Pain.
Not the kind of pain one expects after being hit by a truck. This one was more like—
"...A heatstroke in a sauna," Souta groaned, cracking one eye open like a hungover squirrel crawling out of a manhole.
The air was thick. Muggy. Scented with something floral and suspiciously sensual. And then came the uncomfortable realization that something sticky was clinging between his legs, and his abdomen was throbbing like he’d just done a thousand crunches with a watermelon inside.
"Am I in hell?" he croaked, dragging himself upright on a hard-ass mattress. The room looked like someone had decorated it using a medieval fantasy Pinterest board. Stone walls. Wooden furniture. A weird coat of arms that screamed rich dead people lived here.
"What kind of hospital is this...?" he muttered, still foggy.
That’s when the door banged open with enough force to dislodge his soul.
"Young Master! You’re awake!" a man cried, rushing in with a theatrical flourish. "You had us worried sick!"
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Souta squawked, whipping around to see a white-haired man in a perfectly pressed black suit barreling toward him like an emotional freight train.
The stranger looked like every butler from every aristocratic drama ever aired—dignified, elegant... and dangerously close to sobbing.
"I feared the worst when you fainted in the rose garden!" he gasped. "Do you feel lightheadedness? A fever? Dizziness? Delirium? Are you seeing angels? Smelling lavender?"
"Who the hell are you?!"
The butler paled, visibly clutching his heart.
"...You don’t recognize me?" he whispered, eyes wide with disbelief. "It’s me, Marcel. I have served the House of Armoire since before you were born. You are Baron Lucien d’Armoire, master of this estate, my lord."
Souta blinked. "Baron... what-now?"
"Baron Lucien d’Armoire," Butler Marcel said, his voice wobbling.
"...Am I supposed to know what that means?"
That’s when he saw it.
The mirror.
Souta stumbled out of bed like a drunk baby deer, barely managing to avoid face-planting on the stone floor, and stared into the polished glass.
And the person staring back at him was—
"WHO. THE. HELL. IS. THAT?!"
The mirror showed a stranger.
Black hair like glossy ink. Brown eyes with lashes longer than any mascara could legally provide. Smooth, handsome features. Tall. Lean. Gorgeous.
A damn male model.
"...This is a prank show, right?" he whispered. "Is that you, Yamazaki? Did you drug me and dump me into an anime set?!"
But the man in the mirror moved when he moved. Raised an eyebrow when he did. Tilted his head. Poked his cheek.
Then he tried stretching his arm. The reflection followed. Peek-a-boo with himself? Yep, still there.
"...This is real."
He stood stiffly, eyes wide, unblinking.
Then—
"Ha..."
Okay. Okay. Calm. Calm like a monk. Calm like Buddha. Calm like—
"AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!WHAT THE FUCKING STUPID SITUATION IS THIS?!!! WHY AM I A HOT STRANGER?! WHERE’S MY BODY?! WHO IS THIS SUPERMODEL LOOKING BACK AT ME?! AND WHY DO I LOOK RICH?!"
The mirror trembled slightly under his grip.
Butler Marcel jumped back a full meter. "D-Do I call the physician?! The priest?! The exorcist?!"
Suddenly, a young maid scurried in like a nervous squirrel with a tray in hand, nearly tripping on the threshold. "M-My lord, please! Calm down and drink some water—"
"HOW CAN I CALM DOWN WHEN—" Souta began to yell again, but then—
His eyes locked on the water.
Or more precisely—
The glass.
Cue magical sparkle sound.
TA-DA!
His face went from unhinged panic to holy enlightenment in 0.3 seconds. Mouth agape. Eyes glittering.
"You’re... giving me water... in a golden glass?" he whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief.
The maid blinked. "Y-Yes, my lord... You always drink from this one."
Butler Marcel dabbed the corner of his eyes dramatically. "Oh, my poor young master... Has he forgotten even the family’s fine drinkware?"
Souta—no, Lucien—internally screamed.
MY GHOST.
AM I A RICH BARON?!
He screamed again—internally. Because now, the realization was sinking in. He was hot. He was rich. He had a literal butler, golden drinkware, and a mirror that didn’t bully his self-esteem.
"Do I have a horse?!" he suddenly blurted.
Butler Marcel straightened with pride. "Four purebred Lipizzaners, my lord."
Lucien blinked, stunned—as if God personally called him fabulous.
"...Do I also have a private chef?"
Butler tilted his head, visibly confused. "You’ve always had them, my lord. Chef Emilio, Chef Dario, and Pastry Master Lilliana."
Lucien clutched the golden goblet like a relic."OH MY GOD I’M IN A RICH-PERSON ISEKAI."
Butler Marcel stiffened. "I... don’t know what that is, my lord, but you sound excited. Shall I inform the steward that your memory loss has improved?"
Lucien (mentally: Souta, Level 99 broke-ass wage slave, now Lucien d’Armoire, certified noble with horses and water in gold) turned back to the mirror slowly.
He stared at his new face. That jawline. That skin. That unearned aura of generational wealth. "...I forgive you, truck," he whispered to the heavens. "I forgive you for hitting me."
Then, dramatically pivoting on his heel, he pointed at his butler. "Alright. Tell me everything. Starting with: how rich exactly am I, how single am I, and how many gold and diamond mines do I own?"
Butler’s brow twitched. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, very gently, "...Are you certain you don’t need the priest?"
But Lucien didn’t hear that. He was too busy floating in internal euphoria.
I’m rich. I drink water in gold. I have private chefs. No more unpaid overtime. No more black company hell. I can finally live like a proper NEET with money.
He clutched the silk sheets like they were the warm arms of destiny.
"I am rich," he whispered. "I finally f*cking got Rich."
What he didn’t realize yet...was that he hadn’t just been reincarnated into some rich noble’s life. He had been dropped into a very particular type of world. A world where status was determined by more than just wealth.
A world of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.
And he, Baron Lucien d’Armoire—formerly plain ol’ Souta—was about to find out...
He wasn’t a beta anymore.