If there was one thing Jett Voland had learned in his previous life as a mid-level corporate analyst, it was that the more beautiful the office, the more toxic the culture. Apparently, that rule applied tenfold when the office was an obsidian palace and the "culture" involved literal magic and casual homicide.
"Are you finished with that ledger, or are you planning to court it?" Steward Grevin's voice grated against the stone walls of the wine cellar like a rusted saw.
Jett didn't even look up from the dusty bottle of 1395 Fire-Lily Reserve. "Actually, Grevin, I was just admiring the handwriting. It's far more legible than your personality. But yes, I'm done. The cellar is cataloged, the dust has been disturbed, and I've developed a persistent cough that I'll likely name after you."
Grevin turned a shade of plum that Jett found quite festive. "Keep that tongue sharp, boy. You'll need it to lick the boots of the Canton Council tonight. The Matriarch has decided your... unique palate... is to be put to use. You are to be the official taster for the pre-banquet selection."
Jett paused. "Taster? You mean the guy who drinks the wine to make sure it's not corked?"
"I mean the guy who drinks the wine to make sure any member of the Vane family doesn't drop dead before the first course," Grevin sneered. "Standard procedure for a political lubricant like yourself. Useful for once, aren't you?"
Ah, the 'Human Canary' trope, Jett thought, a cold sensation settling in his gut that had nothing to do with the cellar's dampness. I was wondering when we'd get to the assassination attempts. I really should have asked the Isekai Goddess for a health insurance plan.
[Primal Resonance Core (PR-C) Active]
[Scanning Environment...]
[Warning: Hostile Intent Detected in Vicinity]
The blue text flickered at the edge of his vision, and Jett felt a strange, rhythmic hum in his chest. It was the PR-C. It wasn't just a dating sim interface; it was a survival kit.
"Lovely," Jett said, slapping the ledger into Grevin's chest. "Lead the way. I've always wanted to explore the nuances of vintage-flavored homicide."
The Great Hall was draped in silken banners of deep crimson and gold. At the center of a smaller, elevated table sat three crystal decanters. Lyra Vane stood nearby, her presence so cold it seemed to lower the ambient temperature by ten degrees. Beside her, Sera stood like a statue carved from moonlight, her expression unreadable.
"Jett," Lyra said, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. "The Council delegates arrives in an hour. This vintage was a gift from the Raven-Spire Clan. Given our... delicate history... it is only prudent that you verify its quality."
Sera's eyes flickered toward him for a fraction of a second. There was no pity there, only a weary sort of curiosity. It was the look one gave a bug that was about to be stepped on not out of malice, but because that's just what happened to bugs.
"Of course, Matriarch," Jett said, stepping forward. He reached for the first decanter, a deep, blood-red liquid that smelled of cherries and iron.
[Detection: High-Concentration Toxins Detected]
[Type: Widow's Breath]
[Effect: Rapid Respiratory Paralysis and Core Collapse]
Jett's hand didn't tremble, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. If he refused, he was a coward and a traitor. If he drank, he was a corpse. Unless...
System, he thought frantically. Can you filter this? Refine it? Do anything?
[PR-C Initializing Emergency Refinement...]
[Essence Level: 0.0]
[Warning: Insufficient Essence for full Neutralization]
[Alternative: Convert Toxin into Aetheric Catalyst. Risk: High]
High risk or certain death? I'll take the spicy mystery box, thanks.
Jett raised the glass. "To family," he said, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to satisfy a theater of critics. "May we all get exactly what we deserve."
He tilted the glass back and swallowed.
For a heartbeat, it was delicious. Then, the world exploded.
It felt like someone had poured molten lead down his throat and then invited a lightning bolt to dance in his stomach.
The "Widow's Breath" hit his system with the force of a tidal wave. His lungs seized. His vision fractured into a thousand jagged shards of light.
He heard a gasp Sera? and then the sound of his own body hitting the polished floor.
Is this it? Jett thought, his mind spinning into a dark vortex. I got transmigrated just to be a juice-tester for thirty-six hours? That's got to be a record for the shortest light novel ever.
[CRITICAL THRESHOLD REACHED]
[Activating Primal Resonance...]
[Host Life Signs: Failing]
[Initiating Forced Essence Refinement]
Suddenly, the agony changed. The searing heat in his veins didn't vanish; it transformed. The toxin wasn't destroying his cells anymore; it was being pulled into his chest, toward the PR-C. The "Widow's Breath" was high-purity poison, which, in this world, meant it was essentially high-purity, corrupted Aether.
The warmth in his chest grew into a blinding white sun.
[Toxin Refined: 1.2 Essence Generated]
[System Awakening: Phase Two]
[New Skill Unlocked: Analytical Mind (Pattern Recognition)]
Jett's eyes snapped open. He was still on the floor, his face pressed against the cold stone, but the paralysis was gone. His heart was thumping with a rhythmic, powerful heat.
"He's... he's breathing," a voice whispered. It was Revas, the cousin with the hair oil. He looked remarkably pale, his hand hovering near his own glass.
Jett pushed himself up, his movements fluid and unnervingly graceful. He wiped a stray drop of wine from his lip and looked directly at Revas, who flinched as if Jett had brandished a sword.
"A bit... robust," Jett rasped, his voice sounding deeper, and parched. "The 1402 has a lovely finish, though the hints of paralysis are a bit forward. I'd recommend it for someone you'd like to see silenced. Permanently."
The room was deathly silent. Lyra Vane's eyes narrowed, Sera was staring at him, her icy mask completely shattered. Her PR-C status box was flashing red in Jett's vision.
[Target: Sera Vane]
[Compatibility: 87%]
[Status: Shocked / Intrigued]
[Bond Progress: 2% (Significant Increase!)]
Jett stood, dusting off his robes. He felt a strange, cold clarity. He could see things now the way Revas was sweating, the way the servant behind the decanters was trembling, the tiny, microscopic trace of the same red powder on the cuff of Revas's sleeve.
"You survived," Lyra said, her voice a low, dangerous hum.
"I'm as surprised as you are, Matriarch," Jett replied, offering a mock-bow. "But it seems I have a very resilient constitution. Or perhaps the gods just aren't ready for my personality in the afterlife yet."
He turned his gaze to Revas. "Cousin Revas, you look unwell. Is it the wine, or did you realize you left your common sense in your other silk robes?"
Revas stammered, his face turning a mottled grey. "I.. I don't know what you mean! You're delirious from the... the vintage!
"Of course," Jett said, stepping closer. "Tell me, is it common practice in the South to wear your poison on your sleeve? Because that red dusting on your cuff matches the residue in the decanter perfectly. It's a bold fashion choice, really. Very 'assassin-chic'."
The Great Hall erupted into a low murmur of shock. Jett ignored them, his eyes fixed on the system screen that had just popped up.
[Objective: Identify Culprit - COMPLETE]
[Reward: 2.0 Essence]
[New Goal: Survive the Night]
"Enough!" Lyra's voice cracked like a whip. She looked at Revas, then at Jett, her expression unreadable. "Take Jett to his quarters. He is to be seen by the physician immediately. Revas... we shall discuss your fashion choices in private."
As the guards moved to escort Jett out, he caught Sera's eye. She was still watching him, her hand gripping the edge of the table.
She's shocked, Jett realized, the PR-C pulsing in sympathy with the cold aura she radiated.
He winked at her a reckless, stupid gesture that would have seen the old Jett executed.
"Don't worry, Sera," he called out as the doors began to close. "I'm like a bad penny. I always turn up, and I'm significantly harder to swallow than your mother's wine."
As the heavy oak doors thudded shut, Jett collapsed into the arms of the guards, the adrenaline fading and the true weight of the system's "refinement" hitting him like a physical blow. He had survived the poison, but he had just painted a massive target on his back.
And according to the blue light flickering in his eyes, he only had six months to save his wife before she literally turned into a block of ice.
Welcome to the family, Jett, he thought, drifting into a dark, humming unconsciousness. Try not to get murdered tomorrow.