Chapter 1
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: How to Catch a Wolf with a Wooden Stick
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It's a ghost.
That means I'm dead.
I'd never dreamed of dying from overwork. But apparently, humans could kick the bucket from enjoying their jobs too much.
Where did it all go wrong? Landing that transfer to the strategic planning office? Celebrating too hard with overtime and wrecking my body?
Whatever the cause, I'd croaked.
Ugh.
Looking back calmly like this, a surge of resentment welled up. I couldn't hold back my inner screams anymore.
Give it back.
My life.
My happy life leeching off a chaebol family...!
I mean, a guy could be thrilled to live licking the shoes of royalty, right?
But if I die mid-shine from getting too into it—thwack!—what happens to my life?
Was it so wrong to launder the chairman's slush fund day and night? Was it wrong to agonize over whether I could skim a little off the top?
Ughhh.
Even conceding a hundred times over that it was a messed-up life.
I prided myself on giving it my all. If the world were fair, it owed me compensation. For this sudden death.
Ahem.
You know how it goes. Isekai possession, cheat skills, or even past-life regression wouldn't be bad.
Tsk.
With a regression cheat, maybe I could become the chaebol this time? Huh? Honestly, that chairman rubbed me the wrong way. If you're the boss, act like it. No sharing the slush fund, and ugly to boot.
With a pounding heart, I looked around. But what I saw didn't match my hopes.
A plaza, carriages, Western-style buildings.
Medieval? Renaissance? Just before modern times?
Ships were flying in that sky.
Whoa, fantasy.
My life had been ordinary modern, and now suddenly fantasy.
Dropped dead at work, woke up as a ghost, in some inexplicable fantasy world.
Something felt skipped over. Where's the angel to explain my death? The god handing out cheat keys?
N-No way, there's gotta be something, right?
In my current state, I could polish a royal family's shoes spotless—two pairs, even. I've got confidence.
But against my wishes, the sun set and rose again, and nothing changed.
No choice but to float around in this pitch-black, round ghost body. Searching for an angel or grim reaper or whatever.
Then I noticed something odd.
I poked a flowerpot leaf with my ghost body.
The leaf withered with a sizzle, just like some overworked soul. The rot spread instantly to the stem, and the petals fell.
The pretty flowerpot was ruined.
This time, I flew at a cat on the roof. No worries about killing it—it freaked out with a yowl and bolted before I got close.
Ah.
Rejected by plants and animals.
Is this how an outsider feels settling in a rural village, facing the locals' cold shoulder? It scratched at my fragile heart.
I was an intruder from another dimension, so yeah, total outsider.
Fortunately, people didn't freak like animals. They just didn't notice me? Way too defenseless, but I didn't touch them. I'm a gentle soul, after all.
Time passed. The sun rose and set repeatedly. No sign of angels or reapers.
The afterlife bureaucrats slacking off?
I checked the nearby grand temple, hoping for a complaints desk. Priests were foaming at the mouth and collapsing—I bolted from the disaster.
Discrimination against outsiders...!
If this won't work and that won't work, no choice. Sorry, afterlife civil servants, but time for a field raid.
If ghosts exist, an afterlife clerk's probably at life's beginnings. Let's check where a baby might be born.
I knew one happy family. Big nobles— their wedding carriage parade never ended. The vast garden brimmed with people and laughter.
The couple was all lovey-dovey in that perfect setting. Feeding each other cookies at tea time. Ooh, nice vibe.
Barring anything unusual, their happiness would last forever.
Time had passed—surely pregnant by now? Nobles have a duty to prep heirs.
I peeked through the glass window. The doctor chatted with the couple over tea.
The doctor said something, and the beaming wife rubbed her belly. Her husband smiled, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
Pregnancy talk?
Congrats.
Saved me some time.
Guess I'll bless this joyful day.
I composed my black body solemnly. Then poured my heart into a sincere wish.
May this couple's life be filled with days like today.
Forever.
The teacup shattered. Shards flew, staining the floor red with tea.
The wife who'd dropped it panicked. Maids gasped, sweeping up the pieces.
Whoops, careful there.
Suddenly, exhaustion hit. Drawn by the thread of my wish, my body got sucked somewhere.
Dark and warm space.
Eh? Where's this?
The wife's womb?
Reincarnated.
As a girl.
#
Pastel Love Craft.
For some reason, it evoked the cosmic horror pioneer.
Totally unrelated. It's Love Craft. Don't mash it creepy-like.
Love suited her looks perfectly as a middle name.
Pink hair, pink eyes, kind, gentle, positive personality.
If describing her looks leads to personality, it feels like self-praise—but it's true.
Regrettably, she'd had no chance to show this pure heart to the world.
Reincarnated, consciousness fled.
And didn't return for 13 years.
In a vegetative state.
"The young lady seems soulless..." With servants' help, she literally just ate and grew.
Thanks to their efforts, she barely grasped language and writing. Feeling relief at basic common sense in her head was a weird mix.
But did effort pay off? The family situation worsened. Badly.
When her soul settled, it was a barren room.
No furniture, no carpet.
Faint floor marks showed where they'd been. All sold off, it seemed.
No warmth, no presence.
Memories flickered.
Mother died. Father, the son-in-law, sold assets for his gain.
I'm the family head.
Me, the vegetable.
Me, abandoned here.
Her stomach growled.
"No way, my happy life?!"
Pastel clutched her head. Pink hair whipped around.
Instead of licking chaebol shoes, she'd started a morally dubious noble life.
But crashed before tasting it?
"My life...!"
I could've polished shoes great.
Suited me perfectly.
Ughhh.
She seized her dazed mind.
Missing the chairman's slush fund.
Should've skimmed some.
To get some air, she stepped to the window. Opened it, winter wind slapped her face.
"Whoa!"
She reached to close it. Uproar from below. Huh? She stuck her head out the narrow window.
An endless garden sprawled.
But the lush green and vibrant flowers were murky.
Plants rotted, colorless. Black shapes—beasts or otherworldly—roamed.
Some spotted Pastel, screeching. Savage hostility prickled.
Pastel blanked out for a different reason.
What's with the house?
Biological threats?
Perplexing for a modern person.
A screeching black otherworldly charged. Leaped at the high window. Earsplitting roar.
Pastel flinched, slammed the window shut. Backed away, watched. Crash, then brawling noises.
She clutched her chest, sighed.
"It was a happy family for sure."
Mom dead, dad a marriage scammer. Mansion trashed, kid abandoned?
Time to leave, grab a servant, figure things out. No clue how to head the house, but it's a class system, right?
Opening the door habitually, a chill instinct stopped her.
No way, inside too?
Peeked through the crack.
A wolf radiating black aura met her eyes. Slit pupils dilated. Jaws parted. Fangs gleamed.
Oh...
Hey, friend? We're friends, right?
No.
The wolf barked, lunged. Black drool splattered.
Pastel slammed the door. Frantic hands locked the bar. Impact shook it. Bar rattled.
Trembling, she backed away.
Scanned the room quick.
Weapons, weapons!
Empty, barren. Only the blanket and a wood chunk in the corner.
Wood chunk?
Pastel snatched it.
Forearm-length and thick.
Too short?
Swung it. Not whoosh—whoosh, more flick-flick. Like a concert light stick.
Won't catch a pigeon.
"Ugh, total crap."
Not a weapon?
Looked around again—nothing.
"No luck, huh."
Pastel gripped the chunk, faced the door. Stared at the shaking door, steadied herself.
Cool air, a speck of dust sank into awareness. Nerves sharpened.
Eyes on the lock. Bar trembled noisily but held. Sturdy.
Huh?
Not breaking? Actually safe? Need to fight with a light stick?
Pastel stayed tense, watched. Soon, wolf tired—the door quieted.
Waited more—no change.
Arms shot up.
"Long live tech civilization!"
Humanity wins!
Watched the door longer, then to the window. Modern folks use brains, not brawn.
Ignored the messy garden, eyed the horizon sky. Ships flew in the blue.
Observed awhile. Airships drifted peacefully on varied paths.
"Knew it. This mess is just our house."
One thing to do.
Pastel tossed the unreliable chunk aside.
Wait for rescue.
Her status meant help would come.
Shook out the blanket she'd trampled, draped it over her winter dress. Chill faded soon.
Whew, blanket saved the day.
Tension eased, fatigue hit.
Zoned out, dozed sitting.
Long time passed.
Sole window light vanished, returned. Sun lit the cold room.
A day gone.
No rescuers.
No similar uproar.
Pastel gripped her starving gut, rose. Hunger cooled her to fingertips. Thirst rose.
Grabbed the wood chunk.
Spotted rough stone floor seam. Wedged the wood, leaned in—splintered a bit.
Reset, pushed again.
Dozens, hundreds of times.
Wood sharpened to a point.
Like wolf fangs.
Let's see who dies first.