Transmigrated As The Perverted Young Master



"Ah, so you do know," Harpie's voice carried a mocking satisfaction, his smile both theatrical and chilling. "That's good, that's good."

The undead form of Barnie shifted restlessly, his undead eyes fixed on Damien, a mix of recognition and hostility burning within them. His cold, lifeless hands twitched, as if yearning to carry out an order.

But Harpie's voice intervened like a sinister conductor, halting the puppet's macabre dance. "Nah, nah, nah! Not now, my dear... Mhmmmm... What's this? Lingering grudges against him... Oh, intriguing! You bear a weight of resentment toward him... Interesting indeed..." Harpie's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the undead before him. And in a bizarre twist, as he spoke to them, it was as though the dead understood his every word.

A guttural growl rumbled from Barnie, his undead lips parting to reveal teeth that had long lost their human vitality. Harpie's conversation with the dead soldier was a dark enigma, his charismatic demeanor morphing into a grotesque interpretation of understanding.

Listening intently, Harpie finally broke the eerie communion and theatrically shook his head, his disappointment exaggerated and palpable. "How can you disrespect someone like him, man? He was just a noble and proud knight, and you just had to shatter his entire life. Disrespecting his master, and humiliating him in front of his peers... tsk, tsk... how profoundly shameful."

Beside him, another undead figure emitted a low, ominous growl, prompting Harpie to tilt his head once more in curiosity. "Oh...? You too? Tell me, what did he do to you?" Harpie's voice held a strange blend of amusement and sinister interest.

Listening intently to the inhuman sounds, Harpie's expression turned mockingly grave. "To think I regarded you as my favorite fan, how shameful? How could you steal his girl, man? How could you commit such a betrayal against him?"

'Steal his girl? Who is he talking about?' Damien's mind raced, trying to place the pieces together.

Yet again, the undead's growls transformed into something akin to a twisted narrative, and Harpie's reactions were a spectacle in themselves. He threw a dramatic hand over his mouth, his eyes widening as if he had just been scandalized by the darkest of secrets. "Oh, my?" he drawled, the amusement in his tone cutting through the morbid atmosphere. "Dude, families are a big no-no! How could you seduce your sister like that? And at a time when he was just about to make his move? Tsk, tsk."

"Sister? Danielle?" The revelation hit Damien like a bolt of lightning, the pieces finally falling into place.

As if in response to his realization, the undead figure named Marcus growled more vehemently, taking a menacing step forward.

"Not now, my friend Marcus. Your time will come," Harpie's voice echoed with an eerie calmness, as if he were addressing a pawn in a macabre game.

'Marcus...' Damien's mind churned with recognition. 'He was her friend, too? And he had feelings for her as well?'

'Man, what the hell is this?'

Damien turned his gaze towards the woman positioned behind Marcus. Unlike the other two undead figures, she exuded a chilling calmness that contrasted sharply with their restless aggression. Her undead existence seemed to have bestowed upon her an eerie tranquility, as if she were patiently waiting for a command from her commander — a signal that would unleash her to carry out the macabre intentions locked within her hollow eyes.

Her stance was poised, her form rigid yet strangely graceful, like a dormant predator ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. There was an air of calculated anticipation about her, a silent readiness that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

Damien's gaze locked with hers, and in that exchange of glances, he sensed a peculiar understanding. Despite her undead state, there was a hint of recognition in her eyes, a trace of the person she had once been. It was as if a thin veil of consciousness lingered beneath the surface of her transformed existence.

"Ah, don't stress, taboo charmer," Harpie casually interjected, waving a dismissive hand to catch Damien's attention. "Allow me the pleasure of ascertaining if she bears any ill will towards you."

He turned his focus slightly toward the woman, his lips moving in what seemed like an inaudible utterance. Whether it constituted recognizable speech or an enigmatic language exclusive to their undead realm remained a puzzle to Damien.

The woman's response, however, was unmistakable. Growling and accompanied by a vehement shaking of her head, her actions conveyed her clear sentiments even if her vocalizations couldn't be fully grasped.

After a lingering pause, Harpie eventually shook his head, and an inexplicable tension seemed to seize Damien's chest. His apprehensive breaths hung in the air, as if he were oddly invested in the woman's response, despite her otherworldly state.

"It appears she's simply expressing her gratitude toward your sister for saving her," Harpie explained, his tone almost nonchalant as he conveyed the woman's sentiment. "As for you, she doesn't harbor any particular resentment...at least for now."

Damien's exhale held a touch of relief, his reaction disproportionate to the situation at hand. Regardless of her state of existence, he couldn't shake off the ingrained respect for the woman's feelings. Even in the realm of the undead, certain manners and considerations remained.

"See, this is great," Harpie said, his voice an intoxicating blend of amusement and intrigue. With a sweeping gesture, he extended his arms as if inviting Damien into his enigmatic world. "I know, young lords like you have servants in your castles. Servants that cater to your every whim. Servants that bathe you, dress you, and even warm your beds.

"Oh, but I was there too, once upon a time. You said it yourself, didn't you? But let me tell you what was missing. Ah, the sweet tendrils of a lady's hair, a strand that dances in the wind, a whisper of a faraway kingdom. Picture it, my dear, that strand swirling with the rhythm of a dance and then, oh, on a starlit night, it graces your face as you lean against the balcony, gazing at the heavens. That's the allure, that's the call."

As he spoke, Harpie's gestures were as fluid as his words, his hands painting images in the air. His eyes gleamed with a depth that seemed to pierce through reality itself. "They call to us, these ephemeral beings, beckoning us to transcend, to rise above. They are the hidden notes in the symphony of existence, the puzzle pieces scattered across time. We are drawn to them, like moths to a distant flame. To become stronger, to unearth the mysteries, to find them no matter where they are. And for me, these people were my lady, my beacon. They summoned me, and here, here I stand."

Damien's retort was swift, his voice cutting through Harpie's ethereal narrative like a sharpened blade. "You are sick in the head," he said, the words a stark contrast to the whimsical air that Harpie exuded.

Harpie's smile remained, unfazed by Damien's sharpness. "Ah, but aren't we all, in some way or another? Young master," he replied, his voice dripping with amusement. "You, with your grand castles and obedient minions. Do you truly believe that tossing a few coins at them absolves you of the chains you've wound around them? Exploiting their bodies and souls, yet pretending that your largesse somehow makes amends? No, no, no," he continued, his tone condescending as he looked down upon Damien. "I'm no mere mirror image of you. I'm not cut from your cloth. I am something different, something... better."

Their gazes locked, a dance of defiance and intrigue that bridged the gap between their opposing worlds. Harpie's confidence radiated, a subtle challenge to Damien's own beliefs. "You see, I don't hide behind the illusion of benevolence. I embrace my desires, my whims. I am not bound by societal chains. I soar above them. I don't emotionally or physically abuse them, they obey with their own will. Something you won't ever know. And in this grand performance, my role is as pivotal as yours, dear master. Perhaps more so."

Harpie's eyes gleamed with an almost mischievous light. "I am the conductor of this symphony, orchestrating chaos and harmony in equal measure. And you, well, you are but a player in this grand design." His words hung in the air, a tantalizing invitation to challenge, to question the very foundations of their roles.

Damien's fists clenched, the tension between them crackling like a storm on the horizon. For a moment his thoughts wandered to his castle and the delicate girl that served him. 'Was she also thinks like this?'

The air was thick with the clash of their perspectives, the collision of worlds that were more entwined than either of them could fathom.

And in that charged moment, the battlefield of words set the stage for an inevitable clash of wills, a dance of power that would test the limits of their beliefs and reshape the very tapestry of their destinies.