Once you've committed the act of harming someone for the first time, each subsequent act becomes progressively more practiced, more efficient, and infinitely more cruel.
Marcus Chen was no saint—even in his original world, he'd lived a life balanced precariously on the knife's edge, intimately familiar with danger and morally gray decisions. But recalling the particular brand of malevolence that Elena Nightshade embodied in the novel—that bone-deep, chilling, methodical evil that seemed woven into the very fabric of her being—sent an involuntary shudder racing up his spine. The cold started at his tailbone and crawled upward like frost spreading across glass, vertebra by vertebra, until his entire back prickled with goosebumps.
Marcus sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. His heart felt as though an icy fist had closed around it and squeezed. The brutal memory belonging to the "Original Owner"—the final, horrifying fate that had awaited this body's previous occupant—crashed into his consciousness like frozen shards of glass piercing soft flesh.
The memory was vivid, merciless, and absolutely terrifying:
It was a day when heavy snow fell from a leaden sky in thick, swirling curtains.
The Original Marcus Chen regained consciousness slowly, swimming up through layers of anesthesia and chemical fog. The first sensation to break through was agony—a gut-wrenching, tearing pain radiating from his abdomen that made his entire body convulse.
A blank sheet of white paper was thrust before his unfocused eyes. The paper's surface caught and reflected the harsh snowlight, the glare so intense it felt like needles stabbing directly into his retinas. He couldn't keep his eyes open against that assault of white on white.
He struggled to lift his head, muscles trembling with the effort, and found himself staring directly into a pair of eyes that burned with the cold ferocity of a lone wolf prowling snow-covered mountains—predatory, merciless, and utterly inhuman.
Elena Nightshade sat enthroned in her wheelchair, swathed in a coat of luxurious white fur that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. Her face was paler than the falling snow itself, bloodless and porcelain-smooth. But her lips—her lips were painted a vivid, almost supernatural red that seemed to pulse with unnatural life against all that deathly pallor.
When she spoke, her voice carried a chilling coldness that seemed grotesquely inappropriate for someone so young:
"Press your fingerprint here. This document will prove that you voluntarily donated your kidney. Your death..." She paused, and the corner of her crimson mouth twitched upward in something that might have been a smile on anyone else. "...will be ruled nothing more than an unfortunate accident. By the time the authorities locate your body, the fish will have consumed everything. There won't be enough left of you to identify, much less to raise awkward questions."
The Original Owner clutched desperately at his hollow, throbbing side—where his kidney used to be, where there was now just screaming emptiness and wet, awful pain. His features contorted into a mask of animal terror and suffering. Snot and tears streamed down his face in humiliating abandon as he collapsed to his knees in the bloodstained snow, his expensive clothes already soaked through and freezing.
"Wife... Miss Nightshade! Please!" The words came out in broken, gasping sobs. "Please, I'm begging you—spare my life! I swear I'll never do it again! I'll never deceive you again! I'll do anything you want, just please—"
He never got to finish that desperate plea.
Two massive bodyguards in tailored black suits materialized from the shadows on either side of him. Their gloved hands clamped down on his trembling fingers with bruising force, and despite his weak struggles, they pressed his bloody fingerprint onto the fraudulent "voluntary donation consent form" with mechanical efficiency.
Then, like handlers disposing of garbage that had begun to smell, they seized him under the arms and dragged his failing body across the crimson-stained snow. His feet left twin trails of disturbed powder behind them as they hauled him toward the edge of a dock.
Without ceremony, without hesitation, they hurled him into the bone-chilling embrace of the black sea below.
The water was so cold it felt like being stabbed by a thousand knives simultaneously. Salt water flooded into his nose, his mouth, the surgical wound in his side. He was drowning and bleeding out at the same time, his body shutting down from multiple catastrophic failures.
In those final, fading moments of consciousness, as the dark water pulled him down into its suffocating depths, the last image burned into his dying retinas was that face—that stunningly beautiful, utterly heartless face framed by the falling snow.
The woman's crimson lips curved upward in an expression of deep, genuine satisfaction. Her voice drifted down to him, muffled by water and distance, soft and pleasant as if she were discussing the weather: "We can go back now."
The wheelchair's tracks in the pristine snow were shallow, barely there. Within minutes, the continuing snowfall had completely erased those faint impressions, burying all evidence. As if the crime had never occurred. As if a human life had never been extinguished. As if this were nothing more than another winter day.
"I refuse to become fish food!" The thought exploded through Marcus's mind with the force of a primal scream, born of pure survival instinct and existential terror. The phantom sensation of drowning—lungs burning, throat closing, water flooding in—still seemed to linger in this borrowed body's cellular memory. The ghost of surgical pain still ached in his side where a kidney had been brutally harvested.
[System: "Then I would strongly suggest you successfully romance her and persuade her to at least leave you with an intact corpse. Achieve the 'whole corpse' ending scenario, and you will be granted safe passage back to your original world."]
The system's tone was infuriatingly matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather rather than his gruesome potential demise.
Marcus forced himself to breathe slowly, deliberately, fighting down the rising panic. He needed to think. Analyze. Strategize. Panic would only get him killed faster.
According to the memories flooding his consciousness, the Original Owner had been the son of a coal mine contractor from Shandong province—new money, crude money, the kind of wealth that came from exploiting resources and workers. A textbook example of a nouveau riche brat with more money than sense, drowning in vanity and desperately insecure about his social status.
The Original had meticulously constructed a fake identity as a refined "second-generation rich kid" from old money, complete with forged credentials and a carefully cultivated persona. He'd used this elaborate facade to con his way into high society circles.
Then he'd identified his ultimate target: Elena Nightshade, the reclusive heiress to a multi-billion-dollar fortune. She seemed naive, sheltered, isolated from the world—in other words, the perfect mark. He'd deployed a masterfully crafted "warm, caring boyfriend" persona, showering her with just the right amount of attention and manufactured vulnerability. It had worked perfectly. He'd successfully manipulated her into marriage.
But on their wedding night—literally hours after the ceremony—the mask had slipped. Actually, "slipped" was too gentle a word. He'd ripped it off entirely. He'd abandoned his new bride to go get drunk and screw around, and before leaving, he'd subjected Elena to a barrage of vicious verbal abuse about her disability and worthlessness.
It was like he'd deliberately stepped on every single landmine in a minefield. With enthusiasm.
"System," Marcus ventured, clinging to a fragile thread of hope, "according to these memories, the Original Owner just... verbally abused her and then ran out to party, right? He didn't do anything more egregious? Like... physically assault her or anything?"
Please say no. Please say the damage is only verbal.
[System: "Specific behavioral records would require accessing surveillance footage... zzzt... insufficient access permissions at this time. However, based on analysis of the original narrative trajectory and the target character's current emotional volatility readings, I would strongly recommend, Host, that you... personally return home and verify the situation yourself."]
The system's voice was plagued by electronic static, which did absolutely nothing to inspire confidence. It sounded like a radio picking up signals from the afterlife.
Marcus felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. "Great. Just great."
"So how exactly am I supposed to 'romance' her?" he demanded, frustration bleeding into his tone. "You've got to give me something to work with here. Some kind of direction, strategy, actionable intelligence—anything?"
The moment the words left his thoughts, the translucent blue screen flickering in his mind's eye brightened. Lines of crimson text began populating across its surface, generating what appeared to be a new mission parameters display:
[Current Mission Designation: Operation Save the Yandere]
[Ultimate Objective: Prevent target character's corruption index from continuing its exponential climb. Guide subject toward prosocial behavioral patterns. Increase accumulated 'Positive Value' metric.]
[Recommended Strategy: ...]
Marcus stared at the glaringly empty space where crucial information should be.
"Why is the 'Recommended Strategy' section completely blank?" His eye twitched. "How the hell am I supposed to increase this 'Positive Value' thing if you can't even tell me what it is?"
[System: "Ahem... cough cough... System database connection is currently experiencing... ah... significant abnormal fluctuations in data transmission... Attempting emergency repair protocols... Please, Host, I must ask for your patience during this temporary technical difficulty..."]
The system's voice had taken on a distinctly nervous, embarrassed quality, like a student caught completely unprepared for an exam.
Marcus said nothing. He just stared at the flickering screen with the flat, unimpressed expression of a man whose already terrible day had somehow found new depths to plumb.
He had a very, very bad feeling that this supposed "Mission Assistance System" was essentially a half-finished beta product that had been shoved into production before it was actually ready. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
"Let me ask you something," Marcus said slowly, each word carefully enunciated. "Besides assigning me missions and cheerfully informing me of the various horrible ways I'm going to die—what actual, concrete assistance can you provide?"
He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his internal voice. "Do I get any kind of beginner's bonus package? Supernatural abilities? Mind-reading powers? Enhanced charisma stats? Anything remotely useful?"
[System: "Cough cough... To be entirely transparent with you, Host... this system's primary functions are limited to mission parameter guidance and ending outcome adjudication. Material assistance modules and ability enhancement packages have not yet been... ah... installed in this version. HOWEVER!"]
The system's voice suddenly spiked upward in pitch and volume, clearly desperate to salvage whatever remained of its professional dignity. ["This 'Positive Value' metric is absolutely CRITICAL to your success! It serves not only as your mission progress indicator but will be directly converted into tangible rewards upon mission completion!"]
["Each individual point of Positive Value you accumulate will be automatically deposited into your exclusive account. When your total accumulated value reaches maximum threshold levels, upon your successful return to your original world, you will receive a monetary reward of—ONE HUNDRED MILLION RMB!"]
"One hundred MILLION?!"
Marcus's foot caught on absolutely nothing, and he nearly pitched forward down the entrance steps of the nightclub, barely catching himself on the railing at the last second. His heart slammed against his ribs.
The sheer magnitude of that number hit him like a physical force—a lightning bolt of pure shock and wild, disbelieving euphoria that shot from the soles of his feet straight through to the top of his skull. In an instant, his fear of Elena Nightshade and his frustration with this clearly defective system were completely vaporized, replaced by the intoxicating rush of possibility.
One hundred million yuan!
Hell, he wouldn't even need the full hundred million. Even ten percent of that sum—a mere ten million—would be enough to completely transform his life back in his original world. He could escape the grinding poverty, the constant stress of survival, the endless hustle. He could finally, finally live the kind of stable, secure existence he'd only ever dreamed about.
Marcus was just as desperately short on money as the Original Owner had been—poverty was a universal language across worlds, apparently. But unlike that vain, selfish bastard, Marcus had always earned his money honestly, through hard work and careful planning. He'd never crossed certain lines. He had standards. Principles, even, strange as that might sound.
But one hundred million yuan? For that kind of life-changing money?
Yeah. He could be flexible about his principles.
In the span of a single heartbeat, this glitchy, half-functional, clearly unfinished system transformed from a liability into something that glowed with golden promise in his mind's eye. It was no longer a defective piece of software—it was a wealth-generating divine artifact.
"Alright!" Marcus took a deep, steadying breath, squaring his shoulders. His eyes hardened with newfound determination. "I accept this mission. I'm all in."
There was an old saying: promise enough gold, and you'll never lack for brave volunteers. For one hundred million yuan? He'd storm the gates of hell itself if necessary.
"You don't even have a proper name," Marcus observed, his mood considerably improved by the prospect of unimaginable wealth. "Since you're giving me a shot at rebirth and pointing me toward a path of fortune, how about I call you 'Fortune'? Simple, direct, auspicious."
[The system's emotional subroutines visibly spiked with excitement—the floating screen actually trembled, and cheerful pink bubbles materialized and popped across its surface in a display that was almost endearing in its enthusiasm: "Yes! Yes! Absolutely yes! Thank you so much for granting me a name, Host! Fortune loves it! Fortune is very happy!"]
The system's earlier cold, mechanical affect had completely evaporated, replaced by something that sounded almost... puppyish? It was bizarrely humanizing.
"Okay, Fortune," Marcus said, already adjusting his rumpled collar and attempting to make himself look less like someone who'd just crawled out of a den of debauchery and bad decisions. "First critical question: Where is my home? Or rather, where is Elena Nightshade's residence located?"
[A detailed address with pinpoint GPS coordinates immediately materialized on the floating screen, accompanied by estimated travel time via various transportation methods and a helpful current weather report for that location.]
Marcus flagged down a taxi, gave the driver the address, and slumped into the back seat as the vehicle pulled into traffic.
Through the window, the city's neon landscape streamed past in colorful blurs—garish signs advertising everything from luxury goods to cheap thrills, their reflected light painting abstract patterns across the taxi's interior. His emotions were a tangled, complicated mess that he couldn't begin to sort through.
On one hand: one hundred million yuan. Financial security. Freedom. A future that didn't involve constantly scraping by.
On the other hand: the memory of that pale girl in the wheelchair, her eyes like bottomless abysses, and that horrifying scene in the snow where a man had been casually murdered and disposed of like trash.
Marcus knew, with cold clarity, that the moment he stepped through Elena Nightshade's door, he would be entering a meticulously constructed trap. This wasn't just a marriage or a relationship—it was a deadly game where the stakes were his life, his conscience, and possibly his very soul.
But he was out of options. The path behind him had already closed. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted that hundred million yuan and the life it represented, he had no choice but to walk forward into the spider's web.
He had to face her—that "villainous bride" named Elena Nightshade.
And somehow, against all odds and common sense, he had to make her fall in love with him.