Chapter 2: High Incubus

"...I reincarnated...didn’t I?" he told himself. "...it finally happened to me..." Aiden’s fingers trembled as they traced the unfamiliar contours of his face in the dim light. His golden eyes glowed faintly beneath ash‑white lashes. He felt a thrill—then a tremor—at every breath.

All looked human—

except

the two small horns protruding from his forehead.

"...ummm... demon.... So I’m not the main character...then who the fuck am i?" he voiced, strain creeping into his whisper. A bitter crease curved at his lips.

A cool breeze slipped through a crack in the wall. He shivered. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and old sweat. Beneath that lay something metallic.

Blood? Memory of pain flickered. He pressed his hand to his chest where the wound had been—healed, yet pulsing with remembered echo.

He looked around the cell—or bedroom—and his stomach clenched. A cheap straw mattress on stone floor. A small wooden table with a single candle snuffed out and wax drippings pooling like tears. The walls were cold, uneven stone, shaped like serpent scales in the faint lamp glow.

He went back to the bed, lifting the small leather‑bound book, wiping the dust from its cover. He reached down and picked up the knife from the floor. Cold steel, weighty. Heavy in his hand, like a promise or a threat.

"...so, which novel or game am I in...?" he voiced, flipping through pages. The paper had faint scorch marks—like memories burned on a page. The script was elegant, aristocratic.

He skimmed lines, reading character names and descriptions. Each word reflected something inside him—loneliness, exile, half‑blood shame.

"...oh, this person ... he’s same like me... lonely peace lover," he said quietly, pain gripping his voice. The knife felt sharper now. He glanced at the table then at his chest. The emptiness inside mirrored in the empty room.

"...and also....the same fate..."

He hurled both the book and knife to the corner. The blade clanked against stone, sending a shiver through the room. The book flopped open with a dull thud. Dust rose. He covered his forehead with his long white hair, dark streaks hidden under trembling fingers.

The worn outfit lay on the bed—a simple tunic, trousers, perhaps a servant’s or peasant’s garb. He picked it up, felt the coarse fabric—scratchy, rough—and slipped into it. For some reason...The thirst—an impossible, burning emptiness—gnawed at his throat and stomach with every movement.

He walked out of the small coffin‑like room. Each footstep echoed in the narrow corridor like a heartbeat. He realized he was not in a single cell but in a serpent quarters—long sandstone tunnels, doors every few paces, stale air thick with the stench of cooking and unwashed bodies.

"...stinks here as well..." he voiced, covering his nose. The odor of rotting vegetables and old sweat clung to the air. A low hum of distant voices drifted far off.

He climbed stone stairs, every step uneven. In the dim hallway, he approached a kitchen door—a waft of onion stew hit him. He froze, mouth watering then drying. His thirst intensified, like fire in his chest.

"...need... some water..." he said to himself, voice hoarse.

Inside the kitchen, a big wooden gallon stood on a low table. His heart pounded at the sight. He grabbed a wooden cup—meant for peasants—and filled it hastily. Water spilled over the edge onto stone tiles. The drops echoed like tiny drums.

Gulp... gulp...

He drank as if drowning. Yet every swallow felt like swallowing air. He poured another, then another. Water ran down his chin, splashing the floor. He ignored the cold droplets on bare skin. The thirst was relentless.

But...But the thirst wouldn’t vanish. But increasingly torture him ever more. And without thinking a single thought, he drowned his head in the barrel. Drinking all the water. As much as he could.

Then...step...step...step...

A voice, brittle with shock: "Hey... what the fuck are you doing!?"

He jerked upright, water dripping from his hair onto the cold floor, soaking his uniform. He blinked at the maid—tall, in her thirties, dark hair pinned back, glasses sliding down her nose. She hesitated, fear in her dark eyes.

His heartbeat exploded. Something inside him—a wild spark—roared. The thirst became something else: not physical, but intangible hunger weaving through his veins.

Step... step...

He glanced at her face. Something familiar in the set of her jaw, the tilt of her glasses. But that didn’t matter. His vision tunneled in on her as if she were the only thing that existed. The air between them hum was thick; his golden eyes drank in every detail—soft lips, trembling fingers.

She backed away, her heel scraping against stone.

"...wait, you are Aiden... the laundry boy... what happened to you?" Her voice quavered.

He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.

She stepped back further. Now pressed against the wall.

Her legs shook. She probably thought he was deranged.

"...are you... okay? Your... hair... changed." Her words stuttered. "What are you doing in the middle of the night?"

He didn’t reply. Only looked at her throat, the pulse beneath her chin.

"...thirsty..." he voiced. His words were slow, mechanical—and close to a growl.

He shifted. His hands—clawlike—turned toward her.

She flinched.

― Did I offend him...? Is he going to kill me? Is he trying to silence me because I know his....secret with her...’ she must have thought.

"I...I will tell no one... just... just leave me alone..." she whispered, voice rising with panic.

And before she knew it, he lunged.

His lips crashed onto hers.

A quick, brutal kiss.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Her body stiffened, then wilted. Weakness spread from her legs upward, her knees buckled.

Dhuk!!

She collapsed, collapsing like a marionette cut loose from strings—plopped to the floor.

Aiden stepped back, breathing in deep gulps. Water dripped from his hair, ran down his cheeks, stinging like cold rain. His golden eyes glowed brighter. The horns on his forehead tingled—returning, sharpening like obsidian blades.

The maid lay unconscious at his feet, her body still.

He exhaled. Muscle loosened. The ache inside him softened, like a wound closing. The towering, insatiable thirst had been—quenched.

"...what the fuck... was that...?" he asked himself, tongue heavy, chest pounding.

His mind flashed—memories he didn’t have. A ritual. A dark ceremony. A crown of fire above a throne of skulls. A whisper calling his name in some long‑forgotten tongue.

Then the system appeared before him—translucent, ethereal text hovering in the air.

[Congratulations— you retracted ember from a soul.]

[Lilith’s bloodline awakened.]

[Lilith’s gifts unraveling...]

[System initializing...]

[Loading... 1%... 2%... 10%... 100%]

[Complete]

[Congratulations, you have been gifted the rarest bloodline: High Incubus.]

Aiden stared. Heart thundering. Jealous stars burned in his vision for a heartbeat.

He looked down at the maid—actual name Akindna. He

knew

her now—not just the maid. She was one of the important characters.

The one rumored to be entangled in palace intrigue. The same one he’d ignored all this time. The same one who’d tried to reach the main character repeatedly. The same one now unconscious at his feet.

"...fuck... this is the fucking shitty novel I was reading before... ’Bloodline tells no.."

[Lilith’s gift : High Incubus skill activated]

[Possession: Akindna]