Alex Thompson's life ended in a blur of screeching tires and blinding headlights.
At nineteen, he had been an ordinary college student—addicted to webnovels, video games, and daydreams of impossible adventures.
The truck filled his vision.
"So this is how it ends?"
Then the light vanished, and darkness swallowed him whole.
But death wasn't the end. A faint hum echoed in his mind, like a computer booting up.
[Reincarnation protocol initiated.]
[Host integration: 100%.]
[Welcome to Elyria.]
His eyes fluttered open to a world of dim torchlight and musty air. He was lying on a bed of scratchy straw, his wrists bound by heavy iron manacles chained to a wooden post. The room was a crude hut—walls of rough-hewn logs, a dirt floor scattered with hay, and a single barred window letting in slivers of moonlight. His body felt different: leaner, more toned, but aching from what seemed like recent labor. He wasn't Alex anymore, fragments of foreign memories flooded in, piecing together a new identity.
He was Eron Vale, an eighteen-year-old orphan in the kingdom of Valdoria, a sprawling fantasy realm where magic intertwined with feudal politics. Eron had been born to peasant parents who died in a monster raid years ago, leaving him to fend for himself. Desperate for food, he'd borrowed from a local landowner, Grom, only to default and be sold into slavery. Now, he toiled in Grom's fields, harvesting crops under the whip. Slavery was commonplace here—debtors, war captives, even elves or beastkin from border skirmishes ended up in collars. The world ran on affinities, some people awakened elemental magic like fire or earth, climbing social ladders as mages or knights, while others remained mundane serfs.
Eron—Alex in this new body—sat up slowly, testing the chains. They clinked softly, not too tight but unyielding. "Holy shit," he muttered, his voice a youthful baritone. "This is real. Truck-kun actually did it." He flexed his fingers, feeling the calluses from farm work. No status screen yet, no golden finger. But his Earth knowledge was intact: physics, psychology, basic engineering. In a medieval world like this, that could be his edge.
The door to the hut creaked open, and a burly figure stepped in—Grom, the slave owner. He was a pot-bellied man in his forties, with a scraggly beard and a tunic stained from ale. In one hand, he held a lantern; in the other, a wooden club. "Up, boy! Dawn's breaking soon. Fields won't plow themselves." His breath reeked of cheap wine, and his eyes narrowed at Eron's alert posture. "What's with the stare? You hit your head in the stables yesterday?"
Eron's mind raced. Play along or resist? He needed information. "Sorry, master. Head's fuzzy. What happened?"
Grom snorted, unchaining him roughly. "Fell from the hayloft, you clumsy oaf. Lucky you didn't break your neck. Now move—potatoes need digging before the market caravan arrives." He shoved Eron toward the door, into the pre-dawn chill.
Outside, the village of Oakridge sprawled under a starry sky. Thatched-roof cottages dotted rolling hills, surrounded by fields of wheat and vegetables. In the distance, a dense forest loomed, home to goblins and wolves according to Eron's borrowed memories. Smoke rose from a blacksmith's forge, and the faint hum of magic emanated from a small shrine to the goddess of harvest, where a low-level priest might bless the crops for a fee.
As they walked to the fields, Grom grumbled about taxes from the local lord, Baron Hargrove, who ruled from a stone keep on the hill. "King's wars with the demon clans are draining us dry. More slaves coming in from the borders—elves, even. But you? Useless without a whip." He cracked the club against Eron's back for emphasis, drawing a wince.
Eron bit back a retort. On Earth, he'd been a gamer, strategizing in RPGs. Here, survival meant patience. He scanned for opportunities: a loose nail in the fence, a discarded tool. Grom's farmhouse was nearby—a sturdy two-story building with a barn attached. Inside, he glimpsed movement through a window: a woman, Grom's wife, Mira. She was in her late thirties, with curvaceous figure accentuated by a simple linen dress, auburn hair tied back, and a weary expression as she stirred a pot over the hearth. Eron's instincts noted her beauty—full lips, ample bosom, hips that swayed with quiet grace. But more importantly, her eyes held resentment when they flicked toward Grom.
"Interesting," Eron thought. Divide and conquer? But first, freedom.
The morning dragged on. Eron dug furrows under Grom's watchful eye, his muscles burning. Other slaves joined—two older men and a young beastkin girl with fox ears, collared and silent. They whispered warnings— escape attempts meant the lash or sale to mines. But Eron's mind whirred. Using physics, he rigged a simple pulley from ropes in the barn during a break, pretending to organize tools. Grom didn't notice.
By midday, as the sun beat down, Eron feigned exhaustion, collapsing near the well. Grom approached, club raised. "Lazy cur! Get up!"
Now. Eron surged up, using momentum to tackle Grom off-balance. They grappled, but Eron's youth won out—he pinned the man, wrenching the club free. "Keys. Now."
Grom spat blood. "You'll hang for this!"
Eron pressed the club to his throat. "Keys, or I crush your windpipe." Grom relented, handing over the ring. Eron unlocked his manacles, then bound Grom with them. Heart pounding, he dragged the man into the barn, gagging him with rags.
Freedom tasted sweet, but he needed supplies. Sneaking to the farmhouse, he raided the pantry—bread, cheese, a waterskin. Mira entered the kitchen, freezing at the sight of him. "You... you're escaping?"
Her voice was soft, laced with curiosity rather than alarm. Up close, she was stunning — freckles across her nose, green eyes that sparkled with unspoken desires. Eron paused, sensing opportunity. "Yes. Come with me? Your husband's a brute."
She hesitated, glancing at the barn. "I... can't. But take this." She handed him a cloak and a small pouch of coins. "Head east to Silverport. Avoid the roads."
Their fingers brushed, a spark igniting. Eron felt a strange pull, but pushed it down. "Thank you, Mira. I'll remember this."
As he fled into the woods, adrenaline surged. Branches whipped his face, but he pressed on, using stars to navigate. Hours later, exhausted, he collapsed by a stream.
That's when it happened. A voice in his head:
[Conditions met: Escape from bondage.]
[Lust Dominion System unlocked.]
[Host: Eron Vale. Objective: Conquer hearts and bodies to ascend. Scan initiating...]
A blue interface materialized in his vision, like a game HUD:
[Lust Dominion System]
Level: 1
Stats: Strength 10, Agility 12, Mana 5, Charm 15, Libido 20
Skills: None Unlocked
Harem: 0/∞
Essence: 0
[Notification: Complete your first conquest to gain rewards.]
Eron grinned wildly. "Finally. Time to build my empire."
But night fell, and dangers lurked. He needed shelter—and perhaps, his first target wasn't far behind.