[Joe’s POV]
The next morning, I woke up with one goal in mind.
Get into House Vellmore.
Preferably without dying.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my face. The room at The Lantern was quiet, with morning light creeping through the curtains. For a few seconds, I stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that this was a normal life and not some elaborate punishment for writing a harem novel.
It didn’t work.
Last night, after bumping into that unfortunate stranger on the stairs, I had spent hours thinking about my next move. House Vellmore wasn’t somewhere I could simply stroll into and start asking questions. It was one of the wealthiest houses in Haremdale, and judging by the Thorn Collective’s reach, it probably had enough guards to turn an intruder into a cautionary tale.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of waiting around.
I needed information. I needed leverage. And, more importantly, I needed to stay alive long enough to figure out why my own story was turning against me.
I got dressed and checked the money Clara and Maren had given me. It wasn’t enough to buy my way into an aristocratic household, but it was enough to get some clothes that didn’t make me look like a man who had crawled out of a ditch.
After a quick breakfast, I headed towards the northern side of Haremdale.
The difference was immediate.
The streets were cleaner, the buildings grander, and the people walking around looked as though they had never experienced a financial problem in their lives. White horses stood beside polished carriages, while guards in immaculate navy and gold uniforms watched the streets with the sort of confidence that came from knowing they were paid well and backed by powerful people.
I glanced down at my clothes.
They were decent enough.
At least, I hoped they were.
I had never expected fashion to be the thing that stood between me and a successful infiltration. Back when I was writing the story, I could simply introduce a noble estate, describe its guards, and have the protagonist find a convenient way inside.
Easy.
A few paragraphs, some dialogue, and boom. The plot moved forward.
Now I was the idiot standing outside a wealthy district, trying to figure out how to get through a gate without being mistaken for a thief.
Writing really did make everything look easier than it was.
House Vellmore’s estate wasn’t difficult to find. A property that large could hardly hide in a district full of smaller mansions. Its walls rose above the surrounding buildings, and the entrance was guarded by several men whose uniforms were far cleaner than mine.
I slowed down as I approached.
The gates were impressive, the stonework immaculate, and the guards looked like they had been trained to recognise trouble before it had the chance to introduce itself.
I could already see the problem.
I didn’t belong here.
Still, turning around without trying would have been pathetic. I had come all this way, spent money I could barely afford to spend, and endured the indignity of dressing like someone who owned more than two shirts.
I might as well give it a shot.
I approached with what I hoped was a confident expression.
"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded.
"Someone who wishes to speak with the household."
"About what?"
I paused.
Good question.
I could hardly tell them I was a transmigrated author trying to investigate a conspiracy I had accidentally created.
"I have information concerning the Thorn Collective," I said carefully.
The guards exchanged a look.
That was promising.
Then one of them stepped forward. "Who sent you?"
"Nobody."
His expression hardened.
Ah. Right. That sounded suspicious.
"I mean, I came of my own accord."
"And you expect us to let you in because you say you have information?"
When he put it like that, my plan did sound stupid.
"I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with someone in charge."
"No."
Just like that.
I stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Leave."
I tried one last time, but the guards had already shifted their stance. One placed his hand near his weapon, making it clear that the conversation was over.
I wasn’t stupid enough to test how quickly they could turn me into a corpse.
So I left.
I walked several streets away before stopping beside a quiet building and letting out a long breath.
Wonderful.
My grand infiltration plan had lasted less time than it took to order food at a restaurant.
I looked at my clothes again. They weren’t bad, but they clearly weren’t enough. Even if I dressed like a noble, the guards would still ask questions. I needed a face they recognised, someone who belonged there.
A disguise.
The thought lingered.
I opened my System and searched through the menus, looking for anything I might have overlooked. I had barely explored the skills section since arriving in this world. Most of my attention had gone towards surviving the six-hour death timer, finding Clara, and making sure the story didn’t kill me before I could understand what was happening.
The interface flickered.
[System Notification]
[Story divergence has increased.]
[Current divergence: 20%.]
I froze.
Twenty percent?
The last time I checked, it had been eighteen.
What had I done?
I replayed the morning in my head. I had bought clothes, walked to House Vellmore, tried to talk my way inside, and been chased away. That hardly seemed like the sort of action that would make the story diverge by two whole percentage points.
Unless the System was counting something else.
I frowned and opened the skill interface again.
[New Skill Available]
[Facsimile — Rank F]
[Allows the user to imitate the facial appearance of a person they have observed. The effect lasts for one hour per day.]
[Limitations: Does not reproduce the target’s voice, memories, skills, or mannerisms.]
I stared at the screen.
Then I grinned.
Oh, you beautiful, beautiful System.
For once, you had given me something useful.
An hour wasn’t much, but it was enough to get through a gate, walk around, and search for whatever I needed. If I could find a guard who looked ordinary enough, I might be able to get inside House Vellmore without having to explain myself.
Of course, I would need to observe the target first. I would also need to find a way to knock him out without attracting attention.
Minor details.
I read the skill description again, making sure I hadn’t missed anything important.
One hour per day. Facial appearance only.
So I wouldn’t suddenly acquire the guard’s memories or know where he kept his spare keys. I wouldn’t even sound like him. If someone asked me a question that required more than a grunt, I could still ruin everything.
It wasn’t perfect, but perfection was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Besides, I had written the world. Surely I could manage to fool a few guards.
That thought lasted approximately three seconds before I remembered that the world had recently started doing whatever it pleased.
Right.
Maybe I shouldn’t get cocky.
I dismissed the notification and glanced back towards the northern district.
Somewhere behind those walls was the information I needed. The Thorn Collective, House Vellmore, and the strange payments Maren had mentioned were all connected somehow. If I could find proof, I might finally have something to work with instead of stumbling around blindly.
I had no idea why the divergence had increased. Maybe my failed attempt had caused it. Maybe the System was reacting to something else entirely.
Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.
I had a new skill, a target, and a plan that was only slightly suicidal.
By my standards, that counted as progress.
I turned towards The Lantern, already thinking through my next move. I would need to return to the estate, observe the guards, and find someone whose face I could borrow. Then I would have to isolate him long enough to put him to sleep without anyone noticing.
After that, I would have one hour to make the whole thing worthwhile.
No pressure.
This time, I would do it properly.
And if I got caught again, I would at least try to make it look less embarrassing.