I hate those novels.
You know the ones. Guy dies, gets reincarnated, wakes up with a harem of virgin MILFs by Chapter three.
And readers eat it up. Talk about bad taste.
I write plots. World-building. Mystery. Actual craft.
Nobody watches.
Somebody writes "guy claps chicks in fantasy world" and boom, readers everywhere. Here’s a girl who’ll be your wife and love you forever. Makes me want to puke.
None of them know how relationships actually work.
I do. I’ve had three. All three were a disaster.
First girlfriend: bossy, ruined, wannabe feminist, and a cheater.
Second girlfriend: professional victim, used me as a free therapist.
Also a cheater.
Third girlfriend was kind.
Caring.
Cute.
35DD Boobies.
She Cooked for me... Feed me.
And—
SHE WAS A DAMN CHEATER TOO.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck all of—
Cough.
I coughed so hard blood came up with it.
Apparently thinking too hard is a crime now. Probably didn’t help that I hadn’t eaten or had water in days.
My stomach acid’s going to start on my organs any day now. Can’t move. Eyes are dry. Throat’s dry too, until it wasn’t, because now it’s full of my own blood.
"I’m... so... hungry."
I’m always hungry. How long has it been? No idea.
Ever since Remmy cheated, I haven’t been myself. Lost her. Then the job. Then the apartment. Then my family. Then food.
And now here.
Some city street. Somewhere.
Guess this is it.
What did I even do to deserve this? I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t sleep around for fun. I’m just a nice guy who wanted his soulmate.
First time I got cheated on, I played it cool. "If you think he’s better, go ahead. It’s fine."
Real nice guy stuff.
Second time, same thing happened, and I got insecure about it.
Remmy knew. She knew exactly why I cried. Knew all of it.
And she still—
I’m just a nice guy. Nothing more.
Just once, I wanted to live like a selfish asshole. The kind who doesn’t care about people who have nothing to do with his life.
Not evil. Not that.
The kind of man who pays back love tenfold and injustice a thousandfold.
The kind who doesn’t put up with nonsense.
If I got one more shot at life—
Yeah. Like that’s happening.
Guess this is goodbye. Fuck you, world. You didn’t deserve an artist like me.
And with that, one more failed artist stopped breathing. My name echoed nowhere. Mark Laplace. Rest in peace, me.
⟨ What a shame. Fate really is cruel to the ones who question her. This one... was my favorite. Mmmm. ⟩
⟨ In any case, I should stop watching mortal lives for entertainment. It’s not like they can— ⟩
⟨ WAIT. Yes. That’s it. ⟩
I opened my eyes like a man surfacing from a long sleep. Not tired. Stepping out of somewhere comfortable.
"Where am I?"
In front of me hung a digital floating panel, its frame wrapped in thorned vines and black-red calla lilies.
⟨ Analyzing system core stability... ⟩
⟨ Analyzing host’s body... ⟩
⟨ Analyzing memories... ⟩
⟨ Analyzing for errors... ⟩
⟨ Analysis complete. Congratulations, mortal. You have successfully transmigrated as Elias Thorne — an alternate version of yourself. Low-ranking royal, small nameless village, currently stepping into a magical university. ⟩
"What is this. A joke, even in death?"
I looked around. Some kind of medieval room. Handmade carpets over polished stone. A bed built for royalty.
⟨ Lilathea’s Blade Harem System. This system exists to help you chase your dreams. To become the perfect selfish, dirtbag asshole you always wanted to be. Not evil. Whatever that means. ⟩
"Wow. Really feels like a smut novel now."
"If this is real, I’m in. Show me what you’ve got."
ᕙ Lilathea’s Blade Harem System! ᕗ
⟨ Evolution state: Mortal human. ⟩
⟨ Rank: E. ⟩
⟨ Compatibility rate: 34. ⟩
⟨ Casllay mana points: 0. ⟩
⟨ Lifespan remaining: 119 hours, 52 minutes. ⟩
"Wait a second. I transmigrate into a whole new world and I still get a countdown to death."
⟨ Mortals. So impatient. Wait for the full explanation, darling. As you can see, there’s a currency called Casllay mana. ⟩
⟨ Casllay mana buys potions, skills, evolutions, extra lifespan. You earn it through sex or combat. Combat pays worse. ⟩
⟨ Oral sex: Tlowjob, titjob, handjob — fifty points each. Pussy-eating, sixty-nine, fingering — one hundred points each. Fifty per orgasm. ⟩
⟨ Full sex: Three hundred-plus, depending on intensity and orgasm count. ⟩
⟨ For combat: ten points, if you win. Depends heavily on your opponent’s strength. Beat someone much stronger than you, with or without help, and the points go up fairly. ⟩
"Combat does sound like garbage. But I shouldn’t rule it out completely. I don’t know a thing about this world."
⟨ One more thing, about the sex route. Other factors apply too. Roleplay. Emotion. Species. Dominance. Sleep with someone more dominant than you, and you risk losing points instead of gaining them. ⟩
"Why would that happen?"
⟨ Think of Casllay points as lust mana. Sex is a game. Partner’s more dominant than you? Match it or lose. ⟩
⟨ That’s what Compatibility rate is for. You’ll be able to see any woman’s rate next to your own. ⟩
⟨ Within a few points, you’re clear. More than five, proceed carefully. Hits double digits, she’s probably not even human, and you should run. ⟩
"Alright. Sounds important. So I need to clap someone within five days or I die."
⟨ Yes. And this is only the beginning. This world will throw plenty at you — women, beasts, elves, witches, devils, monsters, angels, fairies, demigods, actual gods. ⟩
⟨ I’d recommend not sleeping with all of them. Unless you want your dick to evolve into a cosmic horror. ⟩
"Thanks for the advice nobody asked for. I don’t know a thing about this world. But I know one thing."
"I’m going to live it to the fullest. And drown in vaginas."
God. I sound exactly like those perverted novel protagonists.
"Anyway. How many points do I need to extend my lifespan?"
⟨ Ten thousand. ⟩
"Ten thousand? What are you, the government?"
⟨ Don’t look at me. I’m not the thief here. ⟩
I did the math.
Everything’s riding on Casllay points now. One round, maybe eight hundred. Round it up for intimacy, call it a thousand.
Still not enough.
Ten rounds. Five days. Ten rounds in five fucking days!!!!!
If I don’t move fast, the ratio flips and my balls are the ones paying the price.
"I don’t need a partner."
"I need a damn slut. At this point."