a plastic bowl of instant noodles sat cooling, untouched. The small desk fan in the corner buzzed noisily, struggling to stir the thick, humid air. Sweat clung to his skin, but he hardly noticed. He was livestreaming to five viewers, most of whom were bots.
"Man, if Truck-kun actually hit me, maybe I'd get reincarnated with some busted cheat system. Then maybe I'd finally stop getting stomped by twelve-year-olds in Silver rank."
His laugh was hollow, a brittle sound born from frustration and defeat. Someone typed in the chat: 'Do it lol. Reincarnate, loser.'
Ardyn snorted, lifting a soggy strand of noodles to his mouth. Steam fogged his glasses as he leaned back, eyes locked on the screen. Then, in a blink, disaster struck. The noodle slid down wrong. A thick strand caught harshly in his throat.
He froze instantly.
His eyes widened as his hands flew up to claw at his throat. A cough escaped, then another, more desperate. No air came. Panic bloomed in his chest, sharp and fierce. He shoved back from the table, his chair toppling behind him, arms flailing wildly. The bowl slipped from the table, broth splashing over the stained carpet.
A gurgling choke tore from his lips. His knees buckled beneath him, vision blurring. His body twisted instinctively toward the door as if it could save him, but his legs gave out before he reached it. He collapsed hard in front of the fridge, one hand stretching out toward the counter, the other clutching his throat in futile desperation.
His vision narrowed, dimmed, then blacked out.
Then, faintly, light.
A strange warmth spread over his skin, soft at first, then growing, like the sun's harsh rays beating down in midday. Slowly, painfully, consciousness clawed its way back. His eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, he thought he was still on his grimy floor. But the second his vision cleared, he knew something was terribly wrong.
Above him, cracked wooden beams stretched across an old ceiling, nothing like the plaster and paint he was used to. He shifted painfully, stiff joints cracking and groaning. Beneath him was a straw mat, damp with the scent of earth and mildew. No laptop, no fan, no bowl of noodles. Only the dusty light filtering in through narrow slits in the wooden walls.
"What the hell…" he whispered, voice rough and cracked.
He pushed himself up cautiously, feeling an unfamiliar lightness to his body. It was as if all the weight he had been dragging around, both visible and invisible, had been peeled away. He glanced down and frowned. His arms looked thin and pale, almost fragile. His hands felt strange, more delicate, like someone else's.
Breathing quickened, fingers trembling as they brushed across his face. No beard. No glasses. His nose was smaller, his jaw sharper. He scrambled to a cracked mirror resting against the wall, its surface clouded with age. When his eyes met his reflection, shock stole his breath.
That face wasn't his own.
He looked eighteen or nineteen, youthful and unfamiliar. Gone was the messy black hair he remembered. His skin was smooth, almost glowing. The amber hue in his eyes was strange, alien. Not the man who had just died choking on noodles like a fool.
"What is this?" he muttered, panic rising. "This can't be real. Am I dreaming?"
He clutched his head, pacing the tiny room. It was bare and sparse, the kind of place a poor, forgotten person might call home for a night or two. A chipped jug of water sat on a small table, a half-broken lamp rested nearby. No technology, no sounds except the quiet hum of distant life. No comfort, no familiarity.
Then a voice echoed inside his mind.
[Welcome, Host. Synchronization Complete.]
It was cold, female, and strangely seductive. He spun around, heart pounding, but no one was there.
"Who said that?" he demanded, voice cracking as he tried to sound confident.
[You have been chosen by the Forbidden Harem System. Resistance is futile.]
Suddenly, a flood of information crashed through his mind. Memories, rules, intricate mechanics. Pain like needles stabbed his skull as visions flashed: strange women, fierce battles, seductive moments, fallen empires. The knowledge burrowed deep, like thorns under his skin.
He gasped and sank to his knees.
This system wasn't what he expected.
It did not grant flashy powers or blazing magic. Instead, it offered strength through connection—intense, emotional, physical bonds. The deeper his relationships with powerful women became, the more he could absorb their unique talents, their bloodlines, their cultivated skills. But only if they truly belonged to him.
And once bound, they could not leave.
The word "sin" echoed in his mind. Lust, jealousy, obsession, betrayal—these were not weaknesses to avoid, but sources of power.
"What kind of sick cheat is this…" Ardyn breathed, half terrified, half fascinated.
He rose unsteadily. The system pulsed softly behind his thoughts, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"I actually died," he murmured, the memory of choking still raw and painful. "I really died eating instant noodles. Now I'm in some fantasy world… with a system that wants me to build a harem of superpowered women to become stronger?"
A strange laugh escaped him, soft at first, then growing louder, a manic edge threading through it. He covered his face with one hand and leaned against the wall.
"Of course. Of course this is my punishment. I die choking on cheap ramen, and now I'm… some kind of sin-fueled gigolo with a god complex."
The laughter faded into silence. He looked down at his hands. They no longer shook.
"Fine," he said quietly, a spark kindling inside him. "If this world wants to make a game out of me… I will win it. Every last bit."
A sudden knock rattled the old wooden door.
Ardyn froze. His eyes snapped toward the sound.
A second knock, softer this time. Then a voice.
"You're awake, aren't you?"
It was a woman's voice. Calm, measured. Beautiful even in just two words. Yet beneath it lay something cold, calculating.
He stepped cautiously toward the door but hesitated. He had no idea who he was in this strange world. No memories to guide him. He could be trapped in the body of someone hunted or despised.
Still, he pressed a trembling hand against the wood.
"Who's there?" he asked carefully.
No answer came right away. Then, quiet and unyielding:
"I was told to kill you if you woke up."
His heart dropped into his stomach.
He stepped back, panic rising as his eyes scanned the room for anything that could serve as a weapon. Nothing. No stick, no pipe. Only his clenched fists.
The door creaked open slowly.
A tall woman entered. She wore a simple robe tied at the waist, but it did little to hide the lethal grace in her every movement. Her silver hair was pulled back tightly, her sharp icy blue eyes scanning the room like a predator studying its prey. In her right hand, a curved dagger glinted in the dim sunlight.
Ardyn did not move.
She tilted her head slightly.
"You're not screaming. That's unusual."
He forced a dry smile, hiding the panic swelling in his chest.
"Would screaming change your mind?"
A pause.
"No."
She stepped forward. The pressure of her presence pressed against him like the edge of a gathering storm. Her eyes narrowed, studying his face.
"You're… different."
Ardyn blinked, confused. "Different how?"
She gave no answer. Instead, she stopped just an arm's length away and slowly raised her blade. He did not back away.
He didn't know why.
A strange heat stirred in his chest. A pulse, a thread stretching out between them. She seemed to sense it too. For the first time, her dagger wavered.
He saw a crack in her armor. Confusion, conflict flickered in her eyes. Her brows knit slightly and her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.
"Who are you?" he asked softly.
The question hit her harder than he expected. Her hand trembled.
Then, the system's voice filled his mind again.
[Potential Thread Detected: Assassin Class. Emotional Conflict Present. Begin Thread Initiation? Y/N.]
Ardyn hesitated, unsure what to say.
But the moment stretched on. She had not struck.
That was enough.
He swallowed hard.
"Yes."