The morning rays filtered through the high window of the small room, painting golden lines across the rough floor.
Alaric’s eyes twitched open.
It had been about a month now. A full month since he’d been transmigrated into this cursed world and dragged into this damned house like so mongrel.
He groaned, turning to one side before finally pushing himself up. His muscles ached, tight and tired from the long hours he’d been working lately.
Still—
Better than being a slave.
Now, all he had to do was clean his assigned wing, water the gardens, run a few errands, and take orders from the head maid.
At first, he fumbled.
But now, after doing the sa things for nearly two weeks straight, he had grown a little proficient. So much so that even the system had acknowledged his efforts.
[New Title Acquired: Model Servant]
He’d tried to ask what the hell that title ant exactly, but the system had responded with-
[Since host is working excellently as a servant and even look like one.]
He stared at the ssage for a solid five seconds.
Then gave up and never asked again.
But aside from the unexpected title, he had made so personal progress.
Through the system’s daily tasks—though he failed a few now and then, mostly due to... unfortunate interruptions—he’d still managed to grow a bit stronger.
Waking up early, working hard, and squeezing in training sessions twice a day had started to show results.
He had beco leaner, a bit tougher, his movents smoother.
Unfortunately, in terms of knowledge? He was still stumbling in the dark.
As a servant, his access was basically nonexistent.
Aside from a few gossip sessions in the servant quarters, which mostly revolved around crushes, kinky fetishes, or who had the best ass among the maids.
All he truly knew was that this estate belonged to a lower-ranked baron nad Ferick Glimor.
And that this world—Veltraxia, as he’d heard in passing had magic.
But according to the system, his chances of Awakening were already dood. Still... so hope remained.
Anyways, enough of that.
Alaric rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and got up on his feet.
He padded over to the wooden barrel at the corner of the room, scooped so water in his cupped hands—
Splash!
And washed his face.
He wiped himself down with a rough cloth, stretched his arms and shoulders, then dropped straight to the ground.
Push-ups first.
Then sit-ups.
Then crunches.
His breaths grew heavier, his shirt clinging to his chest with sweat.
"1... 2... 3... 148... 149... 150..."
Thud!
He collapsed flat on his back, limbs sprawled, staring up at the ceiling.
"Haaf... haaf..."
His chest rose and fell.
"Damn it... still not enough."
Alaric muttered as he sat up, sweat clinging to his skin. His arms trembled faintly from exertion.
Scooping up the ragged cloth, he dipped it into the chilly water and began wiping the sweat and dirt from his body, his movents thodical, unbothered.
He stripped off his damp shirt, muscles taut and defined from relentless training, and padded back over to the water barrel.
Once clean, he pulled on his servant uniform.
It had been a little loose on him the first week—around the shoulders, sleeves long, pants sagging slightly. But now?
It fit just fine.
Too fine, actually.
Another sign of progress.
After adjusting the collar and fastening the belt, combing back his slightly damp hair with his fingers, he stepped outside his cramped room and headed down the narrow corridor.
Soon, he reached a moderately sized hall filled with plain wooden tables and benches.
Yes, it was the servants’ dining hall.
The morning rush was in motion.
Servants and maids bustled about, plates in hand, chatting softly or quietly biting down breakfast before duty.
Alaric joined at the back of the queue where the morning al was being served, patiently waiting for his turn.
Near the front, standing tall and rigid beside the food counter, was the head maid.
A woman with auburn hair, a face carved from stone and eyes like two blades.
Before her, a few large pots released faint trails of steam, holding the usual: thin porridge, and stale bread.
One by one, the line moved forward.
She watched them all like a hawk as they took their portion and got back to the table.
When Alaric stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. A silent ssage passed between them.
’You don’t belong here.’
But he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t lower his head.
He simply held out his tray, unfazed.
It wasn’t the first ti.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
She served him with clipped efficiency, slamming the ladle into the bowl with just enough force to splash porridge over the edge.
He ignored it.
Just as he ignored the muttered words and side-eyes from the tables. So servants whispered. So looked away. So just scowled.
They didn’t like the idea of a ’slave’ walking among them. Not after he’d ’ruined’ the banquet.
Not after he’d been assigned to their ranks. They saw him as trouble. A risk. A stain on their uniford pride.
So feared that he might bring them down too, if sothing happens next ti, so just rightfully did that because of pure disgust of him being a slave.
And Alaric, he didn’t careless what did these people think about him.
The nobles in his past life had worn the sa expressions whenever he chose to side with the common folk instead of giving them more than enough, they already had.
Powerful or not, once you stop serving their interests, they call you a traitor.
He didn’t care then.
And.
He didn’t care now.
He simply walked past them now, eyes half-lidded, tray in hand, mind drifting toward his plans—
What to do next, how to gather more Domination Points, how to level the system faster, how to break free of this stagnant role.
Then—
"Here."
A soft, feminine voice broke through his thoughts.
He stopped and turned to the sound.
At the far end of the dining hall, seated at a worn-out table where no one else approached, was a lone girl with midnight-blue hair tied loosely behind her back, and her violet eyes looked directly at him with calm intensity.
She waved at him casually, a slight smile tugging at her lips.
Iris.
----x----THE-END (For now) ----x----
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