Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1: Just Another Nerd’s Day in Hell

Listen, I'll be honest with you—I'm that type of person. The skinny guy with okay facial features who ends up looking like he was put together by someone who skimmed the assembly guide. Sure, I'm tall, but that only gives more space for letdowns.

My frame has about as much muscular tone as dry pasta, and my stance yells 'I spend my days in a gamer seat.'

Even Tommy Chen, the kid from my block who's built like a tank and seems to lift pastries for fun—probably attracts more dates than I do based on looks alone.

That's notable, since Tommy sports this awkward mix of sparse beard growth and the sort of self-assurance that stems from excelling at an obscure skill no one else gets.

Anyway, I'm not focusing on dissing Tommy. The guy's decent when he's not competing to outcode me (hint: he can't).

The true twist lies in my home life. I share a house with my mother, an intensive care nurse at Mercy General, and my two half-sisters who act like I'm an embarrassing tagalong they're stuck with, even though they secretly support their underachieving sibling. And yeah, that's me in a nutshell.

Truth is, none of them are blood relatives to me. I'm more like a 'saved soul.'

Let me share the messed-up backstory: my real mother passed away during delivery, and she never revealed to her closest pal—now my mom—who the father was. Folks figured it was her beau, but surprise— she wasn't dating anyone. She worked as a premium companion, had what my tormentors politely term a 'slip-up,' and decided against ending it.

Seriously? Kudos to her decision, since the other option meant I wouldn't be here to recount this mess.

So, I'm navigating this odd pseudo-adopted existence with a household that adores me yet hopes I'll stop being such a flop.

The wild thing is, I'm genuinely brilliant. Terrifyingly so. I hold the number two spot in my grade—trailing only Lea Martinez, who's like a machine programmed solely on higher math for over a decade and a half. I hack into nearly any networked device, rebuild PCs from scraps, and even coded an app that cranked out convincing absence excuses, fooling the school's database for a full quarter.

Yet, the catch with brains in high school: they're totally pointless without the full set of traits.

Smarts are akin to a fancy vehicle without fuel—great in theory, useless on the road. You require attractiveness, sports prowess, charm, or at minimum, visual intrigue.

I possess zero of those.

That leads to this moment, sprawled out beside the cafeteria's extra bin, pasta sauce from the day's 'Italian dunkers' gradually soaking into my sweatshirt. The whole junior year crowd has cameras ready, and I hear the video edits happening live.

'Dude, he rebounded like a hoop ball!'

'Add the PC closing noise to this!'

'WorldStar! WorldStar!'

'At least thirty-seven thousand hits, no doubt.'

Leading the fun today is Jack Morrison, who appears sculpted by divine hands and scripted by a squad of young adult film creators.

The guy's complete: towering at six-two, broad as a football player, a chiseled chin sharp enough to slice, and locks that ignore physics. He's the result of prime DNA, coaches, and affluent upbringing colliding.

But the real insanity: our families are linked. Jack's mother oversees the facility where my mom nurses, and she was once my birth mom's top confidante...

Apparently, Mr. Morrison frequented my original mom's services, and per circulating medical rumors that spread through school channels, she shattered him for any other partners. Mentally demolished him.

The man couldn't function with his spouse anymore, thanks to the unattainable bar my mom raised.

Most pairs would've split, but the Morrisons' wealth and status prevent letting intimacy issues shatter their ideal neighborhood image.

Thus, they endured, with Mrs. Morrison turning her rage into a years-long grudge against the deceased who wrecked her husband's performance—and, by proxy, me.

She believed I was Mr. Morrison's hidden offspring until DNA results debunked it, but animosity toward me had turned into her pastime by then.

She interacts with my mom daily at work, feigning civility while plotting my downfall via her prized heir.

It's akin to a warped teen soap opera installment, but without the hot cast and stylish outfits— just me clashing with garbage twice daily.

'Will he tear up?' a voice calls.

'No, that's fry oil!'

'Yo, this clip's heading to the year-end montage!'

I spot my sisters at their regular spot in the cafeteria. Sarah's ducking behind her advanced psych book as armor, likely estimating the counseling bills from this. Emma's glued to her screen, swiping Insta with intense denial of the scene.

They're staying put—not swooping in, as that'd tank their status too—but no mockery from them. It's the nuanced sibling bond: concern via secondhand shame, but not enough for direct action.

I get it; they'd catch heat too, believe me, this place is toxic.

My cell's tossed about six feet off, face-down on the tile. I know without checking it's sporting new fracture patterns across the glass. That device's endured more beatings than a comic book hero—each split recounts another viral humiliation.

'Wow, Morrison, you launched him good!'

'That's the price of trailing the incorrect guy at the bad moment!'

'Survival of the fittest!'

Jack's squad is lapping it up. I avoid labeling them his 'crew' or 'team' verbally—past mistake with a musical nod last month led to another bin-side meal.

They regard themselves with utmost gravity.

I rise, attempting poise while extracting potato bits from my locks.

My bag's midway across the ground; stuff spilled like a flea market blast. Perfect. Zero shouts 'admire me' louder than scrambling for papers and math assignments under two hundred filming eyes.

The kicker? Second incident today. Earlier, between classes three and four, Brad Kowalski 'unintentionally' slammed me into lockers. That skipped the spotlight since class rush, but this? Peak midday spectacle.

I collect my belongings and bolt, using that odd brisk stroll aiming for nonchalance but screaming escape. The chuckles trail me to the corridor, bouncing off banners for uni advice and smoke-free pushes no one heeds.

What sustains me: awareness this won't last. Some grander scheme awaits, a hidden punchline, a turn that justifies the pain. Perhaps uni, a stunning transformation, or just grown-up freedom where these folks fade.

Now, heading to sixth-hour tech class with Mr. Peterson, the sole educator here who views me as anything but trouble.

Tommy's there too, and he owes me cash from aiding his code fix.

Tiny wins, huh?

The passage is nearly deserted—only lingerers and those lunching in books because they can't afford eats or can't handle crowd vibes. I qualify doubly, but I brave it since library net sucks, and I must push my recent hobby code to GitHub out of idle curiosity.

My phone vibrates. Three alerts: two from chats I'm loosely in (likely jokes on my fresh stunt), and one from a strange sender.