Chapter Text
Isagi Yoichi’s POV
Death, as it turned out, was surprisingly mundane.
Isagi Yoichi—the normal one, the one from a world of concrete and steel and endless gray skies—had simply gone to sleep after a long day of work and an even longer night of dissecting a particularly incoherent magic system in a fantasy game he’d been reviewing. He’d closed his eyes, the pale glow of his monitor still warming the side of his face, and then… nothing. No heavenly choirs, no tunnel of light, no dramatic montage of his life flashing before his eyes. Just a quiet, seamless transition from one state of existence to another.
When he opened his eyes again, he was twelve years old.
The ceiling above him was not the water-stained plaster of his apartment. It was high, arched, and painted with delicate frescoes of dragons and phoenixes locked in an eternal dance. The bed beneath him was not a cheap futon but an enormous four-poster draped in fabrics so soft they felt like clouds against his skin. The air smelled of lavender and something else—something sharp and electric, like the moments before a thunderstorm. Magic. The air itself was saturated with it, a low, constant hum that vibrated in his bones.
For a long, disoriented moment, Isagi lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the flood of memories that were not his own. The memories of a boy named Isagi Yoichi, born to Earl Isagi Issei and Lady Iyo of the Imperial Capital, nephew to Duke Jinpachi Ego, godson of Emperor Noel Noa himself. A boy who had been a prodigy from birth, possessed of a magical core so powerful that the old emperor himself had once joked about making the child a prince. A boy who, despite having everything the world could offer, had been deeply, profoundly unhappy.
That boy was gone now. Isagi didn’t know how or why—whether the quiet, melancholic child had simply faded away or been exchanged for him in some cosmic twist of fate—but he could feel the absence where that other Isagi should have been. The body remembered its original occupant in the way the hands wanted to clasp together when nervous, in the way the heart ached at the sight of Lady Iyo’s worried face. But the soul within was unmistakably his own.
He was Isagi Yoichi, twenty-five years old, transmigrated into the body of a twelve-year-old noble boy in a world of magic and monsters.
And this world, he realized with a jolt that sent his heart hammering against his ribs, was familiar.
Not the bed or the ceiling or the faces of the servants who would eventually come to check on him. But the shape of the world—its politics, its magic, its carefully constructed narrative—was something he knew intimately. He had spent fifty-eight hours of his previous life immersed in it, dissecting every route, every character, every fragment of lore. He had written essays on its magic system, praised its complexity, and criticized its tendency to prioritize romance over the far more interesting mechanics of spellcraft.
“Locked in Blue: The Lotus That Healed the Hearts of the Empire.”
The title rose from the depths of his memory like a ghost, and Isagi felt his breath catch in his throat.
He was in a BL game.
No, more than that—he was in the world of a BL game, and he was not just any background character. He was Isagi Yoichi, the hidden antagonist, the final obstacle in the protagonist’s path to power and love. The genius son of Earl Isagi, heir to Duke Ego, the emperor’s most favored noble son. The man who, in the game’s third act, would become the protagonist’s greatest political rival, only to be ultimately defeated and discarded, his reputation ruined, his influence shattered.
Isagi sat up in bed, the ridiculously soft sheets pooling around his waist, and stared at his small, pale hands. They were the hands of a child, still soft and unblemished, but within them hummed a reservoir of power that most mages could only dream of. He could feel it there, coiled at the center of his chest like a sleeping dragon—his magical core, vast and waiting.
“Okay,” he said aloud, his voice higher and clearer than he remembered it being. “Okay. Let’s think about this rationally.”
He was in a game. He was the villain. The protagonist was a beautiful, seemingly innocent healer named Shiratori Jun, who would soon enter the Imperial Magic Academy and begin his three-year journey of seducing engaged noblemen, surviving assassination attempts, and accumulating the power base he would need to eventually challenge Isagi for the throne.
In the game, Isagi Yoichi was an obstacle—a genius whose pride and ambition led him to see Jun as a threat to be eliminated. The player, controlling Jun, would spend the final act maneuvering through high society, building alliances, and ultimately orchestrating Isagi’s downfall. It was a satisfying narrative arc, Isagi supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. He had certainly enjoyed watching it play out across multiple routes.
But he was not going to play that role. He had zero interest in the throne, zero interest in politics, and less than zero interest in competing with some pretty-faced healer for the affections of a bunch of men who, in his personal opinion, would be far better served by sitting down and having an honest conversation with their actual fiancés.
What he did have an interest in—a burning, all-consuming, I-have-been-waiting-my-whole-life-for-this interest—was magic.
The magic system of Locked in Blue was, without exaggeration, the most beautifully constructed framework of supernatural mechanics Isagi had ever encountered in any piece of fiction. It was elegant. It was consistent. It was deep enough to drown in and still want more. In his previous life, he had written a fifteen-thousand-word essay on the theoretical underpinnings of magical core formation and the philosophical principles that governed spellcasting. He had spent hours arguing with other critics online about the implications of bloodline magic versus ambient magic. He had, on more than one occasion, dreamed about what it would be like to actually use magic, to feel it flowing through his body, to shape reality with nothing but his will and his breath.
And now he could. He was in a body with one of the most powerful magical cores in the empire. He had access to libraries full of arcane knowledge, a family that would support his research without question, and an uncle who was literally the most accomplished mage of his generation. The game’s plot was a minor inconvenience compared to the sheer, glorious potential of being able to study magic for real.
So what if Shiratori Jun was going to spend the next decade seducing his way through the nobility? Let him. Isagi would be in his laboratory, unraveling the mysteries of the universe. So what if there were going to be assassination attempts, broken engagements, and enough romantic drama to fuel a dozen operas? Isagi would wear earplugs and lock his door. So what if he was destined to be the final boss of Jun’s story? He would simply… not be. The protagonist could have his harem, his political power, his happily-ever-after. Isagi wanted none of it.
All he wanted was to understand how magic worked, to push its boundaries, to discover things that no one in this world had ever even imagined. And if, in the process, he happened to make his own life more comfortable? Well, that was just good sense.
His new body’s memories informed him that the clothes currently folded in his wardrobe were made of wool and linen—serviceable, but itchy. The bathing facilities involved cold water and harsh soap that left his skin feeling raw. The food, while plentiful and of high quality, was limited in variety and seasoning by the medieval-equivalent technology of this world. The roads were unpaved dirt that turned to mud in the rain. The sanitation system consisted of chamber pots and outdoor privies.
Isagi was going to change everything. Not for the empire, not for glory, not even for the sake of progress. No, his motivations were far more selfish and far more powerful: he simply could not tolerate inconvenience.
The first two years after his awakening passed in a blur of study, experimentation, and increasingly elaborate complaints about the inadequacy of his living conditions.
At first, he threw himself into the magical theory books that his family’s library provided. The principles were complex, but his adult mind absorbed them with a hunger that startled even his tutors. Magic, he learned, was governed by two fundamental truths. The first was “Reality rests upon my quiet truth”—the recognition that a mage had to know themselves utterly before they could hope to impose their will upon the world. The second was “I am the truth of my own breath; what I name is already so”—the declaration that a mage’s word, once spoken with full conviction and proper magical intent, could reshape reality itself.
It was philosophy and physics and art all rolled into one, and Isagi loved it with a fierce, possessive joy that he had never felt for anything in his previous life. He had been a competent worker, a decent friend, an adequate human being, but he had never been passionate about anything. He had drifted through life, doing what was expected of him, finding mild entertainment in his hobbies but never truly burning for something.
Now he burned. Every spell he learned, every theory he tested, every late night he spent hunched over dusty tomes, felt like coming home to a place he had never known he was missing.
His parents were, understandably, bewildered. The old Isagi Yoichi had been a quiet, melancholy child who rarely smiled and showed little interest in anything beyond the minimum required of him. The new Isagi Yoichi bounced out of bed every morning with a gleam in his eye, demanded access to the laboratory, and once spent three consecutive days trying to reverse-engineer a lost enchantment from a fragment of a scroll that was older than the empire itself. When he succeeded, he had laughed out loud, a bright, delighted sound that had brought his mother to tears.
“It’s just,” Lady Iyo had said, dabbing at her eyes with one of the handkerchiefs Isagi was already planning to improve, “you’re so happy, Yoochan. I’ve never seen you so happy.”
Isagi had felt a pang of something complicated at that—gratitude, guilt, a profound sense of unreality—but he had simply smiled and kissed his mother’s cheek and promised her that he would always be happy, as long as he could keep learning.
Later, the food became a problem. The cuisine of the empire was hearty but monotonous—stews, roasted meats, bread, and seasonal vegetables prepared in a limited range of ways. Isagi, who had grown up with the convenience of a modern grocery store and the infinite variety of global cuisine, found himself craving flavors that simply did not exist in this world. There was no soy sauce, no miso, no curry, no chocolate as he knew it. Sugar was a luxury item, refined poorly and used sparingly. Potatoes existed but were considered peasant food, cooked plainly without imagination.
So Isagi did what any reasonable person with access to a fully equipped magical laboratory would do: he invented new cooking methods. Using carefully calibrated heat enchantments, he figured out how to deep-fry without burning down the kitchen. He experimented with sugar refinement until he produced something that actually dissolved properly in tea. He discovered that the native tubers of the empire, when sliced thin and fried, made a perfectly acceptable substitute for potato chips, and that the combination of milk, sugar, and a modified freezing charm could produce something remarkably close to ice cream.
His father, Earl Isagi Issei, had been the first beneficiary of these experiments. The man had nearly wept with joy over a plate of magically-enhanced tonkatsu. Within a month, the Isagi estate had become famous for its cuisine, and Isagi’s “cooking magic” was the talk of the capital’s culinary circles.
It didn't take long as Isagi’s attention turned to textiles and sanitation. The clothes of this world, while beautifully embroidered and dyed with rich colors, were fundamentally uncomfortable. The wool was scratchy, the linen was stiff, and the stitching was bulky enough to chafe against his skin. Isagi spent three months developing a spinning technique that produced finer, softer threads, and another two months refining a weaving pattern that resulted in fabric that was both durable and pleasant to wear. He collaborated with the estate’s tailor to redesign the cut of his clothes, introducing concepts like ergonomic seams and adjustable fastenings that no one in this world had ever considered.
The sanitation problem was even more urgent. Isagi had been a modern Japanese man; he had standards. The chamber pots and outdoor privies of his new life were an affront to his dignity. So he designed a flushing toilet, using a combination of gravity-fed water tanks and simple enchantments to create a system that was both effective and relatively easy to install. He invented scented soaps that were gentle on the skin and shampoos that actually left his hair feeling clean rather than stripped and straw-like. He developed cleaning solutions that could disinfect surfaces without leaving behind harsh chemical residues.
The rest of the household was, once again, bewildered but grateful. The servants, who had initially been wary of the young master’s strange new hobbies, soon became enthusiastic adopters of the new systems. Lady Iyo, in particular, became a fierce advocate for the improved sanitation, going so far as to personally demonstrate the flushing toilet to visiting nobles who expressed skepticism. “My son,” she would say, her smile sharp and proud, “has decided that we will no longer live like barbarians. I suggest you agree with him.”
Then at fifteen, Isagi tackled transportation and general comfort. The roads of the empire were terrible—unpaved dirt tracks that turned into impassable mud pits whenever it rained. Carriages were little more than wooden boxes on wheels, with no suspension to speak of. A journey of any significant distance was an ordeal of bruised bones and jostled organs.
Isagi’s solution was concrete. He had a vague recollection of the Roman recipe—volcanic ash, lime, and aggregate—and after several months of experimentation with the local materials, he produced a substance that was remarkably similar. Paved roads began to spread outward from the Isagi estate, smooth and level and properly drained. The carriage builders, once they understood what he was asking for, proved capable of creating rudimentary leaf-spring suspensions. Rubber, derived from a native plant that the local alchemists had previously dismissed as useless, became the basis for cushioned seats and shock-absorbing components.
Then there was the matter of magic-powered transportation. Isagi’s research into core mechanics had led him to some interesting conclusions about the efficiency of enchantment-based propulsion, and he spent a satisfying six months designing a carriage that could move without horses, driven entirely by a series of carefully tuned levitation and thrust enchantments. The prototype was finicky and prone to sudden stops, but it worked. By the time his fifteenth birthday approached, Isagi had a personal vehicle that was fast, comfortable, and entirely magical.
All of these inventions, of course, had consequences. The textile industry was thrown into upheaval. Sanitation improvements spread throughout the capital, funded by a combination of imperial investment and Isagi’s own growing fortune. Road construction became a major government project, employing thousands of workers. The magical carriage, while not yet mass-producible, had attracted the attention of every major noble house in the empire.
Isagi, who had only wanted to be comfortable, found himself hailed as a genius inventor, a revolutionary thinker, a once-in-a-generation prodigy. His uncle, Duke Jinpachi Ego, had taken over the management of his magical research with an enthusiasm that bordered on the predatory. Countess Anri Teieri, Ego’s long-suffering assistant, had been assigned to handle the business side of his inventions, a task that reportedly caused her to drink heavily on a regular basis. Emperor Noel Noa had sent a personal letter of commendation, along with a set of rare magical texts that Isagi had been trying to acquire for months.
And through it all, Isagi kept one eye on the calendar and waited.
He knew what was coming. When he turned fifteen—the age of magical maturity, the age when every noble child with a formed core entered the Imperial Magic Academy—Shiratori Jun would also arrive. The protagonist of the game would make his debut, stepping into the academy with his soft golden eyes and his sweet voice and his talent for healing magic. He would be ostracized and bullied and pursued, and he would begin his slow, inexorable climb toward the throne.
Isagi had already decided that he would stay as far away from that drama as possible. The academy had a special dormitory for students with exceptional magical potential, located in the isolated West Tower, far from the main student quarters. Isagi had requested—and been granted—a room there. He would have space, privacy, and most importantly, distance from the romantic chaos that was about to unfold.
Let Shiratori Jun have his harem. Let the capture targets fall over themselves trying to win his favor. Let the jealous fiancés plot their petty revenges. Isagi would be in his laboratory, studying the properties of elemental transmutation and developing a better insulation enchantment for his winter robes.
He had spent fifty-eight hours exploring this world from the outside. Now, he had the chance to live in it, to truly understand it, to push its boundaries further than any player ever could. Compared to that, a few broken engagements and some political maneuvering were nothing. Background noise. Someone else’s problem.
Isagi Yoichi, the transmigrated antagonist, looked at the path the game had laid out for him and very deliberately stepped off it. He had his own goals, his own passions, his own reasons for existing in this world. And they had nothing to do with Shiratori Jun.
The morning of his departure for the academy, Isagi stood in front of the full-length mirror in his chambers and examined his reflection. He had grown over the past three years, shedding the softness of childhood and beginning to take on the lean, angular features of his parents. His hair was midnight blue, thick and unruly, falling over his forehead in a way that he had long since given up trying to control. His eyes were the dark sapphire blue of the Isagi bloodline, sharp and observant, with a glint of curiosity that had been absent in the boy he had replaced.
He was dressed in clothes of his own design: a high-collared tunic in deep indigo, tailored to fit his frame without restricting his movement, and trousers made from the soft, breathable fabric he had spent months perfecting. His boots were enchanted for comfort and durability, his coat was lined with a heating array he had invented himself, and his bag was a custom-made spatial storage device that could hold an entire library’s worth of books without weighing more than a feather.
He looked, he thought with a certain amount of satisfaction, like someone who was completely in control of his life.
“Yoochan!” His mother’s voice echoed down the hallway, followed by the rapid click of her heels. “Are you ready? The carriage is waiting, and your father is already trying to sneak extra snacks into your luggage.”
Isagi smiled and turned away from the mirror. “Coming, Mother.”
He stepped out of his room and into the warm, chaotic embrace of his family. His father was indeed trying to stuff a basket of freshly fried snacks into his spatial bag, arguing with a flustered servant about the nutritional value of deep-fried comfort food. His mother was directing the loading of his trunk with the military precision of a general commanding troops. His uncle, who had come to see him off despite his busy schedule, was standing off to one side with an expression of fond exasperation.
“Yoichi,” Jinpachi said, catching his eye. “Try not to start any international incidents. Your mother would be upset.”
“I make no promises, Uncle.”
Jinpachi snorted. “That’s my boy.”
The carriage ride to the Imperial Magic Academy took three hours on the new roads that Isagi had helped design. He spent the time reading a treatise on advanced transmutation arrays and occasionally glancing out the window at the passing landscape. The capital was bustling with activity, its streets cleaner and its buildings brighter than they had been three years ago. Isagi’s influence was visible everywhere, in the smooth pavement beneath the carriage wheels and the well-maintained sanitation systems and the new textile shops selling fabrics that were softer and more comfortable than anything that had existed before.
He had done this. Not for recognition, not for power, but simply because he couldn’t tolerate bodily discomfort. It was, he reflected, a very human sort of egoism—and he was perfectly fine with that.
The academy gates loomed ahead, tall and imposing, crafted from white stone that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Students were already arriving, their carriages lining up along the main drive, their families bustling around them with last-minute hugs and tearful goodbyes. Isagi’s carriage, bearing the Isagi crest, was waved through the main gate and directed toward the West Tower, where his special dormitory awaited.
As he stepped out of the carriage, he caught sight of a commotion near the main entrance. A small crowd had gathered, their whispers carrying across the courtyard like the rustle of leaves. At the center of the attention was a boy—slight and pretty, with soft golden eyes and curly white-blond hair, dressed in clothes that were clearly secondhand but meticulously maintained.
Shiratori Jun.
Isagi recognized him instantly from the game’s artwork, though the reality was far more vivid. The boy was beautiful in a delicate, almost ethereal way, his skin sun-kissed and his expression a careful mask of earnest innocence. He was smiling at the students who surrounded him, thanking them for their help with his luggage, his voice sweet and melodic.
Around him, the first of the capture targets were beginning to gather. Isagi spotted Kunigami Rensuke, broad-shouldered and earnest, already looking at Jun with a protective warmth in his eyes. Barou Shouhei, tall and imposing, was hanging back with his arms crossed, his expression disdainful but his gaze lingering. Nagi Seishiro, white-haired and languid, was being dragged toward the commotion by a purple-haired boy who could only be Mikage Reo, his expression already sharp with jealousy.
And there, standing apart from the crowd, was Itoshi Rin. The second son of the Itoshi grand duchy was exactly as the game had described him: beautiful in a cold, distant way, his teal eyes sharp and unapproachable. He was watching Jun with an expression that was impossible to read, a mixture of irritation and something else that might have been reluctant interest.
So it begins, Isagi thought. The protagonist had arrived. The capture targets were already circling. The first act of the story was about to unfold, exactly as the game had scripted it.
He turned away and walked toward the West Tower.
He had a laboratory to set up, a research schedule to plan, and a comfortable chair to enchant. Let the game play out without him. He had better things to do.
But as he walked, he couldn’t help one last observation: the characters of this world were, objectively speaking, far more attractive in person than their 2D portraits had ever suggested. Kunigami’s earnest warmth, Barou’s fierce pride, Nagi’s lazy elegance, Rin’s sharp intensity—they were all, in their own ways, deeply pleasing to the eye. Even the fiancés lurking at the edges of the crowd, with their carefully controlled expressions and their simmering resentments, had a certain dramatic beauty to them.
Isagi was not interested in romance. He had no desire to participate in the tangled web of relationships that would soon consume the academy. But he wasn’t blind, either. He could appreciate beauty when he saw it.
He just had no intention of doing anything about it.
The West Tower was quiet and cool, its stone halls insulated from the noise and bustle of the main campus. Isagi’s room was on the top floor, a spacious suite with a private bath, a study, and a laboratory that had been equipped according to his specifications. He spent the first hour unpacking his belongings, arranging his books and equipment with the meticulous care of someone who intended to spend a great deal of time in this space.
Then he sat down at his desk, opened his journal, and began to write.
Day 1 of Academy Life. Protagonist has arrived. Capture targets are engaging as expected. I have successfully avoided all social interaction. Research priorities for this semester: elemental transmutation efficiency, magical core stabilization techniques, and the development of a more comfortable desk chair. Secondary objective: continue to ignore the romantic drama unfolding around me.
He paused, tapping his pen against the page.
Observation: everyone in this game is unreasonably attractive. This does not change my plans. End log.
He closed the journal and leaned back in his chair, which was comfortable but not, in his opinion, comfortable enough. That would be his first project: a chair that could adjust to the user’s posture, provide lumbar support, and maybe incorporate a gentle heating enchantment for cold winter days and a cooling one for summer days.
Outside, the academy buzzed with the energy of a new school year. Students were meeting their classmates, exploring the grounds, and forming the alliances and rivalries that would define the next three years of their lives. Somewhere in the main building, Shiratori Jun was probably being shown to his dormitory, unaware that he was already the subject of intense scrutiny from half the noble heirs in the empire.
Isagi didn’t care. He had magic to study, a chair to design, and a life to live on his own terms.
The game had begun. He was perfectly content to sit on the sidelines and watch it play out.
For now, at least.