Deciding to get literal fresh air, Aric open the entrance to the mansion. A double door open with a soft creak, revealing a breathtaking vista that stretched endlessly before him. Aric paused on the threshold, momentarily struck by the sheer beauty of the world outside Arkwright Manor.

It was as though he'd stepped into one of those dreamlike manhwa scenes where reality blurred into something almost surreal.

Golden sunlight poured over rolling hills blanketed in emerald green grass, dotted sparingly with wildflowers of every hue imaginable: vivid purples, fiery oranges and soft pinks that swayed gently in the breeze.

In the distance, vast fields of golden wheat rippled like waves against the wind, while meticulously maintained vineyards hinted at centuries-old traditions of winemaking.

Closer to the manor, sprawling gardens unfolded like living tapestries. Intricate hedges shaped into mythical creatures—dragons coiled around fountains, unicorns rearing on hind legs, and phoenixes spreading wide wings—stood guard over marble pathways adorned with rose petals scattered artfully across the ground.

Crystal-clear ponds reflected the sky above, their surfaces broken only by elegant swans gliding effortlessly across the water. Statues of gods and heroes loomed silently among the flora, their chiseled features frozen mid-triumph or despair.

And yet, beyond the immediate splendor, there lay a sense of scale so immense it bordered on overwhelming. The estate itself seemed limitless, its borders disappearing into the far-off haze. Beyond the manicured gardens lay orchards heavy with fruit, stables housing prized horses, and even a private lake glittering faintly beneath the sun.

Fucking hell...This isn't just a home—it's an empire carved out of land, wealth, and ambition! What the fuck...how rich are we...I mean minus the debt of course

But still, fucking hell...

For all its beauty, this place carried the weight of Vayne's hubris. Every blade of grass, every stone path, every gilded statue whispered of excess of someone who believed money would never run dry. And why shouldn't they? House Arkwright owned everything.

Or at least, they once did.

[I see you're finally appreciating the view.] Ivy's voice chimed in suddenly, snapping him out of his reverie. When he glanced toward the screen, she appeared not in her usual outfit.

Gone were the cyberpunk aesthetics; instead, she now wore the attire of a slutty professor—glasses perched delicately on her nose, a fitted blazer accentuating her curves and a ruler tapping playfully against her palm.

[Allow me to enlighten you, my dear student. Because if you're going to fix what Vayne broke, you'll need to understand exactly how much damage he caused.]

Ivy stepped forward as though addressing a classroom full of eager pupils.

[First things first: let's talk about Duchess Seraphina Arkwright. She may seem fragile right now—wounded pride, shattered trust but make no mistake. This woman is a force of nature. Even buried under mountains of debt, she controls more power than most nobles combined.]

She gestured broadly, conjuring holographic maps and charts that hovered between them. Each image depicted provinces, trade routes, and bustling cities marked with the crest of House Arkwright.

Seraphina governed three entire provinces within the kingdom, Ashwick, Onastin and Midra. Each larger than many smaller duchies. From fertile plains ideal for agriculture to mountainous regions rich in minerals, her territories were diverse and strategically valuable.

Beyond land ownership, she oversees countless enterprises: textile mills producing fabrics finer than silk, wineries exporting aged vintages to royal courts, and blacksmiths crafting weapons renowned for their durability.

Every business bore her mark, ensuring loyalty and profit.

Despite the debts crippling House Arkwright financially, Seraphina remained untouchable politically. Her alliances spanned far beyond mere marriages; she commanded respect through sheer willpower and calculated maneuvering.

Even creditors hesitated to push too hard, knowing her wrath could ruin them faster than any bankruptcy ever could.

[Now, let's contrast that with Vayne's…contributions.]

A new set of holograms appeared, these ones darker and tinged with red. They outlined the myriad ways Vayne had sabotaged everything Seraphina worked for:

He gambled away fortunes in ill-advised investments, funding ventures that promised quick returns but delivered nothing but losses. One particularly egregious example involved sinking half a million gold sovereigns into multiple contracts. A scheme Lady Callista Duval exploited to humiliate both Vayne and Seraphina publicly.

His affair with Lady Callista wasn't merely personal betrayal; it was a political disaster. By aligning himself with Seraphina's rival, he weakened House Arkwright's standing among neighbouring noble families.

A fire at one of Seraphina's gambling establishments destroyed not only property but lives. While officially ruled accidental, whispers suggested otherwise. Whether Vayne intended it or not, his negligence cost Seraphina dearly in reputation and resources.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Entire villages suffered due to Vayne's mismanagement. Taxes skyrocketed to cover his mistakes, leaving farmers destitute and workers unpaid. Revolts simmered beneath the surface, threatening unrest across her provinces.

People died from starvation and killing themselves.

[All this is fucked no?] Ivy concluded, crossing her arms to continue her point,

[But we haven't even touched on the emotional toll. Imagine being married to someone who systematically dismantled everything you built—not because they hated you, but because they simply didn't care.]

Aric stared at the holograms, his chest tightening with each revelation. The scope of Vayne's destruction was staggering, almost incomprehensible.

How could one man cause so much harm without realizing or perhaps caring about the consequences?

For leaving such a mess behind, what the fuck man? How are you this shitty?

I'm now stuck in your body and being treated like dogshit. Me, a bystander, to bear the burden of cleaning up after his sins.

I didn't ask for this. he thought bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. But here I am.

[Indeed..] Ivy replied softly,

[You didn't choose this life. But now that you're here, you have a chance to do something extraordinary. To rebuild what was lost. To prove that you're not Vayne—that you're better than him.]

As he descended the marble steps leading away from the manor, he took in the sheer scale of the property. Acres upon acres stretched before him with workers tending to their daily routines. Gardeners trimmed hedges into perfect shapes, farmers inspected crops for signs of pests or disease and stable hands led horses to graze along fenced pastures. It was a well-oiled machine, functioning seamlessly despite the chaos within the household itself.

But as soon as the workers noticed who had emerged from the palace, their demeanor shifted instantly. Smiles faded, conversations halted mid-sentence, and heads bowed low as they hurriedly returned to their tasks, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Aric frowned, Was this how Vayne operated? Did he instil such terror that even his mere presence inspired dread?

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to keep walking. Each step revealed more of the estate's majesty: rows of grapevines stretching toward the horizon, greenhouses filled with exotic plants, and even a small village nestled near the edge of the property where tenant farmers lived and worked.

All of it belonged to Seraphina.

But no matter how beautiful the scenery was, the weight of guilt pressed down on him harder than ever. These people weren't just employees; they were victims caught in the crossfire of Vayne's destructive tendencies.

And thanks to that, he could piece together fragments of their suffering simply by observing their body language—the way a gardener flinched when passing too close, the way a farmer kept one hand perpetually over his ear as though expecting an outburst.

As Aric wandered, he spotted Claire. She stood near a fountain, laughing softly as she spoke with Marguerite, the head maid. Her expression was bright, unguarded until her gaze landed on him.

In an instant, her smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer panic. She dropped into a deep bow, lowering herself so far her forehead nearly touched the ground.

"Master Vayne..." she stammered, her voice trembling.

"Forgive me—I didn't mean to intrude!"

Aric stopped in his tracks, Why did everyone feel the need to grovel? What did Vayne even do to her to make her this afraid?

"Stand up." he said firmly. When she hesitated, he repeated himself.

"I said stand up."

Slowly, Claire rose to her feet, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. Tears welled up as she struggled to keep her composure.

"Claire. If I've caused you pain, if I deserve punishment—then do it. Slap me. Hit me as much as you want. You have my permission."

For a moment, she stared at him, disbelief flickering across her face. Then, her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the grass, sobbing uncontrollably.

Inside her mind, memories surged forward,

Much pain doesn't even begin to cover it. She cried in her thoughts.

It started subtly—a lingering touch on her shoulder that lasted too long, fingers brushing against her hip as he passed by. Then came the groping, always disguised as accidents during crowded hallways or dimly lit corridors. Fondling her breasts, squeezing her ass, whispering lewd comments meant only for her ears.

And when she dared speak back, when she tried to defend herself—he threw glass plates at her head, shattered vases inches from her feet, screamed insults loud enough to echo through the entire mansion. Once, he slapped her hard enough to leave a bruise for weeks because she refused to wear dresses he deemed "sexy." Another time, he stomped on her head, grinding her cheek into the cold marble floor, accusing her of incompetence for bringing him water instead of whiskey.

Each act chipped away at her dignity, leaving scars that ran deeper than flesh.

No amount of apologies could erase those wounds.

No slap, no punishment, could ever balance the scale.

Marguerite watched silently, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes glared at Aric,

"Is this some kind of game to you?" she spat, her voice with disdain,

"Do you think pretending to care will undo what you've done?"

Aric opened his mouth to respond but found no words.

What could I say? That I'm not Vayne? That I was living in this fucking body and I didn't commit these atrocities? She wouldn't believe me—and honestly, why should she? To her, I'm the same monster who had terrorized her staff, humiliated her maids, and ruined countless lives.

Claire finally managed to pull herself upright, tears streaming down her cheeks. Without another word, she turned and fled, disappearing into the maze of hedges lining the garden. Marguerite followed her briefly with her gaze before turning back to Aric,

"No apology will ever be enough. Not for her. Not for any of us. So don't bother trying."

Aric stood frozen, the weight of Marguerite's words sinking in like lead.

This body wasn't just flawed—it was irredeemable.

Every step he took reminded him of the horrors Vayne had inflicted, every interaction reinforced the depth of his predecessor's depravity.

How could anyone trust me when I carry the sins of someone else?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

There was no point denying it anymore. This body was truly shitty but giving up wasn't an option. I'm in a new world now and if I piece together what I know, I need to act fast… or I'll end up dead by my wife's hand.

I need those inventions. But if I try building them here, where I'm supposed to be magicless, I'll just become a bigger target. People already look at me like I've got leprosy.

I need to get out of here. Fast.

Turning toward the front gates, he approached the guards stationed there. Both men stiffened visibly as he drew closer, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Despite their fear, neither dared refuse him when he issued his request.

"I'm going out. Open the gates."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances but complied without question, unlocking the iron bars and swinging them wide. As Aric stepped beyond the threshold, he felt dozens of eyes boring into his back—workers, servants, guards, all watching him with expressions ranging from disgust to anger to outright hatred.

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