Morning at the Rosenthal estate began not with the chirp of birds or the warmth of sunlight — but with discipline, cold and sharp as steel.
For most butlers in the estate, dawn marked the beginning of hell.
They were roused before the sun had dared to rise, shuffled into stone-cold yards behind the main estate, and drilled by knight-commanders who didn't care if you served wine with silver gloves or polished boots with your teeth — if your form was off, your body paid the price. Training here was brutal. Not symbolic. Not ceremonial. It was the price of survival in a house of monsters.
Anwir, however, hadn't been to those morning drills since the day he transmigrated into this body.
Lucky him — or maybe not.
Due to the upcoming Duke's gathering and the chaos of preparations, butler training had been temporarily suspended. He didn't know how long the reprieve would last, but he wasn't complaining.
It gave him time to observe.
To blend in.
To act like he belonged in a place that rewarded ambition with blood.
He moved through the estate with learned efficiency. Wake early, attend to the mistress's morning needs, handle the logistics of her schedule, and accompany her as a silent shadow. He wasn't responsible for managing her time or internal affairs — that was someone else's job.
Every heir of the Rosenthal family had a personal butler. But since Selvaria was the only daughter among this generation's surviving heirs, she was assigned two personal attendants.
One, himself — Anwir — for combat, physical service, escort duty, and day-to-day logistical management.
And the other?
Selene.
A maid. A menace. And the walking embodiment of contradiction.
She was short. Comically so. Barely brushing his chest in height, with slim shoulders and legs far too quick for someone who wore heeled shoes that clacked like daggers across marble floors.
Round glasses sat perched on her nose, always slightly slipping, and she had the look of a studious little librarian — if said librarian had a chest that absolutely refused to obey the laws of physics. The kind of chest that made eye contact a losing game.
He didn't need to ask where her mana reinforcement was going.
Still, Anwir wasn't just any butler.
He had something that set him apart. A rare trait — one that made the old knights scoff and the young ones whisper behind their gauntlets.
Etiquette Blade.
It was one of the rarest Standard Traits a servant could awaken, and it wasn't just for show. Every swing he made, every motion of his sword, followed a rhythm — graceful, precise, almost… poetic. It turned battle into performance. Violence into dance.
And that was exactly why Selvaria Rosenthal had chosen him.
She didn't want a brawler. She wanted finesse — something refined, something beautiful, something that mirrored her own cold elegance. And Anwir's style? It was a blade wrapped in silk.
But therein lay the curse.
To the rest of the knight order, his movements were too clean. Too deliberate. Too soft.
"Looks like he's doing ballroom practice with a blade," they muttered.
"Doesn't even sweat when he swings. Fancy showboater."
They couldn't see the edge beneath the polish. They mistook restraint for weakness.
But Anwir didn't mind. Let them misjudge. Let them sneer.
Because a blade that looked harmless could reach places others never expected.
The sun was beginning to dip beyond the tall iron fences of the Rosenthal estate, staining the horizon in molten gold. The polished carriage — black wood with deep crimson lining and the Rosenthal crest emblazoned in silver — waited near the front steps. Gleaming, prepared. Horses snorted and stamped, armored hooves clinking against cobblestone.
Anwir stood beside the door, one gloved hand resting atop the handle, posture perfect. He looked every bit the butler of high station — trim, composed, dangerous in a way only those trained to serve the elite ever were.
Beside him stood her.
Selene.
Selvaria's personal maid and timekeeper — and living embodiment of chaotic mischief.
Short. Very short. Barely up to his chest, with a lithe figure that should've suggested frailty if it weren't for the weight of presence she carried. Round glasses framed bright blue eyes that sparkled with too much knowing. Her face was almost cherubic — cute in a deceptively innocent way.
But then there was the other issue.
Her chest.
Anwir had no idea how she stood upright. On a frame that petite, those… proportions were almost unnatural. Like her body had been designed by a committee of conflicting artists. The uniform — a sleek black and white design tailored to the Rosenthal house — didn't help matters. It clung to her, outlined her every curve, and did absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that she was, quite literally, the definition of shortstack.
"I swear," Selene said, adjusting her clipboard and humming, "our Mistress gets more majestic by the day. Do you think she wore the dark violet gown today? I ironed that one myself. Steam-pressed the sleeves, fluffed the lace, triple-checked the sapphire embroidery…"
Anwir gave a noncommittal grunt.
Selene turned to him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not even listening."
"I heard you," he replied coolly. "You're obsessing again."
"It's not obsession," she said, placing a hand over her chest dramatically. "It's loyalty. Devotion. Worship, even. You wouldn't get it, fox boy. You're just here for the fancy swings and stern looks."
"She's our Mistress," Anwir said. "We serve her. That's all."
Selene leaned in, smirking. "Is that what you tell yourself at night when she passes by in those heels? Hmm?"
He didn't respond.
She shifted, her chest accidentally brushing his arm as she adjusted her clipboard again. He instinctively took a step back — but his eyes, traitorously, dropped for just a fraction of a second.
She caught it.
Her smirk widened into a foxlike grin. "Aha."
Anwir blinked. "What?"
"You're doing it again."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're staring at my boobs while talking again."
"I was—" he paused, then cleared his throat. "I was ensuring your badge was pinned correctly."
"Look me in the eyes when you talk to me," Selene said, tapping her glasses with mock sternness. "Not at the divine bounty gifted unto me by the heavens."
"I'm professionally evaluating your uniform," he deadpanned, still very much not looking away.
"From that angle?"
"…It's an efficient angle."
She burst out laughing. "You're incorrigible."
"And you talk too much."
"Only because I know you enjoy it."
He didn't respond, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward — just a bit.
Anwir clicked his tongue softly. "How do you know I was looking at your chest?"
Selene gasped — mockingly, dramatically — placing a hand on her over-exaggerated curves. "So you finally admit it! Took you long enough!"
He narrowed his eyes. "That's not—"
"Oh hush, you little red-eyed creep." She flicked his forehead with a finger. "After living in the same wing as you for months? Me and Lady Silveria figured it out ages ago."
Anwir blinked. "Figured what out?"
She gave him a flat look over her glasses. "That you're a closet perv. A polite one. Loyal. Efficient. Sharp. But still a perv."
She jabbed a finger at his face. "You've got those slitted fox eyes, remember? No visible pupils — no one can tell where you're actually looking. But we can. Because we see through your little 'gentle butler' act."
Anwir froze, his mask cracking slightly as he fought the urge to sigh.
It wasn't me. It was Anwir.
The thought came like a reflex now, bitter and instinctive.
The original Anwir — the one from the game's lore — had always been like this. Too smooth for his own good, too sharp when it came to women, hiding it all behind that blank mask and courteous bow. He ogled. He leered. He made comments in flowery language so polished you could hang it in an art gallery and call it wit.
And now he had to carry that reputation.
He didn't even mean to look.
Much.
And those slit eyes — they made things worse. Nobody could ever prove anything unless they knew what to look for. Unfortunately for him, Selene was very observant. And Silveria…
He didn't even want to know how much she noticed.
Loyal, they say. Trustworthy, they say. And yet I get saddled with the pervy rep of a fictional butler who liked thighs and tea in equal measure.
Still, there was no denying Anwir's loyalty. The original one had been loyal to the death — obsessive, even. And maybe that was the only reason Silveria let the occasional lecherous glance be.
Because she knew he'd die for her without hesitation.
And that was true — from both Anwirs.
Even if one of them still felt awkward every time Selene bounced when she walked.
Selene leaned in with a mischievous grin, hands on her hips as her glasses slid just slightly down the bridge of her nose. "And don't even try to deny it — the Mistress knows too."
Anwir's face twitched. "...You're bluffing."
"Oh? Am I?" She leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Who do you think noticed first? You really think you've been getting away with those subtle glances during sword training? Or when you're adjusting her brooch, brushing her gloves, helping her into the carriage?"
She raised a single finger, tapping it against his chest like a schoolteacher scolding a naughty student. "Silveria Rosenthal sees everything, dummy. Especially you."
Anwir stood stiffly, lips pressed into a line. His gaze drifted off to the side, searching for a comeback.
That wasn't me. That was Anwir.
The inner voice came again, more desperate this time — like a man trying to distance himself from the crime his body committed. He had just transmigrated into the role. He was just trying to survive. He wasn't the guy who thought refined swordplay and pretty girls went hand-in-hand like tea and poison.
But the memories were there. Muscle memory. Learned behaviors. The subtle tilt of his head when Selvaria adjusted her collar. The instinctive glance downward when Selene leaned in.
He didn't try to do it.
It just… happened.
And worst of all?
He was good at pretending he didn't.
Selene chuckled as she turned away, brushing some lint off her skirts. "Tch. You better behave tonight. The Duchess's second son will be there. And if I catch you ogling him, I'll know you're just hopeless."
Anwir gave a tired sigh, adjusting his gloves and murmuring under his breath, "I already am…"
Selene chuckled as she turned away, brushing some lint off her skirts. "Tch. You better behave tonight. The daughter of Duke Kallenhart is going to be there too — so keep your eyes up. You do remember they're one of the Seven, right? And she doesn't exactly share warm tea with our Mistress."
She shot him a sidelong glance, lips curling with playful menace. "If I catch you ogling her, I'll assume you've decided to die with a sword in your ribs and a smile on your face."