The first thing Lloyd noticed was the weight.
His breath hitched. Something soft and heavy pressed against his chest, and his body… it wasn't his. It was bloated, sluggish, stiff. Not with muscle or bulk—just layers of meat and something that smelled faintly of sweat and old lavender.
He opened his eyes.
A canopy of faded velvet hung above him. The ceiling was ornate, the kind of luxury that should have felt majestic, but the dampness under his back and the grease clinging to his skin ruined any sense of nobility.
He sat up—and immediately wheezed.
"...Oh my god."
His voice was higher. Weaker. And when he looked down at his trembling hands, they were pale, soft, and chubby. His fingers looked like uncooked sausages.
He scrambled off the bed. His legs ached with the movement, his joints creaking like unused door hinges. With a grunt, he waddled toward the full-length mirror leaning against the far wall.
He saw himself.
Or rather, he saw Adam Blake.
Double chin. Puffy cheeks. Acne-spotted skin. Narrow, watery eyes. His hair was a mess of oily blonde curls, and he wore a silken nightgown two sizes too small, clinging awkwardly to every sad, round contour of his body.
Lloyd froze.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
Out of every character in Elysium, he had to be reincarnated into this one?
Adam Blake. The third son of Baron Blake. A useless, violent, petty failure of a man known in-game for slapping his maids, throwing tantrums, and dying a humiliating death depending on which heroine route the player chose.
And Lloyd had played every single one.
He staggered back, dropping onto the edge of the bed. Sweat clung to his forehead.
No Trait. No magic. No aura. No potential. In Elysium's mechanics, Adam Blake didn't even have the dignity of a redemption arc.
A knock came at the door.
He didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
"...Young Master," a dry, contemptuous voice greeted him.
A tall woman entered in a sharp, tailored coat. Her tie was crisp, her dark red hair slicked back, and her sword was polished to a mirror finish. She was his butler—though in this world, "butler" was a role held by women, while men were the maids and foot-servants.
She looked him over.
No bow. No smile. Just a flat, cold stare.
"…You're expected at the dining hall."
He stood, tried to adjust his wrinkled nightgown, and followed.
The corridors of the Blake manor were wide and high-ceilinged, adorned with the banners of House Blake—black lions over crimson silk. Servants passed them in silence, all of them men.
Every pair of eyes he met dropped immediately.
Some recoiled.
Some trembled.
None smiled.
Lloyd understood why. In the game, Adam had used his position as the noble son to lash out at the staff. He liked to slap the younger boys when they messed up. He liked to grope the ones he found cute. There were rumors of worse things. In the game, those details were background lore.
Now, he was that background.
And everyone knew it.
By the time he reached the long dining hall, his breathing was already ragged. The butler woman gestured silently to a seat at the far end.
The table stretched ten meters long. At its head sat a striking woman dressed in the black-gold formalwear of a landed noble. Her hair was braided back, not a strand out of place, her expression cold and unreadable, with eyes that were as cold blue as ice.
Lady Marianne Blake, Baroness of the Western Vale.
Beside her sat her husband—Lord Gerald Blake, a thin, smaller man with sunken eyes, auburn hair, blue eyes and a gaze permanently fixed on the tablecloth.
Across from them sat two girls.
Laylee Blake, sixteen, with short silver hair and stern blue eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered, posture impeccable. Her arms were folded. She was the eldest daughter, known for her governance, negotiation, and martial ability. The future of House Blake.
And beside her—Crystal Blake. Also sixteen, with silver twin-tails, a tiny frame, and a smug tilt to her lips. A magical genius with sharp blue eyes and sharper words.
Lloyd sat at the far end in silence.
No one greeted him.
Only after the servants poured wine and set down the roasted meat and glazed greens did Lady Marianne finally speak.
"Laylee. Your report."
The eldest sister set down her fork. "I finished drafting the tax review for the Lower Riverlands, Mother. We may be able to lower grain tariffs this season by eight percent if we shift surplus shipments to Northreach. The merchants' guild has already approved the proposal."
Lady Marianne nodded, coolly. "Good. Crystal."
"I managed to stabilize my third spell-loop under Tier 7 conditions. It only took me half the day. The academy tutor said he'd never seen someone compress fire-element spells that efficiently."
Crystal's voice was calm, but her eyes gleamed with quiet pride.
Lady Marianne gave her the faintest tilt of the chin. "Excellent."
Then her gaze shifted.
Everyone looked at him.
Lloyd opened his mouth.
No words came out.
He knew what Adam had done yesterday. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd screamed at a servant boy. He'd eaten four pies. He'd thrown up in the courtyard. That was it.
He lowered his head.
"I…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
Lord Gerald sighed.
Lady Marianne shut her eyes.
"…Then at the very least, Adam," she said slowly, "I trust you understand that in six months, Grand Academy scouts will arrive."
She opened her eyes. They were hard as iron.
"I will not allow House Blake to be shamed."
With that, she rose.
"Dinner is over."