Chapter 02
“Ian Impera?”
Just seeing the name “Ian Impera” sent chills down my spine.
Of course it did—because Ian Impera was the biggest fool in Conquer the World with Rank! The so-called “Beggar Count.”
I checked the reflection in the mirror again.
Hollow eyes.
Unkempt blond hair.
Dark circles drooping almost to the chin.
A nose reddened from heavy drinking.
It was exactly how the novel described Ian.
If anything, he looked a little younger than I’d imagined—but aside from that, he was every inch the drunken scoundrel.
The problem was that I was that scoundrel.
“What the hell is this…?”
“Um… young master?”
Right. I’d forgotten—there was someone else here besides me.
“…Irene.”
Thanks to Ian’s memories, I knew her name.
Irene, the last remaining servant of House Impera.
She’d been taken in as a child and never abandoned the family, staying even when the mansion itself was sacrificed to dark magic.
In the novel, she eventually became a wandering spirit, only to be exorcised by the protagonist’s party.
“Yes, young master! What is it?”
Despite my obvious confusion, Irene smiled brightly.
She must have thought I was just hungover and not thinking straight.
Knowing her grim future made that smile feel unsettling.
“Leave me for a while.”
“O-oh… of course! Call me anytime you need me!”
Irene tilted her head at my slightly odd tone, but left quickly without protest.
Watching her go, I almost said aloud, “She still has her legs… for now.”
Once she was gone, I tried to process the situation.
I clenched and unclenched my fists, touched my arms and legs. Every sensation was vivid.
Then I pinched my chest hard.
People pinch their cheeks, but this hurt more. If it were a dream, it wouldn’t hurt.
“…Ugh!”
I pinched so hard I instantly regretted it.
“Argh…”
A sharp pain lingered in my chest as if my lungs had shrunk.
“Damn…”
This didn’t feel like a dream or hallucination.
Which meant… I really had become Ian Impera.
“Ha.”
I couldn’t even laugh.
I, Jinsoo Lee of South Korea, had been starving to death—probably already dead.
And now, somehow, I’d woken up inside the body of some weird character?
A novel character from the popular Valhalla-system web novel?
“What kind of garbage is this…”
I collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes, hoping it was a dream.
But an hour passed. Then two. By half a day I knew.
This was no dream—this was a cruel reality.
“…Damn it all!”
I cursed into the air, but only my throat stung.
“…Phew.”
The situation was terrible—but I forced myself to think positively.
If this were just a dream, waking up would mean returning to a ruined Earth and starving all over again.
Compared to that, this wasn’t so bad. Even if the novel called him the “Beggar Count,” this was still better than months of starvation.
“…That thought makes me feel a bit better.”
I pulled the mirror from the wall to examine my face.
The skin was rough from alcohol, but I looked strangely younger than the novel described.
“That’s odd.”
Ian Impera—the so-called Beggar Count—appears midway through the story as a sort of villain.
Driven out of noble politics, he was left with nothing but a crumbling castle.
Eventually he locked himself away, made a contract with a demon, and was killed by the protagonist.
I remembered he died in his mid-twenties, but right now this Ian looked barely like a teenager.
“Hm…”
I sifted through Ian’s memories again.
He’d started going astray after losing his mother young.
His father, Eamon Impera, indulged his every whim.
This was the result: a spoiled, vicious brat.
Hitting servants, drinking more alcohol than water, picking fights while relying solely on the family title—utter trash.
He’d lived that way for years. Even after his coming-of-age ceremony last year, he kept causing scenes, and Eamon was running out of patience.
“Right. If he had the ceremony last year…”
Coming-of-age here was at sixteen.
That meant this body was only seventeen.
And Ian didn’t turn to dark magic until after inheriting the title.
“That’s a relief. If he’d already started dabbling in dark magic, I’d be doomed.”
A drunk wastrel, sure, but at least he was still physically whole.
“And the protagonist is… not anywhere close.”
The protagonist was named Dia. According to Ian’s memories, it was currently Year 15 of the Alliance, making Dia about twelve.
He was probably training hard at Zenith Knight Academy—far from the Impera lands.
An orphan of war, yet a prodigy who never lost first place among noble heirs—a classic overpowered hero.
That was the protagonist. And the one who’d kill me ten years from now.
“Hm…”
It was bad enough I’d become the novel’s wastrel, but to be killed by the hero?
I couldn’t allow that. I had to prevent it.
If I kept living like Ian, I’d follow his path exactly.
Eamon would sicken and die, I’d become the count, dabble in dark magic, and Irene would be sacrificed and turned into a ghost.
Then the hero would kill us all.
My life as Jinsoo Lee had been hellish.
Since the first Great Cataclysm at age twenty, I’d spent a decade struggling to survive, only to die anyway.
That was bad enough.
And now I was supposed to die again—this time as a pitiful count, killed by the protagonist?
No way.
“That’s absurd.”
I didn’t know why this cursed world had dragged me here, but I refused to die like that.
First, I needed to assess Ian’s current abilities.
The novel’s title was Conquer the World with Rank! As you’d guess, everything revolved around rank.
A classic “rank-system” world.
No matter how awful you were, a high rank made you revered.
Even the kindest soul with a low rank was treated like trash.
Of course, someone with a high rank wouldn’t behave like Ian, but still…
During his fight with the protagonist, Ian had been a tough opponent.
Maybe his raw stats weren’t so bad.
Maybe he was a natural talent who simply never trained?
Gulp.
“Please be high…”
Heart pounding, I opened my left hand.
Bing.
A faintly familiar system window appeared.
It was almost identical to the Valhalla System: the stronger you were, the higher the rank; the weaker, the lower.
Except each skill—swordsmanship, magic, and so on—was ranked separately.
In this world, rank 9 was the peak. Even in the novel, only a handful of monsters reached rank 9.
“…Here goes.”
I slowly opened my eyes. A translucent screen hovered above my palm.
[Name: Ian Impera]
Rank: 1 (Magic)
“Oh no.”
A groan escaped before I knew it. This body was far worse than I expected.
Below rank 1, the system didn’t even bother to measure.
Which meant everything else was basically “0.”
Ian Impera was trash among trash.
“…This is a total disaster.”
So that’s why he turned to dark magic? Because he was hopelessly weak?
And even after selling his soul, he only reached rank 5?
The demon must have been ripped off.
I felt the urge to give up.
Grrrrowl.
“…Right.”
Even in this mess, my stomach growled.
I had starved to death in my old world—no wonder.
Knock knock.
Someone rapped on the door. Irene.
She was the only servant left. Half had quit because of Ian’s behavior; the rest were dismissed because there was no money to pay them.
“Young master?”
“…What is it?”
“I was wondering about your meal. Should I bring it to your room as usual?”
“Meal?”
Food? The single word jolted me.
Meal.
I’d starved to death for over a year.
Just hearing it made my heart race.
Right. They say even a ghost looks good with a full stomach. No matter the situation, I need to eat.
Thinking is easier on a full belly.
It’s not greed—it’s strategy.
“I’ll come down.”
If she brought it up to my room, it’d probably be meager. Better to eat properly downstairs.
“Okay!”
I wiped the drool from my lips before she noticed.
“Great, I’ll have it ready!”
“Heh.”
Now then… what does a noble family eat?
This isn’t right.
I stared blankly at the gruel in front of me.
Thin, pale, barely any solids—just grain ground fine and boiled in water.
Aren’t I supposed to be a noble?
With a grand mansion and a maid, it didn’t seem like a lie.
“I’m just glad you’re feeling better, young master! Hehe.”
“….”
Irene greeted me cheerfully when our eyes met.
She held a basket with something that looked like dark bread.
Apparently this bread and the gruel were the entire meal.
I wanted to be angry, but what fault was it of this young girl?
The blame lay with our penniless house.
Or more accurately, with me—for gambling and drinking away the fortune.
“…Right.”
Think positive.
According to Ian’s memories, I’d come home drunk last night.
Maybe the gruel was for my hangover.
But why was the man sitting across from me—my father—eating the same thing?
“Haa…”
“Complaining about the food, are you?”
A voice laced with thorns cut through my sigh.
The man glared at me with obvious displeasure.
Eamon Impera.
In the novel he was only mentioned as the late previous Count.
Barely past forty, yet his hair was already white.
No doubt from the stress of having a son like this.
“With the harvest so poor and you draining the state taxes, we’ll be living like this for a while.”
“…I see.”
“You wouldn’t know—you’re too busy drinking yourself stupid every day.”
Eamon struck with cold, hard facts.
Even digging through Ian’s memories, there was little about the family’s finances.
For Ian, drink money came from the family treasury—or on credit if that ran out.
What commoner would refuse credit to the Count’s only son?
He even siphoned off national tax funds, returning empty-handed after three days.
This pitiful gruel was the result.
Ian had spent his life drinking and loafing, blind to reality.
“What are you thinking? You beat a retainer of Count Venner recently. Yesterday you were drunk and collapsed in the street!”
Eamon’s scolding continued.
Sorry, but I wasn’t the one who did those things.
What good would scolding me do now?
“…Tch!”
Unable to stand my halfhearted listening, he slammed his spoon down and stood.
“Ah…”
Irene flinched, caught between father and son.
I just exhaled sharply and watched Eamon turn away.
“Hm…”
I wasn’t glaring because of the scolding.
I was carefully watching his left hand.
Thankfully, it was still attached.
Which meant the Impera family hadn’t yet boarded the express train to hell.
Not yet, anyway.
