Everyone left the room after greeting, leaving Orlax alone, sitting and thinking about everything that had happened in such a short time.
"Alright… I suddenly got transported into the world of this game without any clear reason. On top of that, I've become Orlax Tirshtain, the infamous villain. But luckily for me, this bastard has some crazy traits. I can live in this world easily."
A faint smile appeared on his lips as he stood up from the chair and glanced at the mirror in the room.
In front of him stood a figure with hair as black as the night sky and crimson eyes that looked as if they were forged from blood.
He possessed an incredibly handsome face—enough to enchant anyone who looked at him.
"Wow… this bastard is ridiculously handsome."
Orlax grabbed his chin, admiring the finely sculpted features in the reflection.
After nodding in satisfaction, he stepped away from the mirror and walked to a window at the far end of the room.
There, he looked outside—and was slightly stunned by the beauty of the scene.
The bright sun cast its rays over the vast garden that stretched out before him.
The place he currently resided in was the palace of the Imperial Family—a location with a history spanning over three thousand years.
The view extended far into the distance until he finally saw the massive walls encircling the colossal palace.
Taking a deep breath, he focused on the edge of his vision, where a glowing mark flickered.
A translucent blue screen appeared before him, displaying his stats.
"Hmm? What's this? A curse?"
When he focused on it, a smaller window popped up to the side with a short description:
[Cursed: You have been cursed by your mother upon her death. Because of this, the player will enter a berserk state every thirty days for six hours.]
"Wonderful… things could've been worse, I guess."
A mocking smile tugged at his lips as he thought about the future awaiting him.
Suddenly, all the screens vanished, replaced by a new one:
[Do you wish to restore this body's memories?]
"Phew… at least now I can find out what kind of person Orlax used to be. Yes."
As soon as he spoke, the screen disappeared. For a moment, nothing happened.
"Hmm? Did it fail to resto—"
"Aghhh!"
Before he could finish, a wave of unbearable pain crashed over him, forcing him to clutch his head as a torrent of information poured into his mind, threatening to burn it from within.
"Ghh… my head!"
The pain dragged on for an unmeasurable time before it finally began to subside.
After a few moments, Orlax regained his composure and opened his eyes.
But instead of the same gaze he had before, a darker, colder look now gleamed in his crimson irises.
With the restored memories came a heavy darkness deep within him.
"So… this is what your life was like, Orlax Tirshtain. I pity you."
His voice was cold and detached—nothing like it had been just moments ago.
"These memories have affected me deeply… but I still retain my original self."
Clenching his fist, he could feel the immense power flowing through him.
"It's as if I could do anything right now."
In this world, strength was classified by the path a person followed.
For swordsmen, the ranks were: Beginner → Intermediate → Advanced → Graduate.
These were the basic stages—the so-called "prelude to true strength" in the game.
Above them came Half-Master and Master—a level of power beyond human limits.
Anyone who reached these ranks commanded respect wherever they went and were considered some of the strongest beings in the world.
Above even them was the rank everyone dreamed of reaching—Grandmaster.
Only a handful had ever attained it in the history of the world, and at present, only four people held that title.
For mages, the ranks were similar, with slight differences in terminology.
"Phew… I'm currently at Master level. My strength is already high, but in five years, I'll reach Grandmaster and become the fifth person to attain it."
Finishing his thoughts, Orlax headed to the door and stepped outside.
He walked through the now-familiar corridors—thanks to the original Orlax's memories.
As he passed, the maids and servants watched him with a mixture of fear and unease, yet they still bowed respectfully.
Ignoring them, he continued until he reached a staircase leading downward.
He descended slowly, lost in thought about what he should do next.
'I could simply live as the old Orlax did, wait for the hero and his companions to attack in five years, and then kill them…'
'…Or I could change everything and create the future I want. A future where no one hates me.'
The second option felt a little foolish—but the truth was, Orlax was already one of the most hated people alive.
Because of his physical traits—black hair and red eyes—he had been despised from birth.
There was a reason for this hatred: three thousand years ago, a demon almost brought ruin to the entire world.
That demon had black hair and crimson eyes.
Since then, anyone with those traits was seen as a living embodiment of the devil—shunned and discriminated against by the world.
'The original Orlax actually had a dream… to start a family, live happily with them, and change this cruel world that had tormented him since childhood.'
The stairs ended, revealing a long hallway lined with doors on both sides.
Each door was guarded by a soldier standing at attention.
"Family, huh… what a ridiculous thing. Why would you need a family when you can enjoy all this wealth and power?"
Even before he had been transported into this body, he had grown up an orphan—with no parents or family to speak of. To him, the idea of a family wasn't something worth longing for.
'Didn't you see how your family hurt you? How they made you suffer all these years? Why go through that again?'
Shaking his head, Orlax pushed those thoughts away and continued walking down the long hallway.
Each time he passed a guard, they bowed respectfully before returning to their post.
'They're nothing but puppets created through magic and technology. They've been guarding this place for over a thousand years.'
The information surfaced in his mind the moment he wondered who they were.
Losing interest, he walked on until he reached the end of the corridor.
There stood a massive door, flanked by two guards—unlike the others.
The moment they saw him, their bodies moved, opening the heavy door with a loud creak.
Inside was a modestly sized room—small compared to the rest of the palace.
The room was almost empty, except for a table in the center.
On the table rested a ring, adorned with a black-and-violet gemstone.
Orlax approached and studied it closely, admiration in his eyes.
"The Lovanir Ring… over four thousand years old. A relic of which only one exists in the world."
But its true value was not in its appearance or age—it was in what it represented.
"This ring symbolizes the Emperor's authority. Once the current Emperor dies, it returns to this place to await its next bearer."
Raising his right hand, Orlax picked up the ring.
The moment he touched it, a strange feeling washed over him—an uncanny sense of familiarity.
He slipped it onto the little finger of his right hand and gave it a brief glance.
"From this day forward… I am Orlax Tirshtain, Emperor of the Tirshtain Empire."