I Became a Good-for-Nothing
{I became a good-for-nothing.}
"Ugh…."
His head throbbed with pain.
Fucking hurts.
It felt like hundreds of sharp needles were churning through his brain—a vicious agony.
He forced his heavy eyelids open, and his blurry vision slowly came into focus. An ornate ceiling. Worn but luxurious decorations. Light filtering through thick curtains. A landscape that was familiar yet utterly alien.
"Hah… damn it all."
As he tried to sit up, he sensed something off about his body. No, it wasn't just off. The overwhelming inner energy that had once commanded the world, shattering mountains and cleaving rivers, was completely gone. His dantian was empty, his meridians clogged. Every breath sent stinging pain through his frail lungs.
But what grated on him most was his dulled senses. The hyper-acute perception that could detect an ant crawling within dozens of li was now too blunt to even distinguish footsteps outside the door. It was a suffocating horror, like a normal person suddenly going deaf and blind.
"This is maddening."
He let out a hollow chuckle, staring at his pale, scrawny palm. It didn't look like the hand of a martial artist anywhere.
The pain swirling in his mind gradually subsided. Three sets of memories. Three lives. Three selves. They all fused together within him.
First, his previous-previous life. The memories of an ordinary young Korean man in peaceful South Korea, devouring genre novels.
Second, his previous life. Dropped into the blood-soaked world of the Murim, he crushed orthodox and unorthodox sects alike under the brutal logic of the strong devouring the weak, ascending to the throne of absolute power as the leader of the Blood Cult.
And third, his current life. The harsh northern territories of the Valtellion Empire. Here, as the eldest son of the Hartvalt Grand Duchy, he had squandered his days in booze and debauchery, becoming the family's headache.
The twenty years Kyle Hartvalt had lived.
Hah! So it wasn't a possession.
It didn't take long to piece it together. In his previous life as the Blood Cult Leader, at the pinnacle of martial arts, he had shattered the void attempting dimensional travel. But the laws of the universe were unforgiving. The attempt ended in half-failure. His body disintegrated. His soul wandered the rifts between dimensions before settling into an infant's body in this world.
Not possession, but true reincarnation. The shock of dimensional crossing had merely sealed his past selves deep in his subconscious. As a result, the hollow shell of Kyle Hartvalt had spent the last twenty years living worse than a beast, driven purely by instinct as a utter wastrel.
And now, at age twenty, the seal on his memories shattered completely, awakening all his selves.
Quite the ridiculous outcome for a botched failure.
Kyle let out a wry snort, leaning back against the headboard. With the fusion complete, his current situation and the nature of this world crystallized in his mind.
This was the world of a fantasy webnovel he had read in his previous-previous life as a Korean: The Fallen Lady Became the Northern Grand Duchess.
The heroine was a baron's daughter whose family fell to ruin, right?
Recalling the original plot, it was a ludicrous setup. The story followed Elena Verdin, a baron's daughter ruined by imperial intrigue. She reunites with her childhood friend, Karon Hartvalt, the second son of the Hartvalt Grand Duchy. Karon, who met Elena in the capital as a child, never forgot her even after her family was falsely accused of treason and destroyed. To find her again and defy the imperial family that crushed her house, he aimed for the Grand Duke's seat. Piling up merits on the northern frontline. Seizing control of the family succession. Ultimately becoming Grand Duke and proposing to the fallen lady.
That was the early flow of the original.
And in that novel, I'm the third-rate extra wastrel eldest son who blocks the protagonist's path and gets his head chopped off early on.
Kyle smacked his lips.
The Grand Duchy's current situation was complex yet simple. His birth mother, the previous Grand Duchess, died of illness when he was just three. Soon after, his stepmother Enora entered and bore the second son Karon and third son Leon. Backed by her powerful maternal clan, Enora naturally schemed to make one of her own sons the heir. In the process, Kyle—the sickly seed from the first wife—was thoroughly neglected. He grew into a drunken wastrel, finger-pointed even by the territory's folk as trash.
Meanwhile, second son Karon Hartvalt was eighteen. Digging through memories, Karon had gone to the perilous northern frontline half a year ago, racking up overwhelming feats against the monsters.
To build merits on the frontline and raise his name. To gain the knights' support. All to secure his place in the succession.
But it's all really for a woman.
Karon had a woman he had to find again: the original heroine, Elena Verdin. To locate her and oppose the imperial family that ruined her house, he needed the power of the Northern Grand Duke.
The Grand Duke hadn't officially named an heir yet. But public opinion and power in the territory had long tilted toward Karon. The second son earning feats in battle. The eldest son drowning in booze and mischief. No need to spell out who suited the heir role better.
"Hmph."
Kyle snorted derisively. In his previous-previous life's memories, The Fallen Lady Became the Northern Grand Duchess was quite popular early on. The baron's daughter ruined by imperial schemes. The childhood friend male lead who grows strong for her, becoming Northern Grand Duke. Reuniting and fighting the empire to clear her name—a pure devoted love story. The pairing of fallen lady and Northern Grand Duke hooked readers.
But the novel had one fatal flaw that grated on Kyle's nerves.
Hypocrite bastard.
The repulsive hypocrisy of the original male lead, Karon. In the story, Karon was utterly devoted to Elena Verdin alone. For her, he'd risk his life; for her injustice, he'd draw steel even against the imperial family. Portrayed as a knight of pure love, cherishing his first love from childhood, honing himself on the frozen northern battlefields for her alone.
But to those unrelated to Elena, he was ice-cold. If it served saving her, he'd shrug off others' sacrifices as inevitable. Northern soldiers dying? Necessary for the goal. Family politics crushing someone? Unavoidable. Yet if his enemies crossed a line, he'd rage like a self-righteous apostle of justice.
[How dare you torment the innocent—I won't forgive it!]
Acting like he was some hero of justice.
Disgusting prick. If he were a consistent mad villain slaughtering all, I'd at least applaud.
Kyle didn't deny slaughter itself. The strong trampling the weak and taking was the law of nature. Be it Murim or this world—the essence was the same.
But he loathed hypocrites who wrapped their violence and desires in flimsy morals and justice. The disgust he'd felt reading as a Korean in his previous-previous life fused with his Blood Cult Leader life, which had shattered that weakness, morphing into pure hatred for the original male lead Karon.
Arrogant hypocrite shit.
Kyle muttered coldly in his mind. Then he spoke to the empty air.
"Status Window."
Only silence filled the room. No translucent holographic panel appeared—not even a single line.
The original male lead Karon never had a status window either. What he had was system-defying talent. Protagonist fate. Innate aura sense. Swordsmanship. Battlefield insight. Charisma drawing people. And the original plot of reuniting with Elena Verdin to save her.
All blessings bestowed on Karon.
"Tch. Wasn't expecting it anyway."
Kyle clicked his tongue lightly and sat cross-legged on the bed. He'd never planned to rely on some toy system.
He retained his previous life's overwhelming experience and knowledge that had dyed the Murim red. Countless life-or-death duels. Human vital points and joint disassembly. Qi manipulation. Dominating through fear. Surviving and ruling in a world of eat-or-be-eaten.
All etched in his mind.
Kyle closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Cold air seeped deep into his lungs. He invoked the cultivation method he'd devised in his previous life.
Blood God's Power.
Back in the Murim, he'd despised corny names like Surablood Demon Art or Heavenly Demon Supremacy. His Korean sensibilities ran deep in his bones. So he'd renamed all his creations intuitively.
Blood God's Power. True to its name. Rooted in blood. Nourished by pain. Repeated wounds and recovery reforging the body tougher and stronger.
As the method activated, ambient mana began slowly drawn into his lungs. This world's mana differed in texture from Murim's qi. But the fundamentals of handling energy were the same—just slight variances in flow and nature.
Blood God's Power ignored such differences. Its domineering trait forcibly devoured and melted any foreign energy into his blood.
Easy.
No pain. It had absorbed even the body's stagnant impurities.
Huuu—
Kyle opened his eyes. Faint vitality pulsed beneath his pale skin.
But objectively, his state remained pathetic.
1st stage.
Blood God's Power had twelve stages total. Despite retaining his previous life's perfect enlightenment, this trash body could only reach 1st stage for now. Mana reserves and muscle power fell short of squires, let alone aura-wielding knights.
But Kyle didn't care. Even 1st stage was plenty. Combined with previous life's experience and killing techniques, it overflowed for destroying vitals and snuffing lives.
And for bursts, I can exceed low knights.
First, he needed intel. Precise dynamics inside the mansion. Outside situation. Succession centered on Karon. Stepmother and Grand Duke's intentions. Knights' and servants' attitudes.
Per the original, the Hartvalt Grand Duchy already revolved around Karon by now. Enora scheming for her son as heir. The Grand Duke leaning toward the merit-earning second son over the wastrel eldest. Knights awed by Karon's prowess. Servants treating him like the real master.
Kyle? The family disgrace. An obstacle soon removed. The early hurdle for the original male lead to conquer the Grand Duchy.
Let's see about that.
Kyle picked up the silver bell by the bed.
Ding-a-ling—
Ding-a-ling—
The clear chime spread beyond the door. Soon footsteps approached, and the door burst open.
Bang—
No knock—the rude entrance. A young servant entered with a silver tray of cold porridge, legs splayed cockily. Seeing Kyle upright in bed, he tsked loud enough to be heard.
"Tch. You rang, Young Master? What now? Need me to clean up vomit off the floor?"
The words were polite. The tone worse than to a street bum. He even plunked the tray on the table without permission.
Thud!
Thin gruel splattered messily.
Kyle silently stared at the servant. No respect in those eyes. Thick disgust and contempt, like eyeing roadside filth. Given the past twenty years of wastrel Kyle's antics, it tracked.
But not fitting for a master.
Cheeky bastard.
Kyle's lip curled.
"Hey."
At the call, the servant scratched his forehead irritably, like it was a huge bother.
"Ah, yeah, yeah. Speak. Make it quick, huh? Gotta clean Master Karon's quarters later—pretty busy."
Master Karon. Emphasizing the name like it was a show.
Openly insulting his master by invoking family power dynamics. Even servants had picked sides.
Eldest son Kyle: soon-gone wastrel. Second son Karon: future Northern Grand Duke, original male lead.
The shallow calculus shone in the servant's eyes. Kyle saw right through it and asked.
"Who am I?"
The abrupt question furrowed the servant's brow. Face screaming still drunk, spouting nonsense—or finally lost his mind.
Chin up, he replied insolently.
"Hah… You're Kyle, the Young Master, aren't you? Even if you live pickled in booze, at least remember your own na—"
Before the cheeky reply finished.
"Right."
Kyle smiled.
"I'm the Young Master."
He rose from the bed, closing in on the servant's nose in an instant. Current strength was lacking. Mana scant. But previous life's joint and vital destruction techniques remained.
Kyle grabbed the servant's right arm. Faint Blood God's energy gathered at his fingertips.
Crack!
Snap!
"Wha…?"
The servant's eyes shook dumbly. Unable to process the sound from his arm.
The next instant.
Snap!
"Gaaaaaaaah—!!"
A wretched scream erupted. The right arm didn't just break—it tore clean from the shoulder joint. Blood sprayed like a fountain across ceiling and floor.
Blood. Flesh. Bone shards.
Staring at his severed arm, the servant convulsed on the floor in shock.
"Aaaah! My arm! My aaaarm!!"
Kyle eyed the mangled limb in his hand. More butchered meat than human limb, tangled with flesh and bone.
Thud.
He tossed it aside like trash. Then stomped his boot on the writhing servant's face.
Crunch!
"Guhk!"
The scream crushed underfoot. Blood and spit smeared the floor.
Kyle gazed down and whispered chillingly.
"Staring at your superior like that—want to die?"