Chapter 1
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Possessed
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Among guys with an older sister, there isn't one who hasn't read romance fantasies. They've at least peeked at one out of curiosity, right?
Honestly, they were fun. It was only natural that the plot—overcoming all sorts of irrational hate with clever twists and ultimately claiming human victory—would be irresistible.
I even felt a rush of catharsis in those scenes where the cool, rotten male lead denied his feelings before finally falling hard for the female lead.
But why was it...
I always preferred the sub-male leads. They were usually portrayed as flawless ideal men.
Fortunately, it was popular enough to have its own term: "sub-sickness."
I was secretly relieved. I'd thought I was the weird one.
Of course, after puberty hit and I became an adult, I didn't touch romance fantasies.
When I met my sister now and then, we'd joke about those days like old times.
"Yeah, there was that phase."
And yet.
"Uh...?"
One day, I woke up possessed in one of the romance fantasies I'd read as a kid.
The problem? The character I'd possessed wasn't the male lead. Nor was it the sub-male lead I loved.
Not even the female lead. Or the villainess who tormented her.
Then what the hell—
"Agh!"
I screamed from the sharp pain. Blood gushed from my nose.
'What the hell?'
Panicking as I clutched my nose, a prickly-looking pretty boy with jet-black hair and a girl in shabby, plain clothes—who couldn't hide her beauty—stood before me.
What kind of situation was this?
"You're in the way. Move."
No, just because someone's blocking the path, you swing a fist right away?
As far as I knew, the only guy with that level of shattered personality was the troublemaking young master from a prestigious family.
So.
'That bastard's Jerome?'
If he was the Jerome I knew, then the flustered, disheveled beauty beside him was definitely Ailin.
I remembered their first meeting started just like this.
The boy shot the girl a glare.
"And what are you?"
"Ah, uh... sorry...?"
"If you don't wanna die, scram."
The male lead ends up helping the bullied female lead by accident. That's how their connection sparks. The prologue of the story.
And then.
The bully who tormented the female lead exits stage left here—only to get conscripted when that trash later starts a rebellion, dying miserably in one throwaway line. No more mentions after that.
That's right.
I'd possessed the lowest extra of all: the one who picks a pointless fight with the female lead early on, eats a fist from the male lead, and later croaks because of him.
'No, why me?'
No one answered.
From here on, I'd just have to live it out.
*
"Wake up, Damon."
A man's gruff voice rang out. Damon's father, the original owner of this body.
"Yes, Father."
Truth be told, I'd been awake for a while. Beds in this godforsaken medieval world were brutally uncomfortable. No way to get proper sleep.
The blanket reeked of moldy dampness, and the pillow was just a sack crammed with sheep wool.
A real bed?
Commoners didn't have such luxuries.
Who knew? Noble mansions might boast actual beds with mattresses—or something close.
Not that it mattered to me.
"Father, the axe."
"......"
Damon's father was a taciturn man. Woodcutter by trade. The family scraped by chopping wood and selling firewood.
"Damon, take this."
Damon's mother was your standard housewife. Made sense. Dual incomes were a pipe dream in medieval times.
The house was so ramshackle that without someone tending it, it'd be no better than a ruin.
No wonder they called wives "housekeepers." Only after coming here did I realize how apt the term was.
The bundle from his mother held lunch—a packed meal, basically.
Oddly, folks around here skipped a hearty breakfast for a big lunch instead.
Unlike our ancestors who dotted out meager meals.
"I'll be off."
"Be careful."
I left his waving mother behind and stepped out. Father was already a ways ahead. Are your parents from Gyeongsang? I always itched to ask but held my tongue.
Anyway, I hustled to catch up.
"Damon."
Father called me then. He loosened up a bit outdoors.
"Yes, Father."
"How's the spot that got hit?"
"Much better."
I gingerly prodded my nose—the bone was knitting back but still throbbed.
That little shit.
No ordinary swing. He'd loaded it with aura or mana or whatever. Typical of him.
"......"
Even with his son coming home nose-busted from idiocy, Father said nothing. Just clicked his tongue.
That spoke volumes about Jerome's scumminess.
Plus, he was the lord's youngest son. Wielded unchecked power around here.
Romance fantasy trope: he'd eventually reform thanks to Ailin, whitewashing his past to near-glorification. But not yet. Years off.
Coincidentally, all three of us were the same age.
The lord's youngest was fifteen, so Damon was too. No need to guess.
No dumbass questions like 'Mom, how old am I this year?'
"Unload."
We reached a decent spot. I grabbed the axe Father set down and honed the edge on the whetstone.
Not because he told me to. Occupational habit.
My past life's job? Chef. Owner-chef of a proper restaurant, no less.
Couldn't use a blade without sharpening it first. Felt unclean, like half-assed wipe after shitting.
Glance.
Father watched me wordlessly, then eyed the trees.
Couldn't just hack any old tree.
That was the extent of my knowledge. Father never chopped randomly. Which ones? Beats me.
"Hand me the axe."
Soon Father notched a V into a trunk. Muscles rippled with every swing. Made sense for the job—big frame, solid build.
Damon inheriting those genes? Lucky break.
In this primitive medieval hell, a sturdy body alone was a blessing.
Crack!
The tree lost balance and toppled soon after.
"Whew."
I quickly handed Father the waterskin as he wiped sweat. Already drenched, but the real grind started now: breaking it down for transport.
Shit job, but I had to pitch in. Father handled big chunks; I'd split them smaller.
Crunch. Crunch.
We dove in without a word, lost in axe work for a spell.
Tough, but kinda fun. Good stress relief.
"Damon, let's rest."
Sun hung high. Lunchtime.
My favorite part of the day.
'Oh, sandwich!'
My eyes lit up the moment I unwrapped the bundle.
They didn't call it that here, of course. Just "bread with vegetables and meat."
This medieval backwater's food culture was predictably stunted.
Ingredients hard to source and store, spices and seasonings unknown.
Think England. Easy.
Bread, meat, fish, veg. Rinse and repeat.
No finesse—just boil, roast, or raw.
As a former chef, it was downright tragic.
Small mercy: Mother's cooking was pretty decent.
"Damon, why're you taking it apart?"
"Wanna see what's inside."
"You weirdo."
I'd love to watch her prep at dawn, but humanly impossible. I'd turn into a walking corpse.
So instead, I savored it pre-meal. Eyes first, then tastebuds.
'Hm, texture and flavor like romaine.'
Reason for the scrutiny? Ingredients looked and behaved differently from Earth.
Probably the original author skimping on details.
"Done eating? Let's wrap up."
"Yes, Father."
No time to digest. Forest got dangerous fast at dusk. Had to hustle.
Thus, I was adapting to this world, bit by bit.
While nurturing one tiny wish deep down.
'I'll survive, no matter what.'
To pull it off, I couldn't die like canon—dragged into the male lead's rash bullshit.
Needed a real job.
Woodcutter?
Fine, but better options existed.
I planned to open a restaurant here.
My old gig, and cooking was my forte.
One hitch, though.
In a world where woodcutter's sons became woodcutters and whores' daughters turned tricks, how to convince my parents.