Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Became the Vampire Princess's Slave Trainer
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Genius types who get reincarnated into another world use their modern knowledge to carve out their own destinies.
They kick off hygiene revolutions by inventing soap, or transform medieval fantasy lands into near-modern societies overnight with capitalist theory.
And me? What about me?
I went to a boys' middle school and high school, served in the military, graduated college, and landed a job.
I even dated a woman and talk of marriage came up, but we broke up over practical realities.
"Oppa, is this really it? This is all the money you've saved? ...Oppa, are you just dating me for sex? Were you after my body? This is rape! Aaah!!"
It was a common story.
The kind that might get a few upvotes if you posted it online as a tale, but weeks later it'd resurface in the humor section, degraded in quality.
An unpleasant memory I don't care to dwell on—one of those ordinary tales where everyone knows at least one person it's happened to, no need to post it.
So I threw myself into work.
Inferiority complex, wounded pride.
And then came the urgent need for cash.
But I was just an ordinary guy.
No, not even a prodigy mocked by true geniuses as "average."
Just your run-of-the-mill company man.
The kind of statistic that lands smack in the national average or median.
Even my company cut me loose before results came in, pinning the blame early and firing me.
What happened after that?
No family to grieve for, so I was alone—
"Not suicide, I don't think."
I died doing something.
The memory's fuzzy there, but at least in my final moments, I wasn't doing anything shameful.
Now, if a guy like that ends up in another world—a fantasy realm with magic and elves—what future awaits?
Nothing happened.
Something did, but it wasn't exactly a success.
No soap.
I racked my brain trying to recall how to make it, but all I could picture was hardening oil in a milk carton or something silly like that.
Good paper? Total failure.
Chopping wood fine, boiling it down, pressing thin sheets—it came out garbage next to the high-quality mass-produced stuff on the market.
And I wasn't in a position to experiment endlessly.
Sure, books talk about farm families raising a bunch of kids for labor, but in reality, for a fallen noble house from generations back—
Correction.
Not even a house.
We were dirt-poor commoners, popping out kids left and right, handing them hoes or needles the moment they could run instead of begging bowls.
My one saving grace? Cobbling tools from whatever scraps we had around the house.
If I had to name the skill, it'd be woodworking.
And it proved more useful than you'd think.
My parents—those fine folks—would at least pour watery soup into the extra bowls I carved with my little knife.
If not, I'd have been sold off.
I learned later what happened to my sold siblings, but even back then, sensing it, I carved harder to prove my worth.
And wouldn't you know, sometimes I'd unwittingly make tools handy for marital relations.
I carved a pestle for grinding fruit fine, and sure enough, they used it to get up to something.
Anyway.
That was all I could do.
Best I managed post-puberty was plowing fields and training my body in spare time.
Stamina was key, but mercenaries rolled through the village too.
Plus those gray-armored types living sword-to-mouth.
From him, I learned about goblin monsters and the Demon King.
At first, I laughed.
Demon King? Probably gets one-shot by some hero.
Head lopped off by a holy sword, easy.
With the Demon King around, at least I wouldn't die right away.
Still, for safety, I picked up basic swordplay from village mercenaries.
It saved my life.
Goblins raided; everyone in the village died, family included. I barely took one down with the old merc's techniques.
Lost my home in a blink. Became a mercenary.
Odd jobs for a passing band, drifted to adventurer towns, saw the world.
A world with a Demon King.
Dungeons too.
Adventurers raid them for treasure; some call themselves "hero parties."
I scraped by fiercely.
No magic, no sword talent, can't kill people—just a porter/mercenary who trained to survive, barely guarding his own hide.
Not enough feats for a silver or gold plate.
Brass plate at best.
Maybe that's why.
With brass plate pay and hanging with the lads, I blew cash on pleasure now and then.
Bought whores.
For a guy like me—too meh for marriage or dating—only two ways to vent urges.
One perk: modern knowledge helped in bed a bit.
"That guy? Unlike other mercs, he actually knows how to fuck."
I got semi-famous among the girls.
Rumors flew I treated them romantically, like lovers.
Just some porn techniques from before reincarnation.
Recalling some familiar-faced AV actor's tips on YouTube vids, putting 'em to use.
Safe toys that don't chafe.
Following steps like back on Earth—and in this medieval fantasy world, it felt exotic, apparently.
Sex pros said so; can't be wrong.
Unless they were buttering me up for repeat business, guess I'm average-to-decent here.
So what?
Can't clear a dungeon solo like gold-platers for quick riches, spark flames from my hands with magic, or live cushy off noble birth.
Is this life okay?
Getting by on "at least he's good in bed" from lady adventurers and whores?
Me, Jax, 23 (post-reincarnation), pondering that.
Fucked.
Followed what seemed a routine dungeon run—turns out, run by one of the Demon King's cadres.
We hit a trap, teleported by magic, locked somewhere.
Resisters died.
Trapped in a cell with one window for day/night, heard mercs dying one by one daily. Agony.
Day three-ish.
As death's terror sank in, accepting it—
"I'll ask."
Kneeling before a white-haired, red-eyed woman in black dress on an obsidian throne in a hall screaming "Demon Castle."
"They say you're damn good at sex. True?"
"......Pardon?"
Fangs peeking from red lips.
Elongated pointed ears.
Ghastly pale skin, like she'd never seen sun—or couldn't.
"Impressed by your skills, I appoint you 'Rapist' of our dungeon. Refusal is death. Incompetence too."
"......May I ask a question, if I dare?"
"Polite human. Granted."
"What is a 'Rapist'?"
The Vampire Princess, one of the Demon King's Four Great Cadres.
"Rape trainer."
She threatened me.
"Train female heroes and adventurers we capture in the dungeon. Turn them into true slaves who fight for us willingly."
"......."
"In short, use your nighttime talents to break human women. Any method. Make our 'enemies' kneel before me as cock slaves, conquered by sex."
Want to live? Rape.
Or sexually subjugate them to serve demons over humans.
"For over a decade, Demon King forces just killed captives. But our 'Legion' is different. We corrupt human women into bitch slaves—loyal soldier slaves fighting for us."
Why pleasure?
Why sex?
"Succeed in slut-training prisoners, and I can turn those bitches into vampires stronger than any soldier."
That was the most efficient path for this Vampire Princess to build mighty forces.
"Just conquer them with sex?"
"Yes."
"Tools, drugs—turn virgins who've never known men into cumrags who can't live without cock?"
"Exactly. Past men failed. Can you?"
Abandon humanity, betray kin for demons.
"Ha."
By then, I was a bit mad.
"Just give the order. I'll turn 'em into proper bitches, showy-like."
Sex or whatever—someplace needed my skills. That fact alone.
Human or Demon King—who cares.
"I'll fuck again."
She smiled, legs crossed, more beautiful than any woman I'd seen—
Honestly.
"I want to fuck her."
Beauty worth dying after one lay.
"Good."
The Vampire Princess laughed.
"Fail, and die."
Now, I train via rape, life on the line.
To survive.
To me, rape is survival.