Arven Kayn let out a long, tired sigh as he wiped the edge of yet another sticky table.
The late shift at Velvet Dreams had been especially busy tonight. The moans and cries of pleasure that echoed through the thin walls had barely stopped for hours.
"Ahh... yes, just like that!" a breathless voice called out from one of the nearby rooms, sharp and clear through the noise.
He had long since stopped reacting to them. Another day, another mess to clean.
He wrung out his rag, grimacing at the pale stains smeared across the wood.
"Brothel janitor," he muttered. "Living the dream."
His hands moved on autopilot, practiced from months of this miserable job. At twenty-three, Arven had already resigned himself to being poor, ignored, and one bad paycheck away from homelessness.
Rent was late. His stomach growled. He had not eaten a proper meal in two days.
A loud thud echoed from deeper down the hall, followed by the familiar wet slaps and high-pitched moans of a working girl earning her coin.
"Harder! Don't stop!" another voice rang out, nearly drowned beneath the rhythmic sounds.
Arven grabbed his cleaning supplies and headed toward the source. He stopped in front of room twelve, scowling at the faint puddle of white seeping out from under the door.
"Classy," he muttered.
He bent down to start cleaning when the door swung open without warning, crashing straight into his face.
Pain exploded behind his eyes. He stumbled back, vision spinning, cleaning bucket flying from his grip.
The last thing he saw was the silhouette of a half-naked couple staring down at him in surprise.
"Shit, did we knock him out?" the man muttered.
"Forget him. Come back to bed," the woman whispered, tugging at his arm, and then darkness swallowed him whole.
You have been selected for [...].
Initializing transfer...
Good luck, New Lord.
A sharp chill bit into Arven's skin. He shivered, groaning as consciousness returned.
"...the hell?"
His eyes fluttered open. The sticky, dim hall of Velvet Dreams was gone. Instead, a cold, damp stone alley loomed around him. The sky above was dark, stars peeking through gaps between towering, unfamiliar buildings.
"What... where...?"
Arven sat up, groaning. His body ached, but it was his Earth body. Same faded jeans, scuffed sneakers, and stained T-shirt.
He blinked as faint blue text flickered into view before his eyes, hovering in the air.
System Activated.
Choose your first target.
[None detected.]
[Awaiting selection.]
Arven's jaw dropped.
"What the fuck is this? Some VR prank?"
He swiped at the text. It remained.
When no immediate answer came, he forced himself to stand. His breath misted in the cold air.
"Okay. Not a dream. Nor VR bullshit."
The alley smelled of rot and piss. Faint voices echoed from the street beyond.
The system text remained static. He shook his head.
"Later," he muttered. "First, figure out where the hell I am."
He stumbled out of the alley.
The streets were alive with noise and strange sights. Lanterns burned with flickering flames. Merchants shouted in rough, unfamiliar accents. Guards in gleaming breastplates patrolled in pairs, watching the crowds with sharp eyes.
Medieval city. Real. Not his usual Earth.
Arven's stomach twisted with hunger. He pressed a hand to his gut.
"No cash. No ID. No clue what's going on."
He wandered for what felt like hours. Every food stall turned him away when he could not produce coin. Beggars eyed him warily, sensing no generosity in a fellow pauper.
As night deepened, Arven found himself near the edge of the market district. The streets narrowed, the crowd thinned.
A wrong turn led him into a grimy back alley.
That was when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Nice boots you got there, stranger," a gruff voice called.
Arven turned. Three rough-looking men blocked the mouth of the alley. Dirty leather armor. Knives at their belts.
He backed away. "Look, I don't have any money."
"Oh, we will see about that," the leader sneered.
They advanced. Arven scanned the alley. Dead end. No escape.
"Shit."
He swung wildly when the first thug lunged. His punch connected, sending the man stumbling, but two others grabbed him from behind.
A fist smashed into his ribs. He gasped.
"Hold him," the leader growled. "Strip him. Might fetch a coin or two."
Cold panic flooded Arven's veins.
Then steel rang out.
"Drop him. Now."
A new voice cut through the night, smooth and imperious.
The thugs froze. Arven sagged in their grip.
From the alley's entrance strode a tall man clad in black and crimson. His dark eyes gleamed beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Behind him, two guards stood ready, blades drawn.
"L-Lord Pracius!" one thug stammered.
"Did I give you permission to soil my streets?" Pracius sneered.
The bandits bolted, leaving Arven gasping on the ground.
Lord Pracius approached with slow, careful steps. A cruel smile played across his lips.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
He crouched, grabbing Arven's chin and tilting his face up.
"Not from here, are you?"
Arven glared. "Thanks for the save. I will be going now."
Pracius's smile widened. "Oh, I do not think so."
He rose. "You owe me your life, wretch. And I despise unpaid debts."
He gestured to his guards. "Bring him."
Arven struggled, but two armored hands clamped down on his shoulders.
"You will repay me in service. My estate needs new help. Congratulations."
"No choice?" Arven spat.
Pracius laughed. "Of course not. Refuse, and I will simply have you tossed back to the wolves."
Arven's fists clenched. Trapped.
"Fine," he muttered.
"Good. You will find it stimulating." Pracius's eyes gleamed with something dark.
"Take him to the mansion," he ordered.
As Arven was dragged away, the system flickered again.
New Location Unlocked: Lord Pracius's Estate.
Potential targets detected in region.
Search initializing...
Arven stared at the cold night sky.
"I do not know what is going on," he whispered.
"But if this system can help me survive, I will play along."