Dorian thought back to the procession he'd seen earlier and what the system had told him.
He was in a different world now, and the realization hit him like a freight train.
The first thing that told him he wasn't home was the atmosphere.
The sky hung dark, tainted with a faint scarlet hue, and the air felt thick with mist. Cobblestone roads ran between buildings that looked like someone had mashed together a medieval European city with a romanticized slice of grimy Victorian London—banners with an unfamiliar crest fluttering, people wrapped in layered robes, the distant toll of bells instead of traffic, and the jaded, weary looks on the passing crowd's faces.
He turned in place, staring at the ground for a moment as he tried to steady himself.
'This is real… I can't believe it. System, what are you, really?'
His gaze landed on a nearby shop window and the stranger reflected there.
A tall, well-dressed, broad-shouldered man stared back at him, golden blond hair falling over a well-defined, almost sculpted face. All of it only made his eyes stand out more—pupils the color of fresh blood, uncanny enough to unsettle even him. He lifted a hand to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, as if his touch might contradict the reflection.
'This looks like me, but at the same time it doesn't… it's like someone messed around with the customization slider on a game character.'
Dorian was jolted out of his daze by the clanking of metal growing closer. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted a stern-looking man in armor—most likely a city guard—heading straight for him with a suspicious gaze.
"Hey! You there! What are you doing here? It's way past curfew. Show me your license."
Dorian's heart skipped. For a split second he debated bluffing or bolting as he turned to fully face the man.
Before he could decide, the guard's eyes widened, his hand freezing halfway to his sword. His face drained of color.
"I–I'm sorry, my lord! I didn't recognize you! Please, have some leniency!"
Dorian blinked, caught off guard. The man bowed so low his helmet nearly scraped the cobblestones, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill mist.
'What the hell? This avatar must look like someone important.'
DING.
A faint system notification flickered into view in front of his eyes, listing this body's name and background.
[Current Identity: Dorian Voss]
[Status: Infamous debauched noble. Sole member of the Voss ducal line.]
More text scrolled beneath it.
[Public reputation: Most gossiped-about man in high society.
Rumors range from a penchant for seducing young noble ladies to conspiratorial whispers that he bathes in the blood of virgins.]
Dorian stared at the window reflection again, at the handsome stranger with blood-red eyes.
'Infamous, debauched noble… great. I get isekai'd and the system turns me into the shadiest guy ever.'
He forced his shoulders to relax, pushing the panic down. If this body belonged to someone important, he couldn't act like a lost tourist.
"That's enough," he said, more to test the voice of this body than anything. It came out smooth and a little cold. "You caught me on a particularly bad night. Escort me back to my residence. I'm in no mood to stand in the street explaining myself."
The guard snapped to attention so fast his armor rattled.
"O-of course, my lord! At once!"
He led Dorian through twisting streets at a brisk pace, words tumbling out in a nervous ramble.
"My lord, the streets aren't safe at this hour—lurking criminals, rumors about the plague, church patrols sniffing around. For your own safety, m'lord, I'd strongly recommend you keep away at these ungodly hours."
Dorian nodded absently, barely listening. The air grew thicker with the scent of woodsmoke and spiced ale as they left the center of the city behind.
They reached the city's edge, where an iron gate creaked open to reveal the Voss ducal mansion. It loomed like a cursed crown—opulent spires cracked and veined with ivy, gardens overgrown but still blooming blood-red roses under the scarlet sky.
"My lord, welcome back," the gatekeeper muttered, eyes fixed on the ground.
A chill slid down Dorian's spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
'This guy lived like this? In that haunted pile of stones? Why are these guys always so obsessed with creepy mansions? Am I going to find vampire brides inside as well?'
Inside, servants scattered like shadows as he entered the foyer, marble floors echoing under his boots. Their eyes flicked up with a mix of awe and fear. A maid nearly dropped a vase when their gazes met; an old butler cleared his throat, watching him as if he were a bomb with an uncertain timer. Dorian ignored the stares, the wary whispers, the way they weighed his every step, and headed up the grand staircase.
His chambers exuded pure decadence: floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains, a four-poster bed drowned in layers of black silk, and a tall gilded mirror that caught his crimson eyes, making them glow even brighter in the dim candlelight.
"I'm tired," Dorian muttered to the butler trailing after him. "You may leave now."
The old man bowed and withdrew. The door clicked shut behind him with a long, echoing creak.
Alone at last, another system prompt filled his vision, lines of cold text stacking neatly over the darkness of the room.
[Primary Mission: Corrupt the Saintess.]
[Suggested Starting Point: Lower Chapel – city outskirts.]
Dorian exhaled slowly, sinking into a velvet chair.
'Corrupt the saintess,' he thought. 'Not just any NPC, but the holiest person in the setting. What does that even mean in practice?'
He imagined running into her and then just… what? Flirting? The word lodged in his throat. He had no idea what he was supposed to do once he met her, or what the system expected beyond the vague label of "corruption".
Rather than charge in clueless, he decided he needed information first. Who she was. How she lived. How the world saw her.
He rang the bellcord. It didn't take long for a familiar figure to arrive—the same old butler from the foyer, posture straight despite the late hour.
"Sebastian," Dorian said, improvising the name he thought most fitting for a butler. "I need you to remind me about the saintess."
The butler stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"The saintess, my lord?" His tone turned careful, formal. "May I ask… in what regard?"
"In all regards," Dorian said, leaning back as if this were a casual whim. "Her name, her past, her temperament. What she's done. How people see her. Humor me."
"Sebastian" hesitated. Dorian didn't miss the way the man's eyes flicked to his, then away again, as if weighing how far he dared speak.
"At once, my lord," the butler finally said. His voice lowered, almost reverent. "Her Holiness is… a living miracle. Chosen by the church at a young age, blessed with the gift of healing. They say her prayers have cured illnesses no cleric could touch, stilled plagues, calmed riots. To the people, she is hope."
He paused, lips pressing together for a moment.
"And to the church," he added quietly, "she is its most precious treasure."
Dorian blinked at the weight in the man's voice, the way his hands trembled slightly as he spoke.
"You're exaggerating," Dorian said. "No human can be that perfect."
The butler flinched as if struck.
"On the contrary, my lord. I fear I understate it." He recounted stories with stiff, almost fearful respect—of blessings given without sleep, of weeks spent tending the sick, of her refusing coin or privilege, choosing instead to remain within the cathedral walls.
"She almost never leaves the main cathedral," he finished. "Her days are filled with rituals, blessings, and audiences with the faithful. There is scarcely a moment she does not give to others."
Dorian didn't believe any human could embody perfection to that extent. As Sebastian spoke, he leaned back in the chair and tried to picture her: not as an idol on stained glass, but as a girl buried under the burden of expectations and faith, no room to breathe or make a mistake.
It sounded suffocating.
He felt a prickle of sympathy for someone he'd never met, for a life spent being a symbol instead of a person. And with it came a knot of reluctance at the thought of dragging someone like that down just because the system said so.
'Does "corruption" mean destroying her?' he wondered. 'Or… knocking her off the pedestal everyone else nailed her to?'
He wasn't sure which idea unsettled him more.
"You may go," Dorian said at last.
Sebastian bowed and left him alone again.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint tolling of distant bells outside. Dorian stared at the system window still floating in front of him.
No way back now.
He rubbed his temples.
Then he pulled the mission prompt back up, eyes lingering on the suggested location.
[Suggested Starting Point: Lower Chapel – city outskirts.]
[Estimated: First contact opportunity within the next few nights.]
He pushed himself to his feet.
'First step: see the place with my own eyes. Watch her from afar. Figure out what kind of person this "living miracle" really is before I do anything else.'
He crossed the room and stopped with his hand on the door handle.
Somewhere outside, a bell tolled again—heavier this time, followed by the faint echo of armored footsteps on stone. Church patrols, just like the guard had warned.
Dorian smirked weakly to himself.
"What could go wrong?" he muttered.
And with that, he started planning his visit to the lower chapel.
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