In a lavishly appointed chamber, a young man with hair the color of spun gold stood before a mirror framed in gold leaf and studded with sapphires. The floor was covered by a thick carpet woven from the fleece of Northern antelope, muffling his every move.
His bearing was noble, his features handsome. He wore a fine black wool tunic beneath the stately regalia of a Count, a belt of rhinoceros-horn crocodile leather cinched neatly at his waist. On his chest, the family crest—a roaring lion's head rendered in gold thread—was emblazoned.
This was the man who had once been Alexander, but for twenty years now, he had been Alistair of House Goldlion. Today was his investiture, the moment he would officially become the Lord of Frostfell.
Standing before the mirror, Alistair admired his own dashing reflection, unable to resist a moment of narcissism.
"Second son of House Goldlion, Star of the Empire, the youngest Count in the realm, favored disciple of the late Sword Saint…" Any one of these titles was the stuff of a protagonist's legend.
And handsome, to boot…
"From this day forward, I am the Lord of Frostfell," he murmured to his reflection. "I must make a good impression on my people… And most importantly, I pray the players never arrive…"
This was not an idle fear. He'd had memories of his past life since he was four years old.
Every detail of his current existence—his name, his family, his legendary swordmaster—matched those of a minor boss from a 100% full-dive VR game he had once played. The very boss whose death had triggered the curse that ultimately claimed his life.
In the sixteen years since, Alistair had never been able to determine whether the game had been just a game, or a window into another reality. If it was just a game, why had its curse killed him?
In my past life, the players arrived just after Alistair Goldlion's investiture ceremony, he reasoned silently. There's been no sign of them in this world so far. Maybe they're not coming at all.
He had clung to that hope, meticulously planning for this day, even delaying the ceremony by nearly half a year.
…
Dong… Dong… Dong—
The deep toll of a bell echoed from the clocktower, marking the ninth hour. The resonant sound sent a flock of white doves scattering into the cloudless sky.
The investiture ceremony had begun.
Bathed in the sound of the bells, Alistair stepped out of the chamber, his head held high and a confident smile on his face.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATING!]
A sudden, synthetic voice blared in his mind.
[ACTIVATION COMPLETE. THE ULTIMATE VILLAIN SYSTEM HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY INSTALLED.]
Alistair froze mid-stride, the confident smile on his face stiffening into a brittle mask. All he wanted was for this ceremony to conclude without a hitch so he could settle into his new life. But it seemed fate had other plans. The unexpected had arrived.
A system? No, I don't need a system. Get away from me! His mind recoiled in horror, but outwardly, he could only maintain his strained smile and continue his procession. The servants lining the hall gazed at him with reverence, marveling at their new lord's youth and power, oblivious to the storm of panic raging within him.
[Host's psychological resistance detected. Unbind System? Y/N?]
Yes! Get out of my head immediately! I'm warning you, binding to a host without consent is a violation of basic sentient rights!
[Alert! The players will arrive tomorrow. As a being fated to die within the established destiny, are you certain you wish to unbind this System?]
The players are arriving tomorrow? Alistair's mind went blank. His scheme of delaying the investiture for half a year had been utterly pointless.
While he was reeling, the System spoke again.
[Host has defaulted to unbinding. Unbinding in progress…]
Wait! Hold on! Alistair shouted mentally. First, explain what you mean by 'fated to die.'
[As a minor boss within the game's narrative, the Host cannot escape the eventual outcome of being killed by players. This was the destiny of Alistair Goldlion, and it is your destiny. Your only hope of survival is with this System's aid.]
Alistair couldn't help but let out a cold, internal laugh. He didn't believe it for a second.
In the game, Alistair Goldlion was killed not just because he was a boss, but because he was a monster. The original Alistair had been a paragon of cruelty and lust. During his time as Lord of Frostfell, his evil was legendary. He butchered his own people, defiled the beastkin saintess, Lena, and even forced captured beastkin women to serve him naked within his castle. His name alone was a whispered horror.
Crucially, the beastkin saintess Lena was also the primary quest-giver for new players.
Tragedy, as they say, is the act of destroying something beautiful for all to see. When the beloved saintess was abducted and violated, countless players formed a massive raid. They swarmed the castle and, through sheer numbers, buried Alistair Goldlion under a mountain of bodies. Among that horde, Alexander's luck had been the best—he had landed the final blow.
He just never imagined that killing the boss would lead to his own death and subsequent reincarnation as the infant Alistair.
The original lord's quick demise was directly linked to his depravity. But he was Alexander, a fundamentally decent person. He hadn't committed any of the original Alistair's atrocities, and he had no intention of repeating them.
System, go ahead and unbind, Alistair commanded coolly, his composure returning. As a lord, I'll have countless opportunities to build goodwill with these newcomers. Your 'fated death' scenario won't happen.
[Has the Host ever heard of the corrective effect of the World-Line? For instance, despite your efforts, you have still become the Lord of Frostfell and are about to be invested.]
The System's words struck him like a bolt of lightning. A cold dread washed over him, and his face paled. He remembered the curse from twenty years ago, the unyielding finality of it.
According to the lore of Continent of Destiny, this fiefdom was a gift from Alistair's father, Duke Dorian. In this life, Alistair had explicitly refused it. He had fought and schemed to win a different territory for himself, his only thought being that if he wasn't in Frostfell, history couldn't repeat itself.
And yet, through a cascade of unforeseen events and bizarre accidents, Duke Dorian had granted him Frostfell anyway. Why, after a series of improbable coincidences, had he ended up here? Why had the major beats of his life remained completely unchanged?
Is this the so-called World-Line correction? A new version of Final Destination?
So, System, he asked mentally, can you change the World-Line?
[This System cannot directly alter the World-Line. However, this System is undetectable by it. The Host can use this System to increase his own power, influence the currents of destiny, and avert his fated death.]
Is that so…
Alistair frowned. He didn't trust the System for a second, but the players' arrival felt inevitable. The System had no reason to lie about that. His only chance of surviving the coming storm was to use this tool.
Fine. Bind with me.
There was always a way forward. He would see if this System could truly change his destiny. As he made the decision, a sliver of anticipation bloomed within him.
[ALRIGHTY THEN! THE ULTIMATE VILLAIN SYSTEM BINDING COMPLETE!]
After the binding, Alistair could have sworn the cold, synthetic voice had taken on a disturbingly cheerful tone.
[Now, allow me to introduce the Host to our services!]
[The Host must complete a series of narrative quests. For example: defile the saintess, attack Silversky Town to slaughter players, collect beastkin slave girls, and other villainous tasks. Completing these quests will grant narrative rewards and dramatically increase your personal power.]
[Additionally, this System will randomly generate a series of daily villainous tasks. Completion will grant access to the System's lottery function.]
[Alert! Now issuing anti—]
System, you're insane! Alistair cut it off, his face darkening with every word. If I do the same depraved things the last lord did, won't I die even faster?
[Refusing quests will result in no rewards. Based on this path, the System projects three possible futures for the Host.]
[Outcome One: You are killed by players, who will then cut off your genitals to display as a trophy.]
[Outcome Two: You are gender-swapped into a female.]
[Outcome Three: The Host dies, and the System finds a new one.]