The first thing I felt was the smell.
It wasn't the smell of my apartment—dust, cheap ramen, and stale air. It was the smell of Sterile Luxury. Ozone, cold lilies, and something metallic that made the back of my throat itch.
I opened my eyes and immediately squeezed them shut. The ceiling was glowing. Not with a lightbulb, but with shifting, holographic gold patterns that danced across a surface of black obsidian.
I'm dreaming, I thought. A very vivid, very expensive dream.
I tried to move my arm, but it felt like it was encased in lead. My heart was thumping against my ribs with a violent, rhythmic force that made my vision swim.
"Master Vesperian? Your vitals are stabilizing. The medical droids have cleared you for discharge."
The voice was cool, melodic, and held a razor-sharp edge of boredom.
I forced my eyes open again. Beside the bed stood a woman who looked like she'd been sculpted from moonlight and spite. Lyra Nox. I recognized her. Not from my life, but from a screen. She was a character in a webnovel I'd been reading just an hour ago.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
"No," I croaked. My voice was different. Deep. Arrogant. Even in pain, it sounded like a command.
"I beg your pardon?" Lyra's violet eyes narrowed.
"This... this isn't right." I sat up, the world spinning. I looked at my hands. They were pale, long-fingered, and covered in intricate, glowing silver bandages. On my right wrist, a geometric tattoo hummed with a faint, blue light—the Ducal Crest of House Malakor.
A cold, oily dread began to pool in my stomach. Denial wasn't a choice; it was a reflex.
"Where is my phone?" I grabbed the front of Lyra's uniform, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "Where is the city? This is a set, right? A prank? Who paid for this?"
Lyra didn't flinch. She simply removed my hand from her sleeve with the practiced ease of a professional. "You hit your head during the duel with the scholarship student, Vesperian. It seems your sense of reality has suffered more than your pride."
"Duel? Arthurian?"
The name felt like a spark in a powder keg. Images flashed in my mind—a golden-haired boy, a fist glowing with light, and the feeling of my own ribs snapping as I was sent flying into a mana-conductor.
Vesperian Malakor.The Young Master of the Malakor Ducal House.The stepping stone who dies in Chapter 14 to show the Hero's 'growth.'
"No! I refuse!" I swung my legs out of the bed, my feet hitting the cold marble floor. "I am not him! I have a job! I have a life!"
I stumbled toward a floor-to-ceiling window. As I looked out, the denial in my chest turned into a scream that I couldn't let out.
Neo-Aetheria.
Massive, floating spires pierced the clouds. Space-elevators stretched into the blackness above like silver umbilical cords. Flying transports hummed between the buildings, and far below, the "Slums" glowed with a sickly, neon-green miasma.
This was the world of The Seven Heavens. A world of futuristic tech and conceptual Laws.
And I was the villain.
"Master Vesperian, you are making a scene," Lyra said behind me. "The Duke is already displeased. If you continue this... performance... he will follow through with the threat of enlistment."
I didn't hear her. I was staring at my reflection in the glass.
The face looking back was beautiful. Terribly, cruelly beautiful. High cheekbones, obsidian eyes, and a mouth that looked like it was born to sneer.
I'm trapped, I thought. I'm in a body that everyone hates, in a world that is programmed to kill me.
A soft, hysterical laugh escaped my lips.
"Vesperian?" Lyra's voice held a flicker of genuine concern—or perhaps just confusion. She had spent five years as my shadow, watching me bully, preen, and fail. She knew a Vesperian who was a narcissist, but she didn't know a Vesperian who was a ghost.
"I'm fine, Lyra," I said, my voice trembling as I tried to force the "me" back into the "him."
I walked back to the bed and sat down, burying my face in my hands. The smell of the lilies was making me dizzy.
Pragmatism, I told myself. If this is real, I have to think. If I'm the Duke's son, I have power. If I'm a villain, I have resources. But Arthurian... Arthurian has the Script.
I looked at the glowing bandages on my hands. I could feel it now—a cold, heavy weight in the center of my chest. It wasn't mana. It felt like a void.
"Lyra," I said, looking up at her. My eyes were wide, and for the first time in our history, I wasn't looking down at her. I was looking at her. "Tell me the truth. How much time do I have before the World Academy entrance exams?"
Lyra blinked, stunned by the sudden change in my tone. "One year, Master. This is your final year at the Malakor High Academy. Why do you ask? You've spent the last three years saying the exams were a 'formality' for someone of your status."
"The status is a lie," I whispered, a dark, jagged smile finally breaking through the panic.
If I was going to be the villain, I wasn't going to be a "stepping stone." I was going to be the wall that the Hero breaks his hands against.
"Pack my things, Lyra. We're going home. I have a lot of... composing... to do."
Lyra stared at me, her violet eyes searching my face for the familiar arrogance. She found it, but it was different. It was colder. More focused.
"As you wish, Master Vesperian," she said, bowing low.
I stood up, my legs finally steady. The denial was still there, a dull ache in the back of my mind, but the pragmatism was winning.
I didn't have a plan. I didn't have the "Hero's Luck."
But I had the Malakor fortune, a year of time, and the soul of a man who had already seen how the story was supposed to end.
"Let's see if the stars can handle an edit," I thought, walking out of the room.