+18 Chapter 1: Waking Up in a Fat Sack of Shit

Baron Viktor von Grell opened his eyes and immediately regretted the impulse.

His head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening intensity, as if a blacksmith were using the inside of his skull as an anvil. The room spun in lazy, nauseating circles—too much wine, too much... something. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. It felt wrong. Heavy. Disgustingly, impossibly heavy. It was as if someone had hollowed out his torso, stuffed it with wet sand and watermelons, and sewn him back together with cheap thread.

“What the fuck...” he muttered. His voice was a wet, raspy croak that didn't belong to him.

Then, the floodgates opened. Memories that weren't his slammed into his consciousness like a high-speed train. Banquets where he gorged until he vomited. The stinging snap of a whip against a servant's back. The sensation of soft, terrified skin under his own rough, calloused hands. Gold coins changing hands in windowless rooms. A lifetime of being a worthless, lecherous piece of aristocratic filth.

Kenji—no, Viktor now—groaned and forced his bulk upright. The massive four-poster bed creaked dangerously, the wood groaning under his weight. He looked down, and a wave of genuine revulsion washed over him. A massive, pale belly strained against a silk nightshirt stained with the grease of last night’s feast and the sticky residue of spilled spirits. He had sausage fingers, a neck that had vanished into layers of chin, and greasy hair that clung to his forehead like dying seaweed. The faint, cloying smell of stale sweat and cheap perfume clung to the sheets.

He was in the body of the character he’d hated most in that bargain-bin trash harem novel, The Chronicles of the Holy Blade. The fat, predatory noble who existed solely to make the hero look noble by comparison—the ultimate "stepping stone" villain destined to be executed in the town square while the readers cheered.

“Fuck my life,” he wheezed, the simple act of breathing feeling like a chore.

A hesitant, rhythmic knock came at the door.

“My lord?” a soft, tremulous voice called. “Are you awake? Breakfast has been prepared, and your bath is being heated...”

Viktor’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smile as the memories clicked into place. He knew that voice. Lila. Sixteen, black hair, big doe eyes, and the kind of blossoming figure that usually meant a short shelf life in this manor before being discarded. The "old" Viktor had already started breaking her spirit, holding her family’s mounting debts over her head like a guillotine.

“Come in,” he said, his voice regaining some of its gravelly authority.

The heavy oak door creaked open. Lila entered, balancing a silver tray laden with crusty bread, pungent cheese, sliced summer fruits, and a pitcher of watered wine. She kept her chin tucked against her chest, her shoulders tight and hunched, moving with the desperate caution of a mouse trying not to alert a sleeping cat. Her simple maid’s uniform was tight—deliberately so, a "gift" from the Baron—hugging her frame in a way that made Viktor’s new body react with a sudden, pulsing heat.

The original owner’s base instincts fused with Kenji’s own dark opportunism like oil hitting a flame.

“Put it on the table,” he ordered, shifting his weight to the edge of the bed. His belly spilled over his thick thighs, resting heavily against his knees.

Lila did as she was told, but her small hands trembled, making the silverware clatter against the porcelain. A purple bruise peeked out from under her rolled sleeve—a parting gift from Viktor’s drunken temper the night before.

Viktor licked his lips, enjoying the way she flinched at the sound. “You look tired, Lila. Did you sleep poorly? Or were you thinking of me?”

“I... I slept fine, my lord. Thank you for your concern.”

He chuckled, a low, wet sound that vibrated in his chest. “Come here. Closer. I can’t hear your lies from across the room.”

She hesitated, her eyes darting toward the door, then took two small, shuffling steps forward. It was enough. Viktor’s hand, surprisingly fast for its size, shot out and clamped around her wrist. He yanked her toward him. The tray clattered as she stumbled, her hip colliding with his knee.

“My lord—!”

“Shh. Quiet, girl.” His other hand landed on her hip, squeezing the soft flesh through the thin fabric of her uniform. “You’ve been avoiding my gaze lately. That’s not very grateful, is it? Not after I personally ensured your father’s farm wasn't seized by the tax collectors.”

Lila’s breathing became a series of jagged hitches. “Please, my lord... I have duties... Madame Elara is expecting me...”

“Duties can wait.” Viktor pulled her flush against his spread knees. His hand slid upward, tracing the curve of her waist, feeling the frantic thrum of her heart through her ribs. “You’re mine, Lila. Bought, paid for, and signed over. The least you can do is show some proper appreciation for your benefactor.”

He leaned in, his hot, wine-staled breath ghosting against her neck. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, inhaling the scent of lavender and fear. His hand moved higher, groping with clumsy, hungry eagerness. Lila whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut as she turned her face away.

Just as his fingers found the laces of her bodice, the door didn't just open—it slammed against the wall.

“Baron Viktor!”

An older woman marched in—Madame Elara, the head housekeeper. Forty-something, with a face like carved granite and iron-gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to pull her eyebrows upward. She had served the Grell family for thirty years and clearly viewed Viktor as a stain that wouldn't wash out.

“Unhand that girl this instant!”

Viktor froze, a surge of irritation lancing through his skull. “This doesn’t concern you, old hag. Get out before I have you whipped for insolence.”

Madame Elara didn’t even blink. She marched forward, grabbed Lila by the shoulder, and physically wrenched her away from the bed, shielding the trembling girl with her own body. “It concerns me when you’re pawing at the staff before the sun has even cleared the horizon. Your mother is already waiting in the dining hall, and her patience has reached its absolute limit. She is in no mood for your... morning indiscretions.”

Lila darted behind the housekeeper, her eyes wet and downcast. She clutched the front of her uniform together, her face a mask of shame.

Viktor glared, his arousal curdling into a cold, frustrated anger. “You forget your place, woman. I am the Baron of this estate. I am the law here.”

“You are a disgrace to your father’s name,” Madame Elara snapped, her voice like a whip. “Now get dressed. Your parents and Lady Sophia have been waiting for an hour. If you aren't downstairs in ten minutes, I shall tell your father exactly why you were delayed.”

She ushered Lila out of the room before Viktor could conjure a retort. The door slammed shut with finality.

“Fucking bitch,” he growled, the words lost in the rolls of his neck.

He sat there for a moment, his chest heaving, then hauled his massive frame out of the bed. It took two male servants—young men who kept their eyes strictly on the floor to avoid his legendary temper—to help him dress. The process was an ordeal of engineering. Corsets to cinch his gut, layers of heavy silk, velvet breeches that felt like they were at their breaking point, and gold rings for every bloated finger. By the time the last button was fastened, Viktor was already slick with sweat.

He made his way to the dining hall, his every step a heavy thud that echoed through the polished marble corridors of the Grell Manor.

The long mahogany table was set with fine china. At the head sat Viscount Harlan von Grell—a man who looked like a sharpened pencil, all gray hair and jagged angles. To his right was Lady Margaret, elegant, cold, and possessing lips so thin they were almost invisible. Beside her sat Sophia, Viktor’s eighteen-year-old sister. She was striking, with the family’s dark hair and sharp features, but her expression held a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.

Viktor lowered himself into a reinforced oak chair that let out a pained shriek of protest.

“Morning,” he grunted, reaching for a platter of thick-cut bacon.

His father didn’t look up from his correspondence. “You’re late. Again. The sun is nearly at its zenith.”

“Had a rough night,” Viktor replied, reaching for a pitcher of wine.

Crack! His mother’s hand slammed onto the table, rattling the silverware.

“No more wine before noon,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Look at yourself, Viktor. You’re a walking embarrassment. A Baron of the Grell line reduced to a gluttonous, sweating heap.”

Sophia let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Reduced? Mother, he’s always been a pig. The only difference is he’s getting fatter and more pungent with every passing moon.”

Viktor shoveled a heap of eggs into his mouth, chewing with his lips open. “Good morning to you too, dear sister. I see your tongue is as sharp as your chin this morning.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sophia hissed, her knuckles white as she gripped her fork. “You’re no brother of mine. Not after what you did to the laundry maid last month. The poor girl had to be sent away to a convent just to stop shaking.”

Harlan finally spoke, his voice heavy with a weary, profound disappointment. “Enough. All of you. We have guests arriving in three days. The Royal Auditor is coming to review our land taxes and our contributions to the Southern Border defenses. Try—just for seventy-two hours—not to make us the laughingstock of the High Court.”

Viktor wiped grease from his chin with the back of his hand, leaving a shiny streak. “I’ll behave, Father. I’ll be a regular saint.”

His mother looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown. “Why couldn’t you have been more like your brothers? They died with honor on the battlefield. And you... you squander their legacy on cheap whores, expensive brandy, and the systematic torment of everyone under this roof.”

The rest of breakfast passed in a silence broken only by the wet sounds of Viktor’s enthusiastic eating. His family finished quickly, departing the room as if the air around him were toxic. Sophia shot him one final look—a gaze so full of contempt it would have withered a lesser man.

Alone at the massive table, Viktor leaned back, feeling the sweat dry on his neck.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to the empty room. “They really, truly fucking hate this guy.”

He poked at a stray piece of sausage, his mind finally beginning to sharpen. He had the memories. He knew the plot. The "Hero" of this story—Leon Brightwood—was currently a nobody in some backwater village. The goddess hadn't bestowed her blessing yet. There was no "Holy Blade," no harem of warrior princesses. That meant time. Time to settle in, time to consolidate power, and time to enjoy the perks of being a villain.

A dark, hungry grin spread across his bloated face. If he was going to be the villain, he might as well be the best damn villain this world had ever seen.

He rang the silver bell on the table. A servant appeared—an older footman this time, his face a mask of professional neutrality.

“Bring Lila to my study in ten minutes,” Viktor ordered, his voice low and commanding. “Tell her we need to discuss her father’s outstanding debts. And make sure we are not disturbed by Madame Elara or anyone else.”

The footman’s jaw tightened, but he bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

As the man left, Viktor drummed his fat, ring-laden fingers on the table. This new life was going to be magnificent. It smelled of expensive tobacco, old family money, and limitless, unchecked opportunity.

He laughed quietly to himself, a wet, rattling sound that echoed off the cold stone walls.

“Time to see just how far this body—and this world—will let me go.”