Chapter 3: If You Can’t Resist, You Might as Well Enjoy It

“A prophetic dream… right?”

Ewan tapped a nervous finger against the black book’s cover, his mind working furiously. For a dream so bizarrely specific and viscerally real, a premonition was the only box it seemed to fit in.

Of course, that was just a theory.

“If it was a prophecy,” he muttered, his face still a ghastly shade of white, “what in the seven hells did I do to deserve an ending like that?”

The ghost of the blade’s touch still lingered on his skin, a chilling memory that made his hair stand on end. No sane person could discover their future might involve being turned into a thousand-piece human jigsaw puzzle and just… be calm about it.

“But who could possibly hate me that much? That’s a level of cruelty that’s just… extra.”

The shadowy figure in the dream could talk about ‘love’ all it wanted, but Ewan wasn’t buying it. What kind of love involves dicing up your beloved? Not even the most unhinged serial killer was that creative! If you’re going to get weird and kinky, you at least need to leave the body in one piece to, you know, play with.

“Okay, plan A: find the shadowy figure before they find me…”

It was a sound strategy. If he could identify his would-be killer, his status as a duke’s son should make avoiding them a piece of cake.

There was just one tiny flaw in his brilliant plan.

“That’s… completely impossible.”

A single drop of cold sweat trickled down his forehead. To find the shadow, he needed clues, and the dream had been frustratingly vague. The figure’s voice and appearance were a total blur; all he knew was that it was probably a woman. In a world of millions, that narrowed it down to… half of them. The original Ewan Campbell had been an equal-opportunity offender; for all he knew, it could be a random scullery maid he’d slighted, finally snapping and deciding to take her revenge.

“Damn it, it’s all your fault for being such a monumental jerk,” Ewan sighed, overcome with the desire to invent a time machine just so he could go back and throttle his body’s previous owner. But that was a luxury he didn’t have. He was the original owner now. He was stuck with the bill for all of Ewan Campbell’s sins.

“No. I have to find another way. It might just be a possible future, but I have absolutely no desire to be turned into human sashimi.”

“Ah, right! The black book!”

He’d almost forgotten the very culprit that had subjected him to that delightful preview of his own demise.

“Huh?”

He glanced around, but the book was gone. The moment the thought crossed his mind, however, it simply materialized in his hands with a soft pop.

“Did it… merge with my body?”

He focused, and sure enough, the book dissolved into a wisp of dark light and flowed into his chest. He could feel it now, a quiet, heavy presence resting somewhere deep in his consciousness.

“Incredible!” Ewan’s hope, which had been on life support, suddenly sat bolt upright. “I’m saved!”

Brimming with manic excitement, he summoned the book again, clasped his hands together in a prayer-like gesture, and poured all of his desperation into his next words. “Oh, great and powerful Black Book, my lord and savior! My entire comeback story is riding on you!”

“OPEN!” he roared, flinging it open with a dramatic flourish.

【Ewan roared, flinging it open with a dramatic flourish.】

Ewan blinked.

On the book’s first, pristine white page, that single sentence had appeared in neat, elegant script. Nothing else. It was like a real-time diary, narrating his every move.

“What the hell? This is it?”

【Ewan shook the black book back and forth, but nothing else happened.】

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The corner of Ewan’s mouth twitched violently. Staring at the offending text, he tentatively reached for a nearby hand mirror.

【Ewan picked up the mirror.】

He put it down.

【Ewan put the mirror down.】

He stared at his own ridiculously handsome face.

【Ewan looked at himself in the mirror, thinking, as he always did, that he was almost criminally good-looking.】

“THIS THING IS COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY USELESS!”

Ewan hurled the book across the room in a fit of pure frustration. He’d been bamboozled. Led astray. All that hope, wasted.

【Ewan began to rage impotently.】

“…” Ewan buried his face in his hands, a strangled sob of despair escaping his lips.

“Why do I even bother getting my hopes up?”

A golden-haired villain was a golden-haired villain. A disposable extra was a disposable extra. Did he really think some broken, mysterious book would let him rewrite his destiny and become the hero? What a fool.

“So this world really does have it out for me.”

The book’s one, tiny, semi-useful function—giving him a sneak peek at his own horrific end—was likely the only shred of mercy the universe was willing to show him.

“Can’t you be just a little more helpful?” he pleaded, picking the book up again and shaking it like a recalcitrant vending machine. “Just a tiny bit! Is that dream a real prophecy or not? If I’m going to die, I’d at least like to know why!”

The book, as expected, remained silent.

【Sigh.】

But just as he was about to give up for good, a faint, ethereal sigh seemed to echo in his mind.

And then, new words bled onto the page.

This time, they were written in a chilling, blood-red ink.

【Do not change.】

“…” Ewan’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “‘Do not change’… What is that supposed to mean?”

“Are you warning me? That I can’t deviate from the plot, or else… that will happen?”

“But why?! If I follow the original story, my fate is still a miserable one!”

【For the sake of】

【Destiny】

The two phrases appeared on the page, feeling less like words and more like an invisible hand squeezing the air from his lungs. He fired off a dozen more questions, but the book offered no further answers. It had reverted to being his personal, unhelpful stenographer.

“So, in the end… it was all just wishful thinking?”

After staring into space for what felt like an eternity, a bitter, broken smile finally touched Ewan’s lips.

“To survive… I have to willingly march toward my own destruction?”

In his past life, he’d just been an ordinary guy. He possessed no grand, heroic ambitions to defy the heavens. Especially not when the odds were so hopelessly stacked against him.

He was scared. And he had no choice but to admit it.

“Actually,” he said slowly, a new thought taking root, “if I really think about it, the original ending in the book wasn’t that bad.”

At least Ewan Campbell hadn’t died. He was just stripped of his nobility and kicked out to live as a commoner.

“Hm? Wait just a damn minute.”

A bolt of lightning shot through his brain. He’d found it. A glorious, beautiful loophole.

“Come to think of it, why did I end up as a beggar in the novel?”

The book never said explicitly. But the reason was painfully obvious.

Ewan Campbell, the pampered, arrogant son of a duke, is suddenly stripped of his title and banished. The Emperor himself gives the order, even posting guards to make sure his parents can’t sneak him any cash. This spoiled young master, who had never worked a day in his life, is suddenly a commoner. What survival skills did he have?

Absolutely none!

Could he support himself? Not a chance! The poor fool probably couldn’t handle a single day of honest poverty before borrowing a fortune from loan sharks. And when he couldn’t pay it back, they’d have broken his arms and legs, leaving him with no choice but to beg on the streets.

“But I’m different!”

Ewan slapped his knee, his voice ringing with a newfound, almost manic confidence.

Who was he?

He wasn’t that aristocratic waste of space who only knew how to bully people.

He was a battle-hardened corporate warrior, forged in the nine-circles-of-hell work culture of modern society! Forget being a commoner—he could survive as a sewer rat and probably turn a profit doing it!

“And best of all, this is my ticket out! My chance to escape the protagonist’s orbit and finally live a truly free life!”

Hope, bright, brilliant, and slightly unhinged, flared in Ewan’s eyes once more.

He’d already died a meaningless death once. This time, he was going to live. The more he considered it, the whole concept of nobility seemed laughably overrated anyway.

“It’s nothing but a privileged class built on the blood, sweat, and tears of the working class. As a proud, card-carrying socialist warrior of the proletariat, I can only express my absolute and utter contempt!”