Souta—ahem—Baron Lucien d'Armoire, was currently living his best reincarnated life.
Juicy meat.
Golden cutlery.
Silk napkins.
An entire roasted beast that probably had a fancier name than he did in his past life.
He sawed through a glistening slice of prime roast like it owed him money, eyes sparkling like a man who had just discovered flavored oxygen. Every bite was divine. Melts-in-your-mouth kind of divine. Chew-once-and-ascend kind of divine.
I love my new life
Lucien was jumping joyfully internally, tears of joy mixing spiritually with the meat juices.
Meanwhile…
The staff watched from the sidelines like they were witnessing a man being possessed mid-feast.
"Is… something wrong with our lord?" whispered one maid, clutching a tray to her chest.
"Did Chef Emilio put… something extra in the seasoning?" another muttered, sniffing the air for narcotics.
Pastry Master Lilliana whispered behind her hand, "Is he… in love? With meat?"
But of course, none of them understood. This wasn't madness. This was freedom. This was edible luxury.
This was Nirvana with a gravy boat.
And then—
"Ahem."
Like thunder striking a blissful barbecue, Butler Marcel's throat-clearing sliced through the moment. The maids scattered like frightened chickens.
Butler Marcel sighed, gliding forward with the grace of a man who had seen too much, yet somehow not enough.
"My lord," the butler began, "we have received a message."
Lucien paused mid-bite, cheeks puffed with meat, and blinked. "A message?"
Butler Marcel puts the letter on the table. "From the Imperial Palace."
Lucien starred, slowly lowering his fork. "Huh?"
He looked like someone had just reminded him of an unpaid electricity bill. Then, like a flickering bulb turning back on, his face lit up.
"Ohhhhhh, right. Imperial Palace. They exist here."
A long pause.
Butler Marcel's eye twitched. He muttered under his breath, "He talks like they don't exist in other worlds."
Poor Marcel.
He didn't know the truth.
He didn't know that… They really didn't exist in other worlds.
No emperors. No crowns. No fancy golden toilets. Just taxes, coffee, and anime at 3 a.m.
But anyway… let's go back to our so-called-lead, Lucien—who had just cracked the wax seal and unrolled the scroll like it was his midterm results.
"The Crown Prince Crowning Ceremony?" he read aloud.
He squinted at the beautifully inked name below it, jaw going slack. "His Highness Crown Prince Adrien Soleil."
Lucien blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then his whole body froze like someone had just poured ice water down his noble pants.
"Adrien Soleil…" he whispered, the name echoing ominously in his head like some ghost of badly written drama. "…Wait."
He leaned closer to the scroll like it would change if he stared harder.
That name.
That very specific, very dramatic, main-character-with-a-red-flag name.
"…Wow. What a coincidence," Lucien said, his voice three octaves too high to be casual. "That's the same name as the male lead in the novel I was reading before I died!"
He laughed. Nervously. Too nervously. The kind of laugh that made nearby maids whisper, "Is he possessed again?"
Butler Marcel arched a brow. "My lord?"
Lucien waved it off like he wasn't just having an existential crisis over roast meat and fantasy royalty. "Oh, nothing! Nothing at all! Just—haha—life is wild!"
He turned away, trying to breathe, only to whisper to himself: "For a second there I thought I was in a novel."
Butler Marcel, who was built out of pure patience and resignation, cleared his throat. "Shall we prepare for the ceremony, my lord?"
Lucien nodded slowly. "Yes."
***
The Imperial Palace of Aetheria Empire,
And so, night fell over the empire like a velvet curtain, and the grand Imperial Palace glowed like someone had dumped glitter all over a gothic castle and called it royal architecture.
Lucien stepped into the grand hall, his mouth practically hanging open as he took in the gold-trimmed walls, floating chandeliers (?!), and a suspiciously perfect quartet of violinists playing in sync like NPCs from a high-budget otome game.
"Wow…" he whispered, spinning slowly in place. "So shiny. So sparkly. Is this tax money well spent? Debatable. But damn, it's working."
He caught a glimpse of a passing noblewoman whose dress had more gemstones than his entire birthright. "Is that real diamond embroidery, or do they just tape pebbles to tulle?"
Then—"Announcing His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Adrien Soleil!"
The room went deathly still. Nobles turned. The air grew tenser than Lucien's waistband after dessert.
He blinked, remembered he was now technically part of this over-polished society, and quickly copied everyone around him in an elegant, exaggerated bow that nearly threw out his back.
Then he looked up—and froze.
Golden hair that shimmered like holy oil under divine lighting. Piercing blue eyes that probably had their own weather system. Chiseled jaw, tragic eyebrows, and the kind of aura that screamed main character privilege.
Lucien's jaw dropped. "Holy mother of Fantasy… he really looks like the male lead."
The announcer was still droning in the background, but Lucien heard none of it. He was too busy mentally unraveling like a spool of cheap thread.
"This is exactly how the novel described him. Adrien Soleil. Male lead. Alpha. Future Emperor. Eighteen-pack abs. Emotionally constipated. Fated to fall in love with a cinnamon-roll omega girl."
The ceremony began. Some ancient priest guy shuffled forward and plopped a crown onto Adrien's head like he was crowning a very shiny loaf of bread.
"—Long live His Majesty Adrien Soleil!"
The hall burst into applause. Lucien clapped too, delayed by a beat, fingers numb.
"—and now, His Majesty wishes to make an announcement."
He barely registered the words before the newly crowned emperor stood, gaze sweeping across the room like he owned every breath in it.
"I have chosen my omega mate."
Lucien froze mid-clap.
Omega?
The word hit him like a brick to the face. The applause roared on around him, but his brain went dead-silent—like someone hit mute on reality.
Adrien's voice rang out again, smooth and self-important."Marquess Delacroix's daughter— Élise Delacroix—will be the future empress of the Aetheria Empire."
A spotlight sliced through the crowd, illuminating a girl straight out of a high-budget gacha pull. Maroon hair. Golden eyes. A face that screamed "limited edition."
Lucien's pulse hiccuped.
Too perfect. Too sparkly. Too... scripted.
His breath caught.
He had read this.
He had read this exact scene.
Adrien Soleil. Cold Alpha Crown Prince (now the emperor).Élise Delacroix. Sweet cinnamon roll Omega with the emotional depth of a soggy biscuit.The glittering ballroom. The over-the-top declaration. The imperial drama.
No. No no no no no...
A cold sweat broke out down his spine. His feet moved on their own, carrying him stiffly through the hall, out the doors, down the steps, into the imperial garden like some possessed mannequin.
Then he stopped.
And finally—his brain rebooted.
He dropped to his knees on the grass like a character in a historical drama finding out her husband died at sea. Both hands clutched his hair.
He screamed at the sky. "I'VE REINCARNATED INTO THAT ONE TRASHY ALPHA NOVEL WHERE EVERYONE'S HORNY AND NO ONE COMMUNICATES!"
Birds scattered. A bush rustled ominously.
He began muttering, eyes wide in horror. "This is the R-18 webnovel Nakamura made me read—Bound by Moonlight—OH MY GOD, THAT WASN'T JUST A TITLE, IT WAS A WARNING!"
He collapsed backward into the grass like a man defeated by life itself. One arm flung dramatically across his forehead.
"This isn't just a royal ceremony. This is CHAPTER THREE!!"
For a solid ten seconds, he lay there in theatrical agony. Then his eyes snapped open.
"Wait. WAIT. What about me then?! Who the hell is Lucien d'Armoire?!"
He shot upright, looking around like someone was going to hand him an answer.
"I don't remember this guy! There was no baron with fabulous cheekbones in the story!"
Panic took over. He grabbed a rose bush and shook it. "Was I DLC content?! A background NPC?! A throwaway fashion model with three lines and a tragic backstory no one cares about?!"
"..."
Then the true horror dawned on him.
"Don't tell me I'm just nobody in this novel. No hidden bloodline. No cursed destiny. Not even a secret power sealed in my abs. I'm just—"He looked down at his elegant outfit, his chest glittering under moonlight."—fabulously dressed window dressing!!"
He threw himself back again with a cry of despair. Somewhere, a violinist played a single tragic note—probably just a sound glitch in Lucien's broken mental state.
***
The Armoire Estate,
The world turned blurry.
Time folded in on itself.
And then—Lucien blinked—and he was back at Armoire Mansion.
He had no recollection of how he got there. Maybe he floated. Maybe someone carried him bridal-style. Maybe he just glitched through the chapter transition. Who knew. Logic had long since packed its bags and fled the scene.
As the massive mahogany doors opened, his head butler, Marcel, welcomed him with a dignified bow.
"My lord. Welcome ba—" Marcel froze mid-greeting.
Lucien stood in the doorway with his coat half-off, hair wind-blown, and a face full of existential dread. The young baron looked like he had just seen God, then learned God was actually the side character in someone else's story.
"…My lord," Marcel tried again, concern blooming on his usually unreadable face. "Are you injured? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Lucien stared at him, hollow and dramatic. "Marcel."
"Yes, my lord?"
He leaned closer, whispering like a fugitive asking for forbidden knowledge. "Be honest with me."
"I always am."
Lucien grabbed the lapels of Marcel's perfectly ironed jacket. "Am I an Alpha?"
Marcel blinked. Once. Twice. His lips parted, polite confusion dawning. "…My lord?"
"Just tell me!" Lucien begged, eyes wild. "Am I an Alpha or a Beta?! I need to know now! This is a medical emergency!"
There was a pause so deep even the antique grandfather clock hesitated before ticking.
Marcel slowly looked around, as if searching for hidden cameras or divine explanations. "Why… why would you not know that, my lord?"
Lucien looked offended. "Just tell me, It's not like I check my stat sheet every morning!"
Marcel gently pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and dabbed Lucien's forehead, confused and deeply concerned.
"Well… you're an Beta, my lord."
Lucien blinked.
"…Beta?"
"Yes, my lord."
There was a long silence.
And then—
Tears. Actual tears.
"Really?!" Lucien gasped. "I'm a Beta?! A background class? No rut? No pheromonal breakdowns in moonlit corridors?!"
"May...maybe, Yes," Marcel said slowly.
Lucien's face lit up like the heavens just opened.
"YES!!" he shouted, spinning in place like a sugar-high ballerina. "I'M FREE!! I DON'T HAVE TO PARTICIPATE IN THE HEAT-FEST!!"
He danced around the grand foyer, flinging off his coat dramatically. "No scent wars! No accidentally claiming someone in the hallway! No mandatory knotting mechanics!!"
Marcel blinked as a silk glove flew past his head.
The butler had seen many things in his life—duels, scandals, one nobleman who insisted on keeping a pet goose—but nothing quite prepared him for Lucien d'Amaoire celebrating like he'd just won the war.
He didn't know why his young lord was behaving so erratically, nor what "knotting mechanics" meant (and frankly, he didn't want to know), but he stood still, ever dutiful.
Lucien, meanwhile, twirled beneath the chandelier like a man reborn.
In his mind, the heavens opened. The plot threads loosened. The terrible, hormone-fueled fate he'd feared? Evaporated.
He was free.
No rut.No heat.No nonsense.
Just a fabulously wealthy baron with great cheekbones, enviable fashion sense, and absolutely no obligation to follow some trashy fantasy romance script.
And for a moment—a glorious, glittering moment—it felt true.
And of course, our hero forgot that life never goes quite the way we wish.