I Spent Seven Years Saving A Twisted Billionaire Heiress Who Traded My Life For An A-List Actor—Until The System Reincarnated Me As Her Rival’s True Husband!

""Target conquest failed. Biological heart cessation confirmed at 00:01:14 AM.""

The robotic voice did not sound like the mechanical chime I had grown accustomed to over the past decade. It sounded deeper, echoing through an endless white void that smelled faintly of burning cedar and ozone. I floated weightlessly, devoid of the agonizing abdominal pain that had plagued my mortal body.

""Host George Wang. You chose the highest difficulty S+ target in the system database: Willow Vance, the sociopathic heiress destined for terminal madness,"" the omniscient voice stated flatly. ""In the original script, she was designed to butcher her enemies, chain the protagonist in a soundproof cellar, and slit her own throat upon his escape. You believed your empathy could rewrite a corrupted algorithm. You failed.""

A bitter smile crossed my incorporeal lips. ""You don't have to rub salt in the wound. I'm dead. Send me to whatever void comes next.""

""Not quite,"" the voice chimed, ripples of golden light fracturing the white silence. ""The system retains a hidden compensation mechanism. Because you endured the S+ conquest difficulty for seven continuous years without abandoning your post, you have generated an unprecedented surplus of karmic energy. You are granted an unconditional resurrection.""

I stiffened. ""I'm not going back to her. If your resurrection means putting me back in that mansion as her devoted dog, delete my soul right now.""

""Calm yourself, Host. The previous contract is nullified. Willow Vance's affection meter has been permanently locked at zero; she can no longer receive system intervention. To stabilize your karmic rebound, you must choose a new target. However, this is not a conquest mission. This is an equilibrium mission.""

A holographic dossier materialized before my eyes. A photograph shimmered into focus. Unlike Willow’s sharp, predatory elegance, the woman in the folder had storm-grey eyes and an expression of chilled granite.

""Audrey Chen,"" the system announced. ""The legitimate head of the Chen Conglomerate, Willow Vance’s bitterest corporate rival, and the woman destined to be ruined by the combined forces of Willow Vance and Makoto Wang in three years. She is dying of chronic autoimmune degeneration caused by slow-acting workplace poison. Marry her, protect her life, and let the original script run its natural course.""

I stared at Audrey Chen's photograph. There was no sweetness in her eyes, but there was no madness either—only the exhaustion of a warrior fighting a solitary war.