Kyouya gripped the cold marble wall tightly, desperately forcing back the hard rejection against the inner essence that had just surged to the surface. He was the intruder soul, now trapped inside someone else's body. Right when the layers of his internal isolation were about to shatter in a vague panic attack, voices from the outside world broke through.
"Young Master?"
The hesitant footsteps belonged to Satella. It was Fillion, Darion's temporary personal servant—not his official one—who stepped forward with an expression full of internalized anxiety and fear. Fillion was a regular victim of Darion's treatment, yet he was bound by a strange loyalty to the Villiers family's Head Maid. Behind him, Satella walked unsteadily, pressing her bleeding hand against the wound.
Kyouya, who had just experienced the terrifying shift of inner control, forced the small Darion body to turn. He quickly recreated the cold, arrogant mask he had seen in the mirror earlier—a defense mechanism Kyouya had learned alarmingly fast.
"I'm fine," his voice came out arrogant and piercing, laced with deadly calm. "Fillion, take care of Mother's hand immediately."
He didn't spare Satella a glance—not even at the wound—his cold gaze fixed solely on Fillion, as though the servant were nothing more than a soulless tool. Kyouya had concealed the truth by issuing an irrefutable command. If they realized he wasn't Darion… who knew what would happen.
"Summon the family's *Solbringer* and make sure this blood is cleaned up. I will return to my room alone to rest. And don't you dare disturb me."
*Solbringer — the northern continent's term for paladins.
Without waiting for a reply, Darion—now controlled by Kyouya—turned and ascended the stairs. In his eyes, Kyouya simply wanted to escape the threatening voice still whispering in his head; in the servants' eyes, it was merely the classic arrogance of a furious young master.
The bedroom door closed with a firm click—a decisive severance from the outside world. Kyouya collapsed onto the grand bed that felt like a golden trap, gasping for breath, his body demanding full control. But he was already too late.
The headache struck—not as an ordinary throb, but as a blunt saw grinding against his skull.
"You pathetic bastard. You're just a pitiful piece of trash." Darion's voice rumbled, carrying emotional contamination. "Just because you've seen my story doesn't mean I give you permission to steal my life!"
The sudden, hammering pain felt like foreign memories forcibly injected into the core of Kyouya's mind. Darion's memories—now spilling out distorted—triggered unbearable agony.
His father's voice echoed, sharp and belittling. "Come to me when you're ready. Don't waste time on useless things. You're still weak."
Young Darion growled inwardly, the fire of ambition burning away the last remnants of his humanity. "I will become stronger, Father. Far beyond you."
The memories continued: frustration in the training arena, the intensity of his sword practice feeling hollow. His guards refused his demands, afraid of injuring the young heir. "I'm sorry, Young Master. We cannot train too seriously with you. We still value our lives, and we cannot take you into dungeon expeditions yet. You're not yet fifteen," one guard said cautiously.
Darion slammed his sword down. "So what, huh? I'm tired of playing with stray dogs that neither bark nor bite!"
Then came more memories—insults that had to be repaid in blood. Another voice screamed in rage, "Your cruelty has gone too far!"
Darion's face at that moment was filled with cold laughter. "So what? She came to me herself, so she needs to learn the consequences. If you pity her so much, then save her. But you won't, will you? Because you know she doesn't want to be saved. Haha!"
Darion's memories flooded in, piece by piece. Each fragment displayed arrogance, a thirst for power, and cruelty born of frustration—making Kyouya's head feel like it was being crushed as he struggled to hold back the tidal wave of memories from drowning his consciousness.
The body trembled violently, overwhelmed by two consciousnesses warring for central control. The small Darion body finally fainted, collapsing powerlessly onto the Persian carpet beside the bed.
•••
When Kyouya's awareness returned, he felt empty air and a choking pressure around his throat.
He lay in the middle of an endless darkness, lit only by dim purple glow—an inner subconscious now turned battlefield. The body he inhabited was his original one: the thin, exhausted thirty-seven-year-old man in a shabby office uniform.
Above him, the child Darion Valdis Villiers gripped his throat. Darion grinned, his eyes radiating deadly nebula darkness.
"Die, you pest bastard," Darion hissed.
"Ghk! L-let go!" Kyouya clawed at the small hand, panic surging. Dying once was enough—dying twice in this dimension, and at the hands of a pre-pubescent boy, was the ultimate humiliation!
Kyouya managed to shove him away, relying purely on the physical strength difference between an adult and a child. He quickly stood, creating distance.
Clang!
Darion drew the same silver sword, now materializing from nowhere in their shared subconscious. "You think you can face me just because of our size difference? I've been trained to kill since my first teeth grew in!"
Darion leaped nimbly, swinging horizontally. Kyouya, slow and stiff, barely dodged. The slash tore a stinging gash in his uniform. With agile grace, Darion kicked Kyouya's leg, sending him crashing down.
"So slow. Why should I share a body with a fragile creature like you?" Darion sneered, thrusting quickly toward Kyouya's stomach.
Kyouya rolled aside, feeling the cold blade pass mere inches from his skin. He knew this wouldn't be easy—even though logic dictated he should have the advantage, The Law of Fantasy only complicated everything. He had to use what he had.
I need something to defend myself… But he's only twelve, a faint whisper of empathy rose in Kyouya's mind. He looked at the boy before him. Even if only a soul manifestation, Darion still looked like a child. Pointing an effective weapon at a child's face felt… wrong.
But Darion gave no time for moral hesitation. With violet eyes blazing with pure hatred and killing intent far beyond his age, the boy shouted, "Don't waste my time, parasite! Die!"
"Hey hey, I'm not ready—woah!"
Darion's raw aggression and genuine cruelty instantly burned away every last shred of doubt in Kyouya's heart. This wasn't a child—this was the 'Villain' fighting to reclaim his will.
Fine then—don't blame me. This is an inner war, not babysitting!
Kyouya leaped back, focusing his mind on one thing: firearms.
Kyouya had once worked at a company specializing in First-Person Shooter (FPS) games. Structures, designs, mechanics of guns—everything neatly stored in his memory.
VROOOM!
An assault rifle with a thick scope suddenly formed in his hands. In this subconscious realm, it felt real—heavy, balanced.
"What strange weapon is that…" Darion halted, confused. His known world only had swords, bows, spears, and other primitive fantasy tools.
"You like playing with swords? I like playing with instant death," Kyouya grinned—a cold smirk he stole straight from Darion himself, mocking him.
"Hah, this bastard. You think I'm scared of your weird toy? Come at me."
Kyouya fired the rifle at the ground beside Darion's feet.
TRATATAT!
The deafening gunfire, small explosions, sent darkness-shards flying. Darion flinched—shocked like a cat startled by a cucumber—by the power and noise he had never faced. A chain of bullets rained toward him, forcing him to defend and retreat. He parried bullets with his sword.
"Damn your weird magic toy!" Darion growled, eyes blazing. He tried to visualize countless flaming swords—attempting to manifest basic magic from his world—but Kyouya was faster.
Kyouya swapped weapons. In an instant, an over-the-top giant bazooka appeared on his shoulder.
"This isn't just magic—this is the art of physics!" Kyouya shouted, pulling the trigger and firing straight along the path of the incoming swords.
BOOOM!
The explosion created a sonic shockwave—an assault on the very essence of their souls. The bazooka obliterated most of the flying swords heading toward Kyouya; the rest embedded themselves around him. Darion was slightly thrown back by the force. For the first time, his face showed something besides arrogance: absolute shock.
"You… impossible… what the hell is that thing?"
Kyouya advanced, bazooka still on his shoulder. "I may be pathetic, but in here, I might just be your worst nightmare. Please—just give up and cooperate with me. My only goal is to find a way home, okay?"
Darion tried to rise, violet eyes blazing with uncontrollable rage. He was determined to break free with the power of his will, to reclaim what should rightfully be his.
"Nonsense. Defeat isn't in my dictionary. I won't lose to you, parasite!"
Right as young Darion began visualizing magic from his world, something else happened.
Clang! Clang!
From the darkness above, thick white chains—engraved with terrifying ancient runes—suddenly descended. The chains weren't Kyouya's creation. They appeared from nowhere, yet wrapped tightly around young Darion, binding him from head to toe. The chains felt cold and impenetrable—like a spiritual seal forged from a higher will.
Darion's face paled, shocked by the sudden binding force. He struggled, but the chains somehow felt more real and powerful than anything he could imagine.
Kyouya, initially confused, quickly seized the opportunity. He didn't care where the chains came from. What mattered was that he had the victory he needed.
Plot armor at the perfect time… weird, but thank goodness.
Kyouya stood over Darion, manifesting a pistol that appeared from nothingness. He pointed the barrel at the boy's face.
"This is your defeat, kid. Just accept it," Kyouya said, his tone now cold. "Until we can compromise, you stay right here—got it?"
Young Darion hissed, arrogance still intact despite being bound. "You… you'll ruin everything! I won't forget this humiliation! I'll kill you, you insolent bastard!"
Kyouya ignored him. He focused his mind, isolating the corner where chained Darion lay—locking him inside a dome of darkness. Though he suspected it would be futile; the boy would surely find another way to break free eventually.
Kyouya had officially become the dominant consciousness in the young master's body. The arrogant soul of Darion was imprisoned in the depths of his own mind, waiting for the moment to free itself.
Yet Kyouya had to admit—the experience had been thrilling and bizarre, with tiny clues he was beginning to notice.
Darion couldn't hear my thoughts here, but he could when I was controlling the body and he wasn't present. So that's how it works… I need to start being careful and find a way to separate from him, at least temporarily. This is fantasy—nothing's impossible, right? There has to be a way… Weird. My memories are unclear and it feels like I'm forgetting something important… what was it?
•••
On the other side, time had passed.
Fillion had disobeyed Darion's order not to disturb him—as he usually did. Fillion had grown accustomed to teetering on the edge of death at any moment thanks to Darion. But instead of finding daggers or glassware thrown at him (which he always managed to dodge), he found Darion lying unconscious on the carpet in his room. Panicked for his perpetually threatened life, Fillion assumed it was the aftermath of the intense sword training Darion had been pushing lately—a brutal routine enforced by the Villiers family system.
Though initially skeptical—thinking it might be another dangerous prank—Fillion eventually lifted the powerless Darion onto the bed and summoned the family's Solbringer, who arrived promptly to examine the young master.
After checking, the Solbringer confirmed the body was fine—Darion had merely suffered a reaction to some poison, causing temporary exhaustion and paralysis.
Night fell. In the vast bedroom, Satella Villiers sat beside the bed. She had rushed over after tending her wound. Her already pale face now looked exhausted. Her entire focus was on the small figure sleeping soundly.
Satella clasped her gentle hands, gazing at Darion's face. Under the dim light of the crystal lamp, her son's face looked peaceful—no trace of the usual cynicism he radiated.
"My Rion…"
She closed her eyes, praying silently, whispering into the void. Not a prayer for power or glory, but a simple, pure prayer from a mother.
"O Goddess Cassiarey, protect my child from this world. Protect him from the darkness that rules this house. And please—please soften his little heart."
Satella didn't know. Her prayer had been answered—in the most ironic and unexpected way possible.
Behind Darion's closed eyelids, an exhausted office worker had just won the inner civil war and seized control of the Villain's fate.
To be continued.