Chan—Mythus, he reminded himself, tugging at the aggressively ruffled collar strangling his neck, was not built for this life. The outfit alone was a war crime: brocade coat, buttoned cuffs, breeches tight enough to strangle ambition, and boots that clicked dramatically on marble like they were auditioning for a musical. He hadn't dressed this fancy since his high school prom, and even then, he'd spilled soda on his tie five minutes in.
He could already feel a sweat forming. Was this jacket made of actual dragon skin? It felt like it.
Still, he had bigger problems than fashion. Like, how the hell do nobles even talk?
Should he say "verily" now? Call people "milady"? Ask if the weather hath been merciful upon thine lands?
"Ah, fuck it," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "If I sound weird, they'll just think I'm brooding. Mythus doesn't talk much anyway."
And that was true. According to the manhwa, Mythus was the type to stand in corners at parties, drink wine like it personally offended him, and deliver devastating one-liners once every three chapters. He didn't socialize, he smoldered. He didn't speak, he vibed menacingly. Perfect cover for someone who had no idea what the hell was going on.
Chan looked at the mirror one more time. Mythus was, in a word, hot. It was actually kind of insulting. Strong jawline, stormy gray eyes, aristocratic cheekbones, he looked like someone who should be framed in oil and glared down at peasants in ballrooms.
Chan winked.
"Damn, buddy. No wonder the plot wanted you to fall in love. I'd fall for you if I wasn't… me."
He straightened his spine, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway like he owned the castle.
Which, technically, he kind of did now.
He let his feet take him wherever they wanted, mostly because he didn't have a clue where anything was. The castle was a maze of too-shiny corridors and tapestries that looked like they cost more than his student loans combined. Eventually, though, he ended up in a long hall with floor-to-ceiling windows and ominously large portraits of serious old people.
And at the end of that hall; The Archduke.
He stood tall, stiff, with silver-streaked hair pulled back into a cruel knot, and eyes like a hawk that had just filed its taxes. His presence radiated "cold, distant father figure" energy. In the manhwa, the guy had roughly the same emotional range as a brick and the same parenting style as a mildly disappointed god.
Chan stopped a few feet away and just… stared.
The Archduke stared back.
There was a long, awkward silence. Chan was pretty sure this guy's frown had been chiseled into his skull at birth.
"You're… awake," the Archduke said finally, voice low and suspicious, like he thought Mythus might suddenly explode.
Chan gave him a half-nod. "Yeah. You know. Morning and stuff."
More silence.
The Archduke blinked.
Chan stood there, hands behind his back like some tragic war hero. Inside, he was screaming. But he kept the expression calm, slightly tired, vaguely mysterious. He was Mythus. He could do this.
The Archduke tilted his head slightly. "You are… different today."
"Hmm," Chan said, noncommittal, and let his eyes drift away like he was pondering the secrets of the universe, not trying to remember if nobles used forks or just stabbed things with tiny daggers at dinner.
Another beat of awkward silence passed.
Then, for good measure, he added in his best broody voice, "Change is… inevitable."
He didn't even know what that meant. But it sounded deep.
The Archduke nodded once, slowly, clearly thrown off. "Very well."
Chan turned and walked away like he'd just dropped an emotional bombshell, resisting the urge to sprint the second he was out of sight.
This? This was going to be fun.
Or a complete disaster. Possibly both.