Ling Xuan's breath came out uneven.
The room had not changed. The walls were still wooden, the window still open, the city still alive beyond it. And yet, everything felt wrong—as if the moment the system had spoken his name, reality itself had tilted slightly off balance.
Ling Xuan.
The name echoed again and again in his mind, each repetition tightening something around his chest.
"No… no, no," he whispered, taking a step back as if distance could undo it. His heel struck the edge of the bed, and he sat down hard, the thin mattress dipping beneath his weight. His fingers dug into the fabric, knuckles whitening.
Out of all the characters.
Out of all the bodies.
Why this one?
Fear—raw, immediate, and uncontrollable—flooded through him. It wasn't the abstract fear of danger or death. It was the kind that came from certainty. From knowing exactly how a story ended and realizing you were standing at its beginning.
Ling Xuan didn't die gloriously.
He didn't struggle against fate or scream defiance at the heavens.
He simply disappeared.
Executed quietly. Efficiently. Forgotten just as quickly.
That knowledge crushed down on him now, heavy and merciless.
Chen Yu—no, he—pressed a trembling hand to his chest. His heartbeat was fast, too fast, thudding against his ribs as if trying to escape. For a brief, humiliating moment, he wondered if he was about to vomit.
"Calm down," he muttered hoarsely. "Think. You've survived worse than panic."
The words felt hollow, but he repeated them anyway, forcing his breathing to slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. Again.
Gradually, the world stopped spinning.
Once his vision steadied, the memories came—not in fragments, but as a clear, relentless stream.
The past of this body.
Ling Xuan's past.
In the game, Ling Xuan had been introduced casually. A passing name in a dialogue box. A beautiful young boy with refined manners and no combat relevance. Players met him briefly during a palace-related side event, exchanged a few lines of optional dialogue, and moved on.
Most never clicked the follow-up choices.
Those who did unlocked a short, unsettling side story.
Ling Xuan had been summoned to the palace under the guise of courtesy. The Queen—graceful, gentle, admired by the masses—had taken an interest in him. She praised his appearance, his restraint, his calm demeanor. She told him he was refreshing in a court filled with ambition and greed.
At first, it seemed harmless.
Then the summons became frequent.
Then unavoidable.
Ling Xuan remembered—felt—the way palace walls slowly became a cage. How every step he took was observed. How every word he spoke was remembered. How refusal was never met with anger, only with a sad smile and consequences that arrived days later.
A relative dismissed from office.
A merchant friend ruined overnight.
A subtle reminder that his life, and the lives connected to him, were fragile things in the Queen's hands.
The "affair" had never been mutual.
It had been ownership.
Players had misunderstood it for years. Forums were filled with shallow discussions—tragic romance, forbidden love, devotion beyond death. Only those who dug into hidden files or replayed the route carefully noticed the truth.
Ling Xuan had never chosen her.
He had been coerced, isolated, and trapped.
When the scandal finally broke, the narrative was swift and cruel. Ling Xuan was blamed. Executed for treason and moral corruption. The Queen's subsequent suicide was framed as romantic despair.
But the game logs told another story.
She wasn't a heroine.
She wasn't bound by the system's affection mechanics.
Her obsession had been personal.
Unregulated.
Absolute.
Ling Xuan swallowed, his throat dry.
"That's why…" he murmured. "That's why this body is dangerous."
He wasn't afraid of the Queen because she had power.
He was afraid because she didn't need rules.
The heroines, for all their madness, followed a system. Their obsession escalated predictably. Their reactions, while deadly, were coded.
The Queen was not.
If she noticed him again—if she sensed that same calm, beautiful presence she had once fixated on—there would be no meter, no warning, no dialogue choice to soften the blow.
Just a closed door.
And chains disguised as affection.
Ling Xuan let out a slow breath and straightened his back.
Panic wouldn't save him.
Information might.
"Timeline," he said quietly, grounding himself. "I need to remember the timeline."
He stood and paced the small room, his steps measured.
In the original game, Ling Xuan died early—very early. Before the main protagonists even gained momentum. His execution happened during what players called the "opening political turbulence," roughly three months before the real game start.
Which meant—
Ling Xuan stopped.
He turned toward the window again, eyes sharp.
"This is before everything," he realized.
He looked at the system screen and asked "How long is it before the real game begins?"
[Answering to the host: Three years before the real timeline start.]
Three years before the game's main plot.
Before the protagonists rose.
Before the heroines awakened fully.
Before obsession spiraled into world-ending catastrophes.
A dangerous time.
But also—
A window.
His breathing finally steadied.
"I'm not dead yet," he said softly. "That means the route hasn't locked."
That was when the air shifted.
Ling Xuan froze.
A familiar shimmer rippled in front of him, light coalescing into the translucent interface he had already come to dread.
The system returned.
[Host mental state stabilized.]
He didn't bother hiding his irritation. "You enjoy watching that, don't you?"
[Observation: Panic responses are informative.]
Ling Xuan snorted quietly. "Of course they are."
The screen lingered for a moment longer than before, as if considering him. Then, without warning, the interface expanded—its glow intensifying, its presence filling the room with an unnatural pressure.
Ling Xuan's instincts screamed.
"…What now?" he asked.
[Additional Information Unlocking.]
His shoulders tensed.
"I didn't agree to that."
[Consent not required.]
A chill slid down his spine.
Text began to form—slow, deliberate, merciless.
[Main Quest Assigned.]
Ling Xuan stared at the words, his expression blank.
No.
No, no, no.
"…You're kidding," he said flatly.
The system was silent.
Then, as if savoring the moment, it continued.
[Objective: Achieve the Perfect Harem.]
For a second, Ling Xuan genuinely thought he'd misread it.
"…What?"
The word slipped out, small and incredulous.
The screen did not change.
[Perfect Harem Condition:]
– All capture targets must be successfully conquered.]
– No capture target may die.]
– No romantic relationship may collapse.]
– Emotional stability must be maintained.]
Ling Xuan laughed.
It was a quiet sound, edged with disbelief and something dangerously close to hysteria.
"You can't be serious," he said, running a hand through his hair. "This world barely allows one stable relationship."
[Clarification: Task parameters are correct.]
His laughter died.
"You want me to build a harem," he said slowly, "in a world where love equals obsession."
The system did not interrupt him.
Ling Xuan's voice grew colder as understanding sharpened into anger.
"In the game, once a heroine falls in love, she doesn't just prefer the protagonist. She centers her entire existence around him. Rivals aren't competition—they're threats."
Images flickered briefly across the interface: smiling faces twisted into murderous calm; gentle hands stained with blood.
"If another woman appears," he continued, "she's killed. If the protagonist hesitates, he's imprisoned. If he tries to escape, the world ends."
[Affirmative.]
"And you're asking me to keep multiple of them emotionally stable at the same time?" Ling Xuan scoffed. "That's not a challenge. That's a paradox."
The system displayed another line.
[Total Capture Targets: Unknown.]
Ling Xuan stopped pacing.
"…Unknown," he repeated.
His jaw tightened.
"So I don't even know how many people I need to save," he said quietly. "Or how many times I'll be one mistake away from death."
[Correct.]
"And that's assuming I'm the only protagonist," Ling Xuan added. "Which I'm not."
The system responded instantly.
[Multiple protagonists exist.]
Ling Xuan closed his eyes.
Six protagonists.
Six centers of fate.
Heroines destined for others—interceptions that could trigger obsession, jealousy, or outright annihilation if handled incorrectly.
"You've stacked the board," he said. "Every move leads to disaster."
The system did not deny it.
Instead, it delivered the final blow.
[Failure Condition: Soul Erasure.]
Ling Xuan opened his eyes slowly.
No resurrection.
No retry.
Not even death.
Erasure.
"…So that's it," he murmured. "If I fail, I don't just die. I stop existing."
[Correct.]
The room fell silent again.
Outside, laughter drifted faintly upward from the street below.
Inside, Ling Xuan stood alone with the weight of an impossible task crushing down on him.
A perfect harem.
In a world where love was lethal.
In a body already marked by obsession.
With a Queen who had once proven that affection, unchecked, could be worse than hatred.
Ling Xuan clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.
"…You really dropped me into hell," he said quietly.
The system dimmed, its glow fading as if satisfied.
The task remained.
And Ling Xuan understood, with terrifying clarity, that surviving was no longer enough.
He had been ordered to do the impossible.
And the game had already begun tightening its grip.