Chapter 1: To Start with My Own Ruin Is a Cruel Joke, Isn’t It?

“Have I… been transmigrated?”

Ewan stared, his mind a complete blank, at the stranger in the mirror.

Fine strands of short, golden hair shimmered like spun sunlight, framing a face so flawlessly handsome it looked less like a human and more like a celestial being’s art project. His pale blue eyes, deep and serene as a mountain lake, seemed to hold ancient secrets.

Gods, I’m handsome!

The thought struck him with the force of a physical blow. Ewan felt his heart literally skip a beat, captivated by his own reflection. Even with an aesthetic sense thoroughly bludgeoned by a lifetime of idol dramas, he had to admit: this was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

The problem was, this wasn’t him.

No, wait. It was him. He had simply become someone else.

The last thing he remembered was leaving work at two-thirty in the morning. He’d pulled five five-star characters in a single ten-roll on his phone—a feat of gacha luck so legendary it had apparently summoned the final boss of the real world: Truck-kun. The resulting collision had, it seemed, transmigrated him here.

“Ewan Campbell.”

The name floated up from a sea of foreign memories that were currently staging a hostile takeover of his brain. He whispered it aloud, the sound strange on his new tongue.

It was identical to his name from his past life.

And that fact sent a jolt of pure, undiluted dread through him.

“You’re kidding me… It can’t be that much of a coincidence.”

Ewan Campbell.

The name was seared into his memory, not just because it was his own, but because it belonged to a character in a web novel he’d been obsessively reading. A Western fantasy epic with a famously overpowered Mary Sue protagonist.

This Ewan was the son of a duke—noble, refined, divine to look at, and even betrothed to the third princess of the empire. He was the very definition of a man who’d won the genetic and societal lottery, born with a platinum spoon in his mouth. The odds of being reborn as someone like this were practically zero.

There was, however, one tiny, fatal flaw in this otherwise perfect setup.

He was the story’s designated early-game, blond villain.

That’s right. Handsome, golden-haired, aristocratic, rich, powerful, and arrogant. His entire existence was a narrative device, a stepping stone designed to give the protagonist opportunities for satisfying, crowd-pleasing “face-slaps.” He was a villain straight from central casting.

His sole purpose was to antagonize the protagonist, forcing the protagonist to grow. He’d send his lackeys, one after another, to their doom, feeding the protagonist experience points so the protagonist could enjoy a rocket-fueled growth spurt and give readers that sweet, sweet taste of karmic justice.

And, of course, Ewan Campbell was destined to meet a spectacularly ruinous end. His downfall would even serve as the romantic catalyst between the protagonist and one of the story’s main heroines—his very own fiancée.

Reading it the first time, Ewan had cursed the character for being a world-class idiot.

The original Ewan Campbell, driven mad with jealousy because his fiancée, Celicia, was growing close to the protagonist, had cooked up a plan of monumental stupidity. Convinced he was being cheated on, he decided to drug Celicia at a banquet and forcibly claim her. A plan so breathtakingly awful it deserved its own chapter in a “How to Ruin Your Life for Dummies” guide.

Naturally, the protagonist arrived just in time to stop him.

Even worse, that heroic rescue became the very spark that ignited a real romance. Celicia, who had only been vaguely interested in the up-and-coming protagonist, began to develop genuine, heartfelt feelings for her savior. He’d not only failed to secure his prize, he’d personally gift-wrapped her for his rival.

As for the original Ewan? For the crime of attempting to assault a princess, the enraged Emperor had him stripped of his nobility on the spot. Not even his doting, influential parents could shield him from the fallout. His end was miserable. While he didn’t die, the next time the heroes saw him, he was a one-armed, one-legged beggar groveling on the streets.

“To actually be reborn as the pretty-boy villain… this is a nightmare,” Ewan groaned. “Shouldn’t a transmigrator get a cheat system? Plot armor? Shouldn’t I be the one defying fate? If I’m not the protagonist, I should just kill that bastard and take the spot myself, right?”

But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t.

This wasn’t your standard Gary Stu power fantasy.

It was a yuri Mary Sue power fantasy.

The protagonist was a woman! A woman! A WOMAN!

To make matters worse, this world was incredibly progressive. Same-s*x relationships were completely normal. There was even a type of magic that allowed two women to have a child together! (Is there anything magic can’t do?)

That was the crux of the original Ewan’s jealousy. He saw the sparks between Celicia and the protagonist and felt, in his possessive mind, that his property was being stolen.

But what chance does a male villain have of turning things around in a yuri novel?

Zero. Absolutely none. The readers would burn the author at the stake.

That’s why even a high-spec nobleman like Ewan Campbell was nothing more than a disposable early-game boss, written out of the story in under twenty chapters to clear the way for the princess’s romance.

“So I’ve started the game on an impossible difficulty setting.”

Ewan stroked his chiseled chin, gears turning frantically in his head.

“Wait a minute. The starting position itself is still top-tier. As long as I avoid the protagonist like she’s the plague and just embrace my role as a background character… so what if I can’t marry Princess Celicia? I can marry some other beautiful noble lady. My grand strategy: Operation Become Furniture. I’ll live a life of decadent, shameless luxury. It’s the perfect plan!”

“The only problem is figuring out where I am on the timeline. Please, please, let this be before the conflict really kicks off. Before the academy arc…”

Only a reader of the novel could truly appreciate how absurdly overpowered and blessed by fate the protagonist was. Ewan had no delusions about trying to compete with her.

My invincibility lies in accepting my own weakness!

Looked at that way, his situation was actually amazing, wasn’t it?

“Young Master Ewan.”

A polite knock at the door shattered his blissful planning. A maid with a prim, beautiful face entered the room.

“Ah, Anne.”

Ewan recognized her instantly. She was the original’s personal maid, his closest confidante, and the willing accomplice in many of his foolish schemes.

“What is it?”

“My lady has summoned you.” Anne curtsied, her hands folded neatly before her. “She says the formal attire for tomorrow’s banquet has arrived.”

“Oh. Right. I understand.”

Ewan waved a dismissive hand, trying to get her to leave. He needed a moment to process. The last thing he needed was his hyper-observant maid noticing that her master’s core programming had been rewritten.

“Hold on. What did you just say?”

The words caught up to him a second too late. As Anne turned to leave, Ewan’s voice cracked. His expression froze. “A banquet? What banquet?”

“Why, your coming-of-age banquet, Young Master.” Anne’s delicate brows furrowed in concern. “Are you feeling unwell? How could you forget something so important?”

“No! I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Just… still a bit sleepy, that’s all. My mind’s foggy.” Ewan forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “You may go.”

Anne still looked worried, but she wouldn’t dare disobey a direct order. She bowed and quietly exited, leaving Ewan alone in the crushing silence.

Slowly, mechanically, Ewan turned back to the mirror. He stared into the eyes of the man who was and was not him. The two sets of memories were still at war, but the haze was clearing. The original’s life, his choices, his impending doom—it was all becoming terrifyingly clear.

He was Ewan, but he was also Ewan Campbell.

The original’s karma was now his. There was no escape.

“NOOOOOO! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?!”

Ewan clutched his head, a horrifying, silent scream echoing in his soul. “WHY IS MY COMING-OF-AGE BANQUET TOMORROW?!”

His beautiful dream of becoming a lazy, pampered duke’s son, of marrying a sweet noble girl and living a life free of stress and full of pleasure—it all depended on one thing: not provoking the protagonist. Not becoming that self-destructing, blond-haired idiot from the book. His entire happy ending hinged on staying out of her way.

But that was no longer possible.

Based on the timeline, he hadn’t just provoked the protagonist; he’d practically set their relationship on fire. Their conflict was a powder keg, and the fuse was already lit.

And tomorrow night, at his own coming-of-age banquet, was the night he was fated to drug the Third Princess of the Empire, Celicia.

That was the fuse.

And it was the moment of his ruin.