A New Life, Same Panic Attacks
Akira Kurusu opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.
That was the first sign that something was wrong.
The second was the fact that the ceiling was too nice.
His brain, still sluggish with sleep, barely processed the high-arched design, the intricate carvings along the stone surface, or the soft glow of morning light streaming through tall, stained-glass windows. But something about it sent a crawling sense of unease down his spine.
His bed—if he could even call it that—was absurdly soft, the sheets beneath his fingers made of silk. Silk. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, warm and spiced, expensive in a way that no part of his life had ever been.
None of this was familiar. None of this should be his.
A sense of wrongness, thick and suffocating, tightened in his chest.
His stomach lurched as his mind finally caught up. He bolted upright, kicking off the heavy blanket and throwing himself out of bed. His heart slammed against his ribs, a surge of panic jolting through him as his gaze darted around the room—no, the chamber.
It was huge.
The walls were made of smooth, polished stone, lined with embroidered tapestries that depicted sweeping landscapes and regal battles. A massive wooden desk sat near the window, stacked high with books, ink pots, and rolled-up parchment. Beside it, a wardrobe stood against the far wall, its craftsmanship too fine to belong to anyone remotely close to his tax bracket. A vanity mirror framed in gold stood beside it, an elegant chair tucked neatly in front of it, and—
What the hell.
This wasn’t his apartment. This wasn’t Tokyo.
Something was very, very wrong.
His breath hitched. His fingers curled into the fabric of the nightshirt he was wearing—definitely not his, too soft, too well-fitted, like something tailored specifically for him. He was dressed in something old-fashioned, like he’d been thrown into a fantasy novel, and the sheer wrongness of it all made his head spin.
Panic.
Where was he? What was this? Had he been kidnapped? Drugged? Brainwashed?
He forced himself to breathe, but the rush of thoughts refused to slow down.
His legs moved on instinct, carrying him toward the mirror, as if seeing his own reflection would somehow ground him. He could shake himself awake, snap out of whatever bizarre nightmare this was. He could—
His breath caught in his throat.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
Or rather—it was, but it wasn’t.
His messy black hair was still there, but it was softer, glossier. His eyes were sharper, their deep gray shining in the morning light in a way they never had before. His skin was clearer, his jawline more defined, and his entire posture looked effortlessly poised in a way it had never been in his past life. He looked like—like some refined aristocrat, like he belonged in this place, and that fact alone made his stomach churn.
And then—then it hit him.
A sharp pulse of memory crashed into him, vivid and undeniable.
A childhood spent in the slums, scraping by with nothing but sheer luck and stolen opportunities. Studying for years just for the chance to escape poverty. A golden ticket—a scholarship to the Lunarveil Academy, an elite institution for nobles and gifted commoners, where he would either rise above his station or be crushed beneath it.
The rigid hierarchy. The suffocating divide between the ruling class and everyone else. The war looming on the horizon.
Oh. Oh, no.
His breathing quickened. His knees nearly gave out. He braced himself against the desk, his knuckles white from how hard he gripped the edges.
This—this wasn’t just some random medieval world.
He knew this place.
Royal Requiem. The otome game he had spent months playing.
A fantasy romance game where the protagonist, a commoner with a hidden power, entered the prestigious Lunarveil Academy by saving one of the love interests—Makoto Niijima—from the mafia. That single act of heroism earned them a scholarship, allowing them to attend a school meant for royals and nobles… and the occasional commoner with extraordinary abilities.
And from there? Chaos.
Befriending nobles, uncovering conspiracies, navigating the treacherous world of high society. Rivalries, duels, hidden plots, and, of course, romance—so many romance options, some of which barely made sense.
The school nurse? The protagonist’s homeroom teacher?!
Akira gripped his hair, resisting the urge to scream. He was just a normal guy, a university student who occasionally got too invested in his favorite games, and now—now he was in a goddamn fantasy world?!
And worse—
He forgot to ask his homeroom teacher for his class schedule.
Akira slumped against the desk, groaning. This was a disaster. He was going to die. Some angry noble was going to duel him for daring to breathe in their general direction, and he was going to get kicked out of school, end up destitute, and starve in a back alley somewhere. He needed a plan. A will. Who was he even supposed to leave his nonexistent fortune to?!
He was spiraling, and he knew it.
But then—
A name surfaced in his mind, cutting through the haze of panic like a blade.
Goro Akechi.
His breath caught. His pulse steadied.
Goro Akechi, the so-called villain of Royal Requiem.
A brilliant, tragic noble exiled from the royal family. A man hated by both the court and the commoners. Manipulative, ruthless, isolated—but also beautiful, painfully so, with sharp red-wine eyes and a carefully curated smirk hiding the loneliness beneath.
Akira had always found himself more drawn to Akechi than to any of the game’s designated love interests. While the protagonist fawned over beautiful, elegant noble ladies and gallant knightesses, Akira had spent every playthrough fixated on Akechi’s character—his struggles, his cutting wit sharpened to a lethal edge, and the way he had been forced into a losing game from the very start.
And Akechi’s story did not end happily.
No.
If fate had dropped him into this world, then fine. He could panic later. Right now, he had one priority.
Forget the main story, forget the noble suitors vying for the protagonist’s heart—
Akira was going to dedicate himself to aggressively saving Akechi like his life depended on it.
If the world insisted on calling Akechi a villain, then Akira would become the fool who adored him anyway.
After all, if fate was handing him a mentally unstable, handsome, sarcastic, two-faced, and charming disaster on a silver platter, who was he to refuse?
He adjusted his fake glasses—because apparently, those had transmigrated with him too—and exhaled.
Maybe this world wasn’t so bad after all.