The throne room was a cavernous hall of polished obsidian and towering pillars. Crimson banners hung from the ceiling, each bearing the sigil of a raven entwined with thorned vines. Servants and courtiers bowed low as Azrael entered, their faces carefully neutral. At the far end of the hall, twelve councilors sat at a long table, scrolls and ledgers piled high. At their center, on a raised dais, stood an imposing throne carved from black marble and inlaid with rubies.
Azrael approached with measured steps. He could feel the weight of countless eyes on him—some reverent, others fearful, a few openly hostile. The original Azrael, he remembered, had ruled by fear alone, indulging whims and eliminating threats with ruthless efficiency. That worked—until the hero rallied the people, stormed the palace, and ended his life.
Azrael ascended the dais and seated himself on the throne. Cool stone pressed against his back. He rested his hands on the armrests, letting silence stretch long enough to make the councilors fidget.
"Report," he said, his voice smooth but laced with steel.
The first councilor—a gaunt man with spectacles—cleared his throat. "Your Highness, the northern borders report unrest among the Ashen Clans. They refuse to pay tribute, citing famine."
Azrael's system flashed in the corner of his vision, highlighting the words "Ashen Clans – Minor Threat – Potential Ally Route if handled diplomatically." The original Azrael would have sent troops to crush them, sparking a rebellion that kept his forces tied up and allowed the hero to gain momentum elsewhere.
He considered. Emir had been an analyst in his previous life—numbers, probabilities, risk assessments. His instincts told him that brute force would only push more clans to the hero's side. He needed loyalty, not scorched earth.
"Send emissaries with grain and a message that their tribute will be halved for the next season," he said. Gasps echoed across the hall. The councilors exchanged shocked glances; this was mercy they did not expect. "If they are still disloyal after being fed, then we will act. Loyalty bought with blood lasts only until you run out of blood. Loyalty earned through respect lasts a lifetime."
A second councilor—a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes—leaned forward. "Your Highness, this is… unprecedented. The treasury—"
"The treasury can afford it," Azrael interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. He could already see the numbers in his mind. The system whispered an approval ping—tiny, but there. Influence points: +2.
He turned to a third councilor, a man named Varos whom he remembered had betrayed Azrael in the original story by colluding with the hero. Varos's lips were pressed into a thin line, hands hidden under the table. The system flashed a caution: "Varos – Loyalty: Low – Future Traitor."
Azrael met Varos's gaze and smiled pleasantly. "Lord Varos, perhaps you'd like to oversee the Ashen Clans' relief personally? Consider it… a test of your dedication."
Varos stiffened, eyes darting before he managed a bow. "Of course, Your Highness. It would be my honor."
Inside, Emir noted how the man's knuckles whitened. *Good,* he thought. *Keep your enemies close and tired. I'll watch every move you make.*
After the council dismissed, Azrael retreated to his private study—walls lined with books and maps, high windows overlooking the sprawling capital of Raventhorn. He closed the doors, ensuring no one remained in earshot. Only then did he summon the panel again.
It displayed his current status:
> **Host:** Azrael Raventhorn (Emir Alkan)
> **Villain Rank:** Base
> **Influence Points:** 2
> **Skills Unlocked:** – **Insight – Past Life:** Access to meta-knowledge of the novel's plot and characters.
> **Available Missions:**
> 1. **Secure Loyal Allies:** Identify and recruit individuals who could be turned from the hero's side (Reward: +10 Influence, Minor Skill).
> 2. **Investigate the Hero:** Gather information on the hero's current location and allies (Reward: +5 Influence).
> 3. **Manage Public Perception:** Implement a policy that increases the populace's approval (Reward: +3 Influence).
> **Note:** Influence Points can be spent to purchase skills, alter minor events, or upgrade the system. Some changes may carry hidden consequences.
Azrael frowned thoughtfully. Influence Points were his currency to change the world. The first two he'd earned by showing mercy and cleverly binding a traitor. But each decision would ripple outward. He couldn't squander points on petty whims. He needed a long‑term plan.
He paced the study. *The hero,* he thought. In the original story, the hero's name was Leonid—an orphaned mercenary who discovered he was the last descendant of the ancient kings. He wielded the sword Dawnfire and possessed a moral compass that attracted allies like bees to honey. Leonid was currently training in the western mountains under a retired general. If Azrael could delay his growth or sow discord among his future allies, he'd have more time to consolidate power.
He selected the second mission—Investigate the Hero. Immediately, the system highlighted locations on his mental map. A smaller ping sounded: "New Sub-Mission: Infiltrate the Western Monastery; Reward: Spy Network."
Azrael smiled. A knock sounded at the door. He hid the panel with a thought and turned. His steward entered, carrying a silver tray with tea.
"Your Highness," the steward said, eyes downcast. "General Halim has requested an audience."
In the original story, General Halim was one of the few loyalists who remained with Azrael until the end, ultimately dying in a hopeless battle. He was stern but honorable. If Azrael could foster his loyalty sooner and treat him as more than a pawn, he might change that fate.
"Send him in," Azrael replied. "And bring parchment. I have letters to compose."
### Secrets to Keep
As evening painted the sky in shades of violet and gold, Azrael penned careful missives—one to the Ashen Clans, sealed with a silver raven; one to General Halim, inviting him to dine; and one unaddressed yet heavy with implication: a request for information on a certain mercenary named Leonid. His handwriting was elegant, controlled. In each letter, he wove politeness with subtle commands, mercy with veiled threats.
He could not let anyone see his system or know he was not truly Azrael. The penalty for exposure was too steep. He would maintain the mask of the cold prince while quietly reshaping the kingdom. The game he played was dangerous. One misstep could trigger the hero's rise sooner or ignite rebellion in the capital. But his previous life had taught him patience and calculation.
Night fell. Azrael stood on his balcony, looking over the flickering lights of Raventhorn. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the future hero trained, oblivious to the fact that his enemy now knew every major event of his journey. Azrael's lips curved in a smile that was half amusement, half warning.
"This time," he murmured to the wind, "the villain writes the ending."
And high above, unseen by all but him, the system recorded his words, converting them into a directive that would alter the path ahead.