The blue light didn't go away when Jett blinked. In fact, it got even more glaring, It hovered right at the edge of his vision, glowing with the kind of neon intensity that usually preceded a very high screen resolution that can cause a migraine.
[Primal Resonance Core (PR-C) Initializing...]
[Host: Jett Voland]
[Status: Despised Son-in-Law]
[Current Essence: 0.0]
"Status: Despised Son-in-Law?" Jett whispered, his voice cracking. "Couldn't you have gone with 'Underdog Strategist' or 'Misunderstood Genius'? Even 'Local Disappointment' has more flair."
The box didn't respond to his critique. Instead, a new set of lines scrolled down like a buggy terminal.
[Core Rule: Forge Aetherial bonds to strengthen the Host]
[Warning: All Wives bonded must be handled with proper Care to prevent anchor destabilization.]
Jett stared at the word 'wives' until his eyes burned. "Anchor destabilization? You're telling me my survival depends on running a continent-wide game of romance?
He flopped back onto the thin, lumpy mattress. This was just great. Most people in these stories got a legendary sword or the ability to sneeze fire. He got a logistical nightmare disguised as a harem. It was essentially a fantasy dating sim where the "Game Over" screen involved being turned into a human popsicle or a charred remains by his own household.
"Okay, Jett. Deep breaths," he muttered to the ceiling. "Think like a strategist. Or at least someone who doesn't want to be murdered by his mother-in-law."
As if on cue, a sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed against his door. It wasn't the polite knock of a servant; it was the "I am about to ruin your life" bang of what's the name again.. Steward Grevin, yes that's his name.
"Get out here, waste of space!" Grevin's muffled voice barked. "The Matriarch has decided that since you're so fond of the estate's wine, you can spend your day cataloging the cellar. Every bottle. Every vintage. If one label is smudged, I'll have you scrubbing the stables with a toothbrush!"
Jett rolled his eyes, the system interface flickering out of sight as he stood. "Ah, yes. The classic 'Assign the Protagonist a Menial Task' trope. I suppose cleaning the latrines is scheduled for tomorrow?"
He opened the door to find Grevin looking even more purple than the night before. "I'm coming, Grevin. Truly, your dedication to my work ethic is moving. Have you considered writing a book? The Art of the Grudge would be a bestseller."
Grevin let out a sound like a boiling teakettle and shoved a heavy, iron-bound ledger into Jett's chest. "The cellar. Now."
Jett navigated the winding, opulent corridors of the Vane Estate. Even in his lowly position, he couldn't help but admire the sheer waste of money. Floating lanterns cast a soft glow over obsidian pillars that looked like they belonged in a goth billionaire's vacation home. Every servant he passed performed a synchronized 'look of disgust.' It was impressive, really. The level of coordination required to make one man feel like a pile of damp shit was almost artistic.
The wine cellar was more like a 'damp dungeon with alcohol.' Rows upon rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into the darkness. Jett sighed, and flopped on a makeshift bench nereby, opening the ledger.
"Let's see... '1402 Fire-Lily Reserve.' '1398 Dragon-Breath Red.' If I drink this, do I become a hero, or do I just get a really fancy stomach ulcer?"
As he worked, he noticed his PR-C interface would occasionally flicker when he moved past certain bottles.
[Detection: Low-grade Aetheric Residue found in vintage.]
"Wait, so I'm a human Geiger counter for booze?" Jett muttered, scribbling a note in the ledger.
He spent hours in the quiet chill of the cellar, but his mind wasn't on the wine. He was sorting through the memories of the 'original' Jett. This world ran on Prana, a spiritual energy that separated the 'god-tier warriors' from the 'people who get stepped on.' His wife, Sera, was a prodigy who just broke into the fourth tier at age 24.
He was... well, he was a guy who knew how to balance a spreadsheet and make a mean sarcastic remark.
Suddenly, the heavy cellar doors creaked open. Jett didn't look up, assuming it was Grevin coming to check if he'd died of boredom.
"You're actually working. I'm surprised."
The voice was like a shard of ice sliding down a glass pane. Jett turned.
Sera Vane stood at the foot of the stairs. Even in the dim, flickering light of the cellar, she looked dangerously beautiful. Her white robes seemed to catch what little light existed, and her expression was as warm as a January in the Silent Peaks.
"Sera! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Jett asked, leaning casually against a rack of 14th-century white wine. "Did you lose your way to the training grounds? Or did you just miss your waste of a husband that much?"
Sera didn't flinch. She didn't even acknowledge the joke. She walked toward him, her movements possessing a mechanical precision as if she was constantly fighting against her own body. As she drew closer, Jett's vision blurred.
[Target Detected: Sera Vane]
[Compatibility: 87%]
[Condition: Critical Cultivation Instability]
[Aetherial Wife #1: Ice-Veil - Path to Bonding Initiated.]
"You were missing from the morning meditation," she said, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere above his left shoulder. "Mother is displeased. If you want to remain in this estate, you should at least pretend to be useful."
Jett noticed it then, the slight tremor in her hand as she adjusted her sleeve. The PR-C wasn't lying. She seems to have a problem with her body.
"I am being useful," Jett replied, gesturing to the ledger. "I've discovered that the 1395 vintage is leaning slightly to the left. It's a tragedy of international proportions."
Sera finally looked him in the eye. For a split second, the icy mask faltered, replaced by a look of profound exhaustion. "You're a fool, Jett. You make jokes while the world moves past you. Are you really that comfortable wasting your entire life?"
Sera huffed, a cold, frustrated sound and turned to leave. "Don't be late for the evening tasting. The Council members are attending. If you embarrass me today, Jett, I won't protect you from Grevin's 'discipline' again."
She vanished back up the stairs, leaving the scent of frost and expensive silk behind.
Jett stared at the empty doorway. The system screen popped back up.
[Objective: Stabilize Ice-Veil (Sera Vane).]
[Warning: Instability reaching 92%. Critical failure imminent within 6 months.]
"Six months?" Jett whispered. "I'm barely through day one, and I'm already on a timer."
He looked down at the ledger, then back at the door. Seems like if he didn't figure out how this 'Aetherial Anchor' business worked, he was going to be a very well-dressed widower, right before the Vane family turned him into a decorative rug.
As he reached for the next bottle, his hand brushed against a dark, unmarked carafe at the back of the shelf. The PR-C screamed in his mind.
[WARNING: High-Concentration Toxins Detected. 'Widow's Breath' found in wine supply.]
Jett froze. Someone wasn't just trying to humiliate him anymore. They were skipping the jokes and going straight for the funeral.
"Well," Jett muttered, his grip tightening on the bottle. "I did say I'd be disappointed if I wasn't insulted five times before the soup. I suppose attempted murder counts as a very strong insult."