Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Too Clear a Sky
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The sky was clear.
Too clear... annoyingly so.
I sprawled across the bed, swatting away the sunlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains with my palm.
The blanket brushing against my skin was delightfully soft, the room temperature perfectly warm, and having just woken up, my condition was spot-on.
The environment was perfect.
And when things were this perfect, there was nothing to do.
Nothing to do meant overthinking, and overthinking made a person miserable.
At least, that's how it was for me.
Leban BlackStone.
Sixteen years old.
The second son of the BlackStone family, who ate well and lived well but always looked like he had a stomachache.
And... a reincarnator.
In my previous life, I had been a grad student.
Ah, just recalling it for a second made the back of my neck stiffen.
Sleeping barely four hours a day and thinking, "I got a lot of sleep today," powering through the night on caffeine and taurine, heart shrinking at every email from my professor—that hellish ecosystem.
So the moment I realized I'd reincarnated, I vowed firmly.
This time, I'd become a hero and go on grand adventures.
Save the world as a hobby and live a cool life everyone envied.
But reality?
"...Status window!"
I shouted it just in case, after a long time, but of course, nothing happened.
Mana? Aura? Divine power? Spirits?
None of that existed in my body.
"Young Master Leban... has no talent whatsoever."
Remembering those words from my childhood, when I'd thrown a tantrum on the floor demanding a retest, I kicked the blanket off with my foot without thinking.
"Why? Why don't I have a status window? Why no cheat ability?! Let me awaken to a fun life too!"
In a world full of superpowers, I was a thorough incompetent.
And using my brain to become some academic bigshot? My past-life trauma held me back.
All-nighters.
Failed experiments.
My professor's contemptuous look: "Can't you even do this?"
Days that felt like my life was being sucked into the lab trash bin.
The moment I sat at a desk and picked up a pen, those memories flooded back, and my breath caught in conditioned reflex. What was I supposed to do about that?
In the end, I decided to become the great NEET I'd dreamed of since my previous life.
Luckily, my father was the Court Count, the king's closest aide, and our family was a noble house with deep roots (though short on cash).
As the second son, even if I lazed around eating for free, the family foundations wouldn't crumble.
I'd never pick up a pen again. Never use my brain again.
This life, I'd stick to the family like a parasite, sucking honey until I died!
But there was one small, trivial problem...
To someone with a modern sensibility like me, this world was just too boring.
Smartphone? Nope.
YouTube? Of course not.
All there was were the same old plays about the founding king's heroics or yawn-inducing classical music.
Booze? Women? Gambling?
I'd considered those primal solutions.
But our BlackStone family motto was integrity and moderation—a huge obstacle.
We'd held the Court Count position for three generations. Judging in the king's stead, managing the royal purse strings, distributing taxes from across the nation.
If the second son got caught frequenting brothels and gambling dens in a family like that?
Our strict father, Count Del BlackStone, might beat the flesh right off my bones.
No choice.
Just live quietly, thin and long. Like a dead mouse.
Do nothing, fail at nothing.
That was the new philosophy of my life.
And that life had gone on...
Until right now. Until Father called me to his study.
**
The study was always quiet, and that made it all the scarier.
Father, seated in the middle, looked up from his papers and stared at me silently for a while.
"Leban BlackStone."
"...Yes, Father."
A bad vibe oozed from his dry voice.
Like my grad school professor asking, "What do you do on weekends?"
"You're sixteen this year, right?"
"...Yes."
"Indeed. Two years until you come of age."
The wall clock ticked loudly.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It felt like a countdown before a grim verdict.
"Two years from now, on your coming-of-age ceremony, pack your bags and leave."
"......Pardon?"
My train of thought derailed. What did he just say?
"You have no mana. But that's no issue. There are plenty of people in the world who do their part without it."
Was this consolation?
"But you... do nothing. No training, no studying, no helping with work. You don't even seem to think about what you'll do in the future."
Not consolation.
Father added quietly, like driving the final nail.
"Farm, join a merchant caravan and haul goods—figure it out yourself. Understood?"
My mind blanked in that instant.
Kicked out.
The noble safety net protecting an incompetent like me was unbuckling.
Me? With this body? Out into the world?
...That was a death sentence.
"Father, I, that's..."
I had to come up with some excuse.
But Father cut me off coldly and declared the final nail.
"If you don't want to be thrown out, prove you're useful to the BlackStone family."
**
Thrown out of Father's study, I returned to my room and flopped onto the bed.
Doomed. This world looked peaceful, but without a noble name, it was the wilds.
And I had no mana, weaker than the average person with my pathetic stamina.
Kicked out here... how the hell would I survive?
Farm? My back would snap.
Merchant haul? They'd never hire this scrawny frame.
"...Ha, life. Even the second round's no cakewalk."
**
That night, I lay in bed but couldn't sleep.
The moonless room was pitch black, like my future.
'Prove.'
Prove what, exactly?
Magic? No.
Swordsmanship? No.
Scholarship? Hate it.
So what was left for me?
The only thing I could boast was my past-life memories.
Plagiarize modern literature or music to become a great artist?
...I was an engineering major.
Novels? I'd dozed through liberal arts classes, vaguely catching titles.
No masterpieces stuck in my head.
I could recite plots, but turning them into prose? Totally different story.
I lacked elegant phrasing or the creativity for solid narratives.
I stared blankly at the ceiling, then had a sudden thought.
'What if my brother becomes family head soon... I could mooch off him?'
Our sibling bond was decent; big bro Lucius would look out for his little brother.
But Father was too healthy.
The old man would probably live vigorously to 100.
And I couldn't tell my brother to "succeed as head" just like that.
"......Huh?"
Wait a sec.
Succession? Father? Sword?
A memory buried deep in my brain.
A game from college that tanked my GPA flashed by like lightning.
How could I forget?
Thousands of hours sunk in.
Those grueling days were tattooed on my soul.
"This is it."
I bolted upright, rushed to the desk, yanked out paper, and gripped the quill.
A stirring cinematic score pounding in my chest.
Hundreds of quests linking to lead the player to the final battle.
And... memories etched from thousands of wipes.
All that experience poured onto the paper without pause.
Of course, my writing sucked.
So I focused purely on plot and hooks.
The scribbles on the paper were a total mess.
But so what? I never knew how to polish anyway.
I didn't stop writing until dawn broke.
**
A few days later, I entered Father's study with a thick manuscript.
"I wasn't just slacking off."
I knew it sounded like bullshit.
But I had to package it somehow.
Survival trumped shame.
"I was pondering... for my writing."
Father took the manuscript.
Glanced at the thickness, the cover reading King of Winter, skimmed a few pages, then snorted.
"Pretty words. You think writing's easy?"
He tossed it onto the desk corner.
"Out."
Cold words.
Thrown out again, I thought once more.
'Ah. Life's ruined.'
**
That evening.
Del BlackStone was meticulously checking tomorrow's trial documents on his way to the bedroom when his eye caught a stack of manuscript sprawled on the desk.
"Leban..."
He hadn't really planned to kick him out for real.
But the boy was lazier than lazy. Seeing him roll around in bed all day made his blood boil.
So, the fact that he'd tried something felt kinda admirable.
'Even if it's trash, it's my son's first writing. Should read it.'
If there was a glimmer of talent, hiring a good tutor might work.
He picked it up and read slowly.
First line.
-Son. You will be the pride and shining hope of our kingdom.
Del read the next line.
And the next.
And the next.
Pages... turned.
Time flew by unnoticed.
Before long, Del BlackStone's lips were parched, his hand gripping the manuscript trembling.
Countess Emma BlackStone, who'd come to the study because her husband hadn't returned late at night, widened her eyes at the sight.
"Dear...?"
Del couldn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the scene blatantly revealing the prince's total corruption—that filial betrayal.
Honestly, the prose was awful.
Lots of grammatical errors, excessive repetition killing the rhythm.
But the story woven from that shoddy writing was so epic and vividly chilling.
The whole thing dripped with madness and desperation.
'My son... under that lazy, slothful shell, harbored such dark, wretched depths?'
"Dear, what's wrong? Your face is pale..."
Emma stepped close, brushing his cheek, and Del sighed deeply, handing her the manuscript.
"I think... I've misunderstood our second son."
Emma took it with a puzzled look, and it didn't take long for her eyes to fill with shock.