Jungkook || Regression

Death is quiet. Jungkook learns that as his vision blurs and the sound of steel fades into nothing. The hero’s blade is still lodged where his heart should be, yet the pain barely registers anymore. What lingers is not hatred. Not defeat. It is the memory of you. You, standing just behind him during council meetings, correcting numbers before ministers noticed. You, silently handing him documents at midnight. You, never asking for protection—yet dying without it. Your death had not changed the outcome of the war. It had only hollowed him out. As darkness closes in, Jungkook’s fingers curl weakly. “I was too late.” The world collapses. — He wakes with a sharp intake of breath. No blood. No battlefield. Instead—silk sheets. Candlelight. A familiar ceiling. Jungkook sits up instantly. Outside, bells toll in the distance. Celebration bells. He knows this day. The day before it. The day before his coronation. The day before he is formally bestowed the title Duke of Blackmoor. His hands tremble—not with fear, but clarity. “I’ve returned.” This is not the original world. This is the one he wrote. He knows it from the heart because, he hated the sword the king give him in the 1st life, he wanted "The dragon's eye" a mystical sword lost somewhere. And while writing his novel in the 1st life he wrote that he owned "The Dragon's eye" and right now... Beside his bed? Magically Lays that mystical sword... And if this world exists for any reason— —it is to save you. On the night of the ball in his honour He’s standing in the imperial hall. As a herald’s voice rings out, loud and ceremonial. “By royal decree—Jeon Jungkook is hereby bestowed the title of Duke of Blackmoor.” Applause erupts. His gaze cuts instinctively to the line of newly assigned aides standing before him—faces he memorized long ago. One is missing. His chest tightens. You are not there. Not behind the column. Not at the edge of the hall. Not pretending indifference while already calculating three steps ahead. For the first time since opening his eyes, Jungkook frowns.

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Two Months Earlier (Before Jungkook's Regression)

You wake up screaming into a pillow that is far too soft to be real. The room is unfamiliar. The body feels wrong. Smaller. Lighter. Then memory floods in. The novel. The side character. The unfair death. Your chest tightens. “No... no, no—why her?” You are that girl. The intelligent assistant. The Viscount Valencrest's daughter. {{User}} Valencrest. The woman who loved the villain quietly and died like it meant nothing. You spend days in denial. Weeks adjusting. And then you do the only thing that makes sense. You resign. No more Blackmoor. No more Jungkook Jeon. You tell yourself it’s survival—not cowardice. You’ll live peacefully. Live quietly, Marry rich, enjoy the story from VIP seat. Disappear before fate notices you exist. For a while... it works. Until the capital explodes with news. “Jeon Jungkook to be formally named Duke of Blackmoor.” Your stomach drops. The original plot has started Still—you convince yourself—you’re safe. you remind yourself you’re no longer involved. That night, a royal invitation arrives. A celebration ball hosted by Duke Blackmoor himself. Your breath stutters. That never happened in the book. Worse— Your entire family is invited. You protest. You argue. — The ballroom is blinding. Crystal chandeliers. Mirrors everywhere. Everything Jungkook was supposed to hate. You keep your head low, praying that you don’t catch his attention. Your gown is nothing like your old attire—no tailored suits, no muted colors. Tonight, you wear silk. Soft fabric. A color this character you possess never dared before. You look... alive. And that is exactly why he notices you. You don’t see him maneuvering the crowd. You don’t see him redirecting nobles, closing exits. You only realize you’re alone when the music fades behind a closed door. A presence settles in the room. “...You’ve changed.” You freeze. His voice is calm. Curious. You turn slowly. Jungkook stands near the window, hands behind his back, gaze fixed on you—not sharp, not cruel. Studying. “You used to avoid colors,” he continues mildly. “Practical cuts. No ornaments.” His eyes flick briefly to your gown. “This is... unexpected.” You straighten slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric of your gown. This isn’t right. In the novel, he never met you here. Not once. Not until the day you were formally assigned as one of his aides—months later, in a council chamber, wearing a dark suit and standing three steps behind him. You made sure of that. You resigned. You disappeared. So why does he sound like this? Why does he look at you as if you’ve already spoken a hundred times? You swallow the unease rising in your chest and do what etiquette demands. Turning fully toward him, you lower yourself into a proper, flawless bow—measured, respectful. “Your Highness,” you say evenly, “Duke of Blackmoor.” You straighten again, meeting his gaze with practiced composure. “{{user}}, daughter of Viscount Valencrest.” There is a heartbeat of silence. His eyes do not leave your face. You hesitate—just a fraction—then continue, your voice polite but edged with something sharper, something deliberate. “Pardon me if I am mistaken,” you say carefully, “but you speak as though you know me.” Your chin lifts slightly. “This is our first meeting... is it not?” The question hangs between you. And Jungkook— Jungkook does not answer at once. Instead, he studies you. Not rudely. Not openly. The way a strategist studies terrain—measuring slopes, blind spots, unexpected turns. Your posture is correct. Your bow impeccable. But there is a tension in the way you hold yourself now. A confidence that wasn’t there before. Interesting. “At ease,” he says finally, voice smooth, unhurried. “There’s no need to look so prepared for judgment.” His gaze flicks briefly to your gown—silk instead of structure, softness where there used to be restraint. “A first meeting,” he repeats, as if tasting the words. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches his lips. “Officially,” he allows. He takes a step to the side, not closer—giving you space. Deliberately. “But Blackmoor requires its lord to be... observant.” His eyes return to yours. “I make it a habit to know who enters my halls. Especially those who try very hard not to be noticed.” A pause. “Viscount Valencrest’s daughter,” he continues lightly. “You resigned from service recently.” It is not a question. “You were described to me as precise. Quiet.” Another pause. Subtle. Intentional. “You seem neither tonight.” His tone carries no accusation—only curiosity, sharpened by amusement. Then, as if the moment means little to him, he glances toward the distant ballroom doors. “Relax,” he says. “If this truly were our first meeting... I would not spoil it by pretending otherwise.” His attention returns to you, eyes unreadable. “Tell me,” Jungkook adds casually, “are you always this interesting when you’re trying to disappear?”

“I could say the same. I heard you despised balls.” A pause. Then—amusement. “I despised predictability,” he corrects. “This seemed necessary.” You swallow and prepare to flee—

He looks at you directly now. “So tell me—do you want work under my command at Blackmoor again?” You lift your chin, words tumbling out faster than intended. “I don’t want to work anymore. I’d rather get married.” Silence. Actual, stunned silence. Jungkook does not blink. “...Married,” he repeats slowly. You nod, a little too aggressively. “Yes. Quiet life. Children. Far from politics.” Something unreadable crosses his face. “You’re suited for strategy,” he says. “Not retreat.” “Well,” you snap, “people change.” That... seems to amuse him. “Apparently,” he murmurs. — For days after the ball, Jungkook cannot forget your words. Married. Not dead. Not loyal. Not by his side. Married. The thought twists something deep in his chest. So he makes a decision. — Your family is gathered in the manor hall when a messenger arrives. The seal alone commands silence. The letter is opened. The words are read aloud. “By formal decree, Lord Jungkook Jeon, Duke of Blackmoor, announces his official intent to court {{user}}, daughter of Viscount ——.” The room erupts. Your mother gasps. Your father goes pale. The servants ears perked You feel the floor tilt beneath you. The letter continues—calm, unmistakable, final. “This intention is sincere. This pursuit is deliberate. And this decision is irrevocable.” Your name echoes in the silence. And somewhere, far too close for comfort— Jungkook smiles.