Burnout

Burnout.

Lee Seha. Twenty-two years old. Unemployed bum.

Three words that describe me perfectly.

You could argue that twenty-two is still young, sure. But I never went to university. In other words, I'm nothing more than an idle layabout with nowhere to be.

Well, I did attend something along those lines.

Unemployed status aside, my mornings start fairly early. At 5:30 AM, before the sun has fully risen, I'm awake — and the moment my eyes open, I fold my blanket with surgical precision. It's the kind of fast, immaculate tucking that would make a veteran sergeant whistle and mutter, "Now that's crisp drill form."

Not that I acquired the skill by choice. It's simply a habit etched into my body by more than twenty thousand regressions.

Once, recently, I forced myself to skip it — and all day long, the undone bedding kept flickering at the edge of my mind like a rash I couldn't stop scratching. Pure agony. Since it isn't exactly difficult, I just do it now, the way one breathes.

"Flawless again today."

After clearing away the blanket and every last stray hair on the floor, I changed clothes — a slim-fit tank top and running leggings — tied back my hair, and stepped outside to work through a thorough stretching routine.

"Very well. Shall we?"

A light bounce off the ball of my foot, and the run began. Today's plan was a modest ten kilometers or so.

Hair the color of pale platinum, sapphire-blue eyes, and — rare as it is in Korea — a generous chest. What happens when a beauty like that goes running in thin, clingy clothes? The answer: gazes converge. Whether furtive glances or brazen stares, I could feel eyes of every gender drifting my way.

I paid them no mind. That, too, was thanks to the poker face hammered into me over twenty thousand regressions.

I circled the park near my apartment at a brisk pace, covered the ten kilometers, and headed home. A healthy sheen of sweat left me feeling wonderful. Back inside, I tidied up, showered, then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠indulged in a leisurely soak in a tub I'd drawn for myself.

Snap.

With a flick of my fingers, the water clinging to my hair evaporated in an instant. A convenient auxiliary spell that any first-rate maid is expected to master.

When I first learned this one—

Back then I'd squealed, "Whoa, magic!" and used it to dry my lady's hair, only to regress and realize exactly how absurd that had been. Was it sacrilege, I wondered, to cast a spell simply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠because drying a lady's hair was a chore? Still, using it on my own hair was no sin at all, so I'd put it to good use ever since.

Once the water was gone from my skin, I slipped on some underwear and prepared breakfast: chicken breast salad and boiled eggs. A perfectly balanced health meal — protein, carbs, and fats, all accounted for.

And once the meal was eaten, the dishes washed, and my teeth brushed—

"There's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nothing to do."

That had been the story of the past year. Normally, this hour would have found me long past my own breakfast, busy preparing to attend to my lady. But the lady I once served no longer exists.

"Lady Erna..."

I closed my eyes and spoke her name softly. My lady — I wonder what she's doing about now. For all her cataclysmically rotten personality, she was a girl who fell apart without me. If I could return to that place...

"I should have given you at least a hundred noogies before coming back."

Forget my lady. That golden little brat. So she reformed her ways — big deal! And right at the end, as I was leaving, she kept acting like she knew something. Don't tell me she was behind my transmigration in the first place? Ah, honestly, I should have rapped her a few times and given that squishy cheek of hers a good long stretch before I left.

After twenty thousand regressions, that is the single regret I carried back to Earth with me.

I sat down in a chair and glanced toward the corner of the room, where a mirror stood. Luminous platinum hair, sapphire eyes. No matter how I looked at it, this was not the me from before the transmigration. Back then, I'd been a twenty-eight-year-old man with a respectable paunch.

Contrary to my expectation that I'd return to my original body, the me who came back to Earth was still wearing the body from the other world. And in my head sat a full set of memories, implanted as if I'd read a long novel — the memories of "Lee Seha" as this world knew her.

Lee Seha, twenty-eight-year-old man. Lee Seha, twenty-one-year-old woman. Same parents, same schools. The reason for the hair and eye color? Our paternal grandfather had been from England. It made me rather popular back in my school days.

And finally, one thing made this Lee Seha genuinely special: at twenty, she had spent half a year receiving professional maid training at the International Private Service Academy in the UK.

I can hear you asking what on earth that's supposed to mean. The International Private Service Academy boasts a graduation rate of less than five percent — a difficulty curve of truly demonic cruelty — and its curriculum goes beyond ordinary maid duties to cover secretarial work and professional estate management as well. Rumor has it the diploma alone is enough to get you into most major corporations' executive secretarial pools.

And this Lee Seha had not merely survived the Academy's final course — she had graduated as its overwhelming top student. Thanks to that, even when maidly gestures slipped out of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me over the past year, no one among family or acquaintances found it the least bit strange.

Ordinarily, a Lee Seha who graduated top of her class from the International Private Service Academy would have marched straight into the job market. But — I lived through twenty thousand regressions as a maid, and now I'm supposed to work again?

I would rather die than work as a maid again.

With burnout hitting me that hard, I spent the past year as an unemployed bum. I feel guilty toward my parents, who even found me this place in Seoul — but I need to rest a little longer. Just a little, very little, longer.

I powered on the computer and logged into my game.

Liz Bennet. "It's time to clean."

A maid in black and red. A support-position character with a serviceable heal output, who applies movement-slow and vision-blocking debuffs to enemies while granting allies increased movement and attack speed.

Why a maid character, of all things? Well — my eyes just happened to be drawn there. Nothing I could do about it. And then she turned out to be fun to play. The end result: at some point I'd become a one-trick who plays nothing but Liz Bennet.

Despite the tank's begging, not a single soul on our team changed their pick. And then we lost, spectacularly. I played reasonably well myself, but a support simply lacks carry power. So it goes.

"Hmm. His mental fortitude is severely lacking — I'd say he isn't ready to climb just yet."

Really, losing here might be a blessing for that gentleman. Consider it an opportunity to temper his psyche before ascending. With that sentiment in my heart, I pressed the endorse button.

And queued again.

"No wonder it felt like luck was avoiding me today."

After five straight losses, my will to play evaporated entirely. I pulled off my headset and stretched until my spine crackled. Checking the time — it was creeping toward lunch. Maybe I should eat something. I rose from my chair and turned around, and there she was.

"So you finally deign to look at me."

"...Mother?"

An appearance that defied belief in her forties. A smile like a Buddha's. My mother, wearing the serene face of infinite compassion, had been waiting for me. When did she come in? I'd been so absorbed in the game that I hadn't noticed her arrival.

"What brings you all the way here...?"

"I came to see what my daughter was up to, naturally."

"Is that so? As it happens, it's nearly lunchtime — shall we have a meal together...?"

"That would be lovely. So tell me, my daughter — what were you doing just now?"

Mother stroked my shoulder with tender affection.

"I was, er, playing a little game."

"A little?"

"...A little more than little?"

"A little. More than little?"

She already knew everything, didn't she.

"I spent the whole morning playing games."

"Hoo, hoo-hoo, HOOHOOHOO!"

Chomp.

The grip on my shoulder grew steadily stronger. It didn't exactly hurt — and somehow, that made it all the sadder. Mother had played volleyball through university; her grip strength was never supposed to be merely this. Part of it was that I'd gotten stronger, but a larger part was that she'd gotten weaker.

"Mother, you've become terribly frail."

"...THAT'S what you have to say right now?!"

CRACK!!

Mother went to work on my backside without mercy. Her grip strength might have faded, but her spiking ability was clearly alive and well. To think I could actually feel it.

"You deranged girl, I told you to get a job and you won't!!"

"Let's not say 'job.'"

"At the very least you could work part-time!"

"Let's not say 'part-time' either."

"So you plan to rot in this room for the rest of your life?!"

"I do go jogging every day, at least."

"No remorse from this girl, just talk-back to the bitter end...! Just die!"

CRACKAAACK!!

Mother's power spikes only stopped after thirty-some strikes. Taking repeated hits to the same spot had my backside burning.

"Hoo... hoo..."

"Have you calmed down a little?"

"I have. So — you truly have no intention of working, ever?"

"It's not that I haven't thought about it at all..."

Burnout was burnout, but perhaps because I'd lived as a maid for the span of twenty thousand regressions, something had gone sideways in me. I didn't want to work as a maid — and yet I had no idea what I could do besides being one.

"Fine. Then if I find you a job, you'll actually work?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Then come with me."

"Pardon? W-wait a moment. Mother? At least let me put on some proper clothes—!"

Caught in Mother's grip, I was draped in whatever clothes I could throw on, loaded into her car like a piece of luggage, and hauled off to somewhere unknown.

And when we arrived at our destination—

"Uh, Auntie? You can't just say it like that, so suddenly..."

"Forget about the salary. Grill her, boil her, work her however you like."

Mother?

I said I didn't want to be a maid, not that I wanted to be a slave?