It has been two weeks since his regression. Lucien’s hands moved absent-mindedly, scrubbing the same wooden bowl for the third time. His eyes were fixed on a patch of peeling moss on the windowsill, but his mind was decades away.

  The heat of the ashen wind, the smell of his own burning skin, and the terrifying, melodic chill of Ray's voice... it was all still there, vibrating in his marrow. He shouldn't be here. He should be a charred memory in the ruins of the Empire.

  A soft, melodic giggle bubbled up behind him, followed by the low, warm rumble of a man’s chuckle.

  Lucien’s father, Baron Marcis D’Roselle, had his arms wrapped firmly around the waist of his Mother, Adeline D’Roselle. They were swaying slightly, lost in a world where the only thing that mattered was the scent of Adeline’s hair and the strength in Marcis's grip.

  Lucien felt a literal surge of bile hit the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, the "barf" stinging his windpipe. Get a room. Seriously, he thought, his internal voice sounding far more like a weary soldier than an eleven-year-old boy.

  They had been like this for as long as he could remember—a permanent, sickeningly sweet honeymoon phase that defied all logic and social decorum. He had died in a war-torn wasteland never having learned the secret to their domestic bliss, and frankly, looking at them now, he didn't want to. It was exhausting just to witness.

  Then, the realization of his current labor hit him.

  He looked down at the greasy water and the stack of wooden plates. A spark of genuine, petty anger flared in his chest. Why the hell am I washing dishes? I’m a noble. Sort of.

  The D’Roselles were the definition of "country bumpkins." Marcis had somehow stumbled into a Barony through a series of bureaucratic miracles and minor military service, but at heart, they were still just farmers with a fancy seal. The "manor" was barely a glorified farmhouse, and the staff was... non-existent.

  Wait, Lucien froze, a soapy plate halfway to the rack. We had one. Didn't we?

  Memory, fogged by the trauma of the "End," began to clear. In his previous life, there had been a man. A shadow in the corner of the room that handled the things Marcis was too "romantic" to notice. His father had trusted the man with his life—and eventually, that man had paid that debt in blood. He had died in the early days of the collapse, shielding Marcis from an insurgent's blade.

  What was his name? Lucien’s brow furrowed. If he’s not here... did I not go back far enough? Is he already dead?

  Lucien turned around, drying his hands on his tunic with a frantic energy, ignoring the fact that his parents were still practically merging into a single entity.

  "Father," Lucien barked, his voice cracking slightly with its prepubescent pitch. "The butler. The man who is supposed to be washing the dishes. Where is he?"

  Marcis blinked, pulling his face away from Adeline’s neck with a look of dazed confusion. "The help, Lu? We have you! You're doing a grand job with those bowls."

  Lucien’s eye twitched. I need to find him. Now. I am not spending the next ten years doing chores while the world prepares to explode.

  Marcis let out a booming laugh that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards of the kitchen. "Sebas is currently out running a couple of errands, Lu. He should be back by sundown. Besides," Marcis added, wearing that infuriatingly earnest expression of his, "the man will be tired when he returns. It’s better for us to finish the dishes now so that when he gets back, he doesn’t have more work waiting for him."

  "Then why don't you do it?" Lucien snapped back.

  The retort was sharp, fueled by the irritation of a man who had led armies and seen the end of the world being told to scrub grease off a wooden bowl by a man who was currently sniffing his wife’s hair.

  Marcis, however, remained in a state of blissful ignorance. He didn't even acknowledge the sting in the boy's voice; he just leaned further into Adeline, closing his eyes as if he were inhaling the finest perfume in the Empire. He was functionally useless when his mother was within a five-foot radius.

  It was Adeline who responded instead, her voice firm but carrying that teasing lilt that always made Lucien feel like he was losing an argument before it even started. "Stop fighting back and wash the dishes, Lucien. My, are you hitting puberty already? Where did my obedient angel go?"

  Obedient angel?

  Lucien cringed so hard he nearly dropped the plate. He turned back to the basin, his shoulders hunched, and scrubbed with a renewed, violent vigor. I’m a grown man in a child's body, he screamed internally. I’ve bled out in the ash! I’ve watched the sky break! I am nobody's 'angel'!

  He looked out the window again, the sight of the peaceful, green hills of the D'Roselle estate mocking the gray, horrific memories still burned into his retinas.

  Sebas. Right. The butler. From what he remembered of the "First Timeline," Sebas wasn't just a servant; he was the only person in this house who actually knew how to maintain a schedule. He was the logistical backbone of the family, the one who kept the Baron from accidentally bankrupting them on romantic gestures and flower arrangements.

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  If Sebas is back by sundown, I’m cornering him, Lucien decided. I need a proxy. I need someone who can move pieces on the board while I’m stuck here pretending to be an eleven-year-old 'angel'.

  He let out a long, weary sigh that rattled his small chest.

  "What a drag," he whispered.

  The sun was still high. There were still twelve bowls, four pots, and a mountain of cutlery left. And in about ten years, a boy named Ray Melborne was going to start a fire that would consume everything.

  Lucien looked at his soapy, tiny hands and felt the crushing weight of the "Main Character" status settling over him like a lead shroud. He didn't want the throne. He didn't want the glory. He just wanted someone—anyone—to take this burden so he could finally, finally go back to sleep.

  The sun finally began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. Lucien stood by the gate, his small frame trembling with a fatigue that felt insulting.

  In the last few hours, he hadn't just finished the dishes. He had been "guided" into cleaning the common rooms, organizing the library shelves, and—the ultimate indignity—mucking out the stables. As he wiped a smudge of manure from his forearm, he felt a wave of profound disbelief.

  In his memories of the first life, he remembered his childhood being all fun and games. He remembered laughter and "adventures" in the house. But looking at it now with the jaded eyes of a veteran, the terrifying truth revealed itself: his parents had been manipulating him from day one. They had turned chores into "games" just to keep him busy so they could continue their endless, shameless romanticizing of one another.

  I was a tool, Lucien thought, his jaw tightening. A pint-sized cleaner for their honeymoon.

  It might have worked on the original "obedient angel," but the current Lucien was a regressor with a mountain of experience and a soul that had seen the literal end of the world. He wasn't falling for the "let’s see who can sweep the fastest" trick ever again. But for now, he had to play along. He was eleven. He had no coin, no standing, and legs that got tired after three miles.

  He looked up, squinting down the long, winding dirt road that led to the manor.

  A shadow emerged from the golden haze of the sunset. It moved with a rhythmic, measured pace that stood out against the lazy atmosphere of the countryside. As the figure approached, the silhouette sharpened into a person who looked entirely too refined for the D’Roselle estate.

  It was Sebas.

  At seventeen, Sebas was already a striking figure. He was tall—impossibly so for a "butler" in a backwater barony—with a posture so straight it made Lucien’s back ache just looking at him. He wore a crisp, well-kept uniform that somehow hadn't gathered a single speck of dust from the road.

  His hair was perfectly groomed, framing a face that was, frankly, a nuisance to look at. He was handsome in that sharp, clinical way—chiseled jaw, calm eyes, and an expression of unwavering competence. He looked like a man who could balance a budget, win a duel, and serve a four-course meal without breaking a sweat.

  He was exactly what Lucien needed. A man who took responsibility seriously.

  Sebas stopped at the gate, his gaze falling on the small, disheveled boy covered in stable grime. He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of curiosity crossing his refined features.

  "Young Master Lucien," Sebas said, his voice as smooth and polished as a silver tray. "You look... productive. May I ask why you are standing in the dirt at this hour?"

  Lucien looked up at the teenager who had died for his family in another life. He saw the "capable" eyes, the steady hands, and the sheer potential of a man who actually did his job.

  Target acquired, Lucien thought, a predatory, weary glint entering his eyes. Enjoy your youth while you can, Sebas. Because I’m about to make you the most responsible person in the Empire.

  Marcis’s laughter boomed through the twilight, a sound of pure, unearned joy that made Lucien’s teeth ache. The Baron practically bounded forward, pulling Sebas into a crushing bear hug.

  "Did you finish the errands, Sebas?" Marcis asked, his voice thick with affection.

  "Yes, sir," Sebas responded.

  Lucien watched from the periphery, his eyes narrowing. There was a powerful, unmistakable warmth radiating from Sebas’s eyes—a look of genuine reverence. Lucien felt a spike of irritation. Why? What is good about this lecher? He looked at his father—a man who spent eighty percent of his day inhaling his wife’s scent and the other twenty percent avoiding paperwork—and couldn't find a single quality worth such loyalty.

  Sebas didn't seem to notice Lucien’s scrutiny. His voice was low, contained, but humming with a vibration of suppressed excitement. "I think I have a deal coming our way, sir. A real one. With this, we can finally build the town and become the Barony I know we can be."

  Marcis gave him a warm, paternal smile—the kind of look he should have been giving his actual son, who was currently standing three feet away smelling like a stable floor.

  "Don't worry about such things, Sebas," Marcis said, though a shadow of hesitation crossed his face. "I have a bad feeling about this. Let's just ignore it for now."

  Lucien froze. What deal?

  He delved deep, clawing through the fog of decades and trauma to find his childhood memories. The "First Timeline" was a blurred mess of pain, but a sharp realization suddenly pierced through the haze.

  That’s right. This is the night.

  This was the night Sebas died. This was the catalyst. In the original timeline, Sebas had gone out to finalize a "deal," and he never came back. Or rather, he came back as a corpse, followed by a band of mercenaries who razed the estate, hauled Lucien off to the slave markets, and dragged his parents into a darkness they refused to speak of even after they were reunited years later.

  Lucien looked at Sebas's happy, confident smile. Was the butler a traitor? Or just a well-meaning idiot being led into a trap?

  "I'll be back, sir," Sebas said, bowing deeply. "I only came back to report. Wait for my return—I'll bring back the good news."

  Marcis looked conflicted, his "bad feeling" warring with his natural desire to stay in his bubble of bliss. He let the boy go. As Sebas’s silhouette began to fade back into the darkening road, Marcis turned, finally realizing he had a son.

  "Where did Lucien go?" he asked, blinking at the empty spot where the boy had been.

  "Oh, he must be having fun cleaning the barn," Adeline responded, leaning into her husband’s chest. Marcis chuckled, his hands already wandering as he prepared to ravish his wife, entirely oblivious to the fact that his eleven-year-old son was currently ghosting through the tall grass, tailing the butler into the woods.