How to Survive As The Villaines's Butler

There was silence in the air--too much silence. The kind of silence where every step or creak of wood under his boots sounded more like a battle cry.

Anwir sat on the edge of an antique bed, fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees. The room was small but elegant. Wooden panels lined the walls, and faint traces of lavender hung in the air—clearly the influence of the Silvaria household's refined tastes. But none of it could soothe the storm in his head.

"...Status screen," he muttered, half-expecting nothing to happen.

But the moment the words left his lips, a soft sound of whime echoed in the back of his mind—followed by a translucent window sliding gently into view before his eyes. The font was elegant, almost handwritten, like a noble's journal turned interactive interface.

Anwir stood in silence as the translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes. No over-the-top swirl of magic, no dramatic voiceover. Just a quiet hum, and there it was—his Status Screen.

──────『 Status 』──────

➣Name: Anwir

➣Mana Pool: 500/500

➣Traits:

•Mana Manipulation

•Steelblood Butler

•Veil Sight

•Etiquette Blade

•Oathbound Memory

──────────────────────

He stared at the glowing screen for quite a long moment as if to confirm that he was looking at the right thing.

"That's it…? Just this? Wheres my strength agility the godly luck???"

He leaned back, his hand rubbing against his forehead as he let out a quiet sigh. "No strength, no agility, no endurance. No damn numbers to tell me how dead I am."

It really was like the game. Exactly like the game.

"Just a mana pool and traits. That's all we ever wanted to showed the players with thoughts figure our for yourselves. Didn't think it'd be me sweating over it like this…"

"I did not think that bit of quick work and laziness would come to bite me like this."

The status screen vanished as he dismissed it with a swipe of his fingers, but the weight in his chest didn't leave with it.

His heart beat a little heavier than before. Because now it was real.

And he was vulnerable.

"Only five traits for now. Not even the more flexible ones… No Copy Cat, no Intuition, no Focus. And forget the hardcore-only ones…"

He remembered every trait. After all, he helped design them. Balanced them. Wrote the flavor text for some of them, even joked about how busted a few were with the QA team during late-night dev sessions. Now? They were lifelines he didn't have.

He let out a short breath—half a scoff, half a sigh.

"I'm basically walking around with the tutorial loadout…"

In the quiet, his gaze fell to the polished mirror near the dresser. He stood up and stepped closer.

His reflection stared back at him with slit-like eyes—barely opened, deep and unreadable.

"So this is my new face, huh…"

His hair was a dark, burning red—like thick blood still wet on a blade. Unruly and wild, it hung low with natural waves. His skin was pale, but not unhealthy, and his frame was slim but deceptively taut.

"Looks just like that character model I reused from the unreleased rogue prototype. Guess I always did like this design…"

He tried opening his eyes wider.

They didn't budge much.

"Huh… so this body really is used to keeping its guard up."

He leaned closer, examining his faint, almost fox-like expression.

"No wonder people found this guy creepy."

Then the tension hit him again.

"Shit… most of the traits I need to survive in the late game… they're locked. Hidden behind progress. Behind choices. Behind surviving."

He took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall.

"One wrong move, and I could be dead before breakfast tomorrow."

Silence settled again, but this time, he embraced it—let it simmer under his skin like slow-burning coals.

"Okay... take it easy. I've got the essentials. That's good for now." 

His violet eyes glowed faintly in the mirror while catching the dim light from the chandelier. 

As Anwir started to adjust the silver- embroidered cuffs of his butler's uniform, the soft flicker of blue light returned, first as an almost imperceptible wisp, corner of his eye, and then became firm.

"Again?"

He turned toward the mirror, but the familiar translucent screen had appeared midair before him, pulsing softly.

Then it shifted.

A new tab blinked into existence, trimmed in gold and outlined in faint crimson.

──────『 Special Notification 』──────

➣ Developer Compensation – Initiated

As a result of abnormal synchronization with this vessel, a one-time calibration has been granted.

Partial memory archive unlocked: Anwir's Memories – Fragmented.

◉Random Talent Acquisition: [Initializing draw…]

◉Access granted: Legacy Shop – [Locked]

◉Mission Protocol Unsealed:

"Protect the Mistress, or be consigned to the depths of suffring—not to death, but to the agony that lingers beyond it.A torment eternal, where even despair has forgotten your name."

-Mission Objective: Save Selvaria Rosenthal In Act 0 Part1.

-Reward: 100 Legacy Currency

-Consequence: Failure will not end you—it will erase you.

This is your first and final gift.Use it wisely, Fox.

──────────────────────

His eyes widened as he read the last line. He hadn't felt it at first, but now—a sharp heat pulsed through his chest. For a second, his vision blurred.

A rush of sensation swept through him—like a cold wind threading through old pages of memory.

"Tch…"

Flashes surged in his mind—echoes of swordplay at dusk, whispered orders in moonlit halls, a gloved hand bloodied under moonlight, and a voice… her voice, saying:

"Anwir… you are my blade. My shadow. My vow."

He clutched the edge of the dresser to steady himself, breath shallow.

"So… this is what they meant by calibration..."

Then the screen flickered again.

A glowing card-like icon spun midair—glitching, rotating, and finally settling into place.

🔹 New Talent Acquired: [ Position Swap ]

Trait sealed until full memory assimilation is complete.

And just below it… a small icon labeled Legacy Shop – [Open?] shimmered faintly, awaiting his command.

He stared at the last line of the mission again, the bloody script seared into his thoughts.

"A torment eternal, where even despair has forgotten your name."

He scoffed, though his hands had gone cold.

"Dramatic as hell… and somehow still not reassuring."

He straightened his collar with a new sense of purpose—his back straighter, his gaze clearer, more grounded.

"One shot, huh…"

His eyes flicked to the closed door of his quarters—the world outside still oblivious to his awakening.