Riyan's consciousness clawed its way back to the surface like a drowning man breaking through water. His eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright with a strangled gasp, chest heaving as phantom pain lanced through his abdomen—pain that should have been there but wasn't.
His hands flew to his stomach, frantically searching for wounds that didn't exist. No blood. No torn flesh. Just smooth, unblemished skin beneath expensive silk pajamas.
What the fuck?
His heart hammered against his ribs as his eyes darted around the room, trying to make sense of where he was. This wasn't his cramped dormitory. This wasn't a hospital. This was something else entirely.
The room was obscene in its luxury. Gold-leaf patterns traced elaborate designs across walls of deep burgundy. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching the soft glow of ornate lamps positioned throughout the space. The carpet beneath his feet—bare feet, he noticed with growing alarm—was so plush it felt like walking on clouds. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum filled every corner: hand-carved dressers, antique chairs with velvet cushions, a writing desk that probably cost more than his entire year's tuition.
This was wealth beyond anything Riyan had ever experienced. Old money wealth. Aristocratic wealth.
He swung his legs off the bed—a king-sized monstrosity with posts that reached toward the ceiling—and tried to stand. His balance was off. Wrong. He looked down and froze.
These weren't his hands.
The hands he was staring at were smaller, younger, with slender fingers and unblemished skin. He turned them over, examining them in the lamplight as his breath came faster. His arms were thinner too. His whole body felt different—lighter, less developed.
Riyan stumbled toward what he hoped was a mirror, nearly tripping over his own feet because even his stride length was wrong. He found a full-length mirror set in an ornate golden frame and stopped dead.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
It was younger—maybe fifteen or sixteen—with sharp, aristocratic features that would probably be devastating when he got older. Dark black hair fell to his shoulders in a way that should have looked messy but somehow managed to appear artfully tousled. And his eyes—his eyes were red. Not bloodshot, but genuinely crimson, like rubies catching firelight.
"What the hell..." His voice cracked, higher-pitched than it should have been.
Before he could process this impossibility, a spike of agony drove through his skull like a railroad spike. Riyan collapsed, hands clutching his head as he hit the carpet. The pain was blinding, all-consuming, and with it came a flood of memories that weren't his.
A childhood in this very mansion. Parents—a powerful father named Cris Descartes and a beautiful mother named Riya. Two sisters, Syra and Livia, who alternated between doting on him and finding him annoying. A cousin named Ava who visited regularly. Godparents who were influential figures in something called the Mairis family.
Training with weapons he'd never held. Magic—actual fucking magic—coursing through his veins. A world where monsters poured from dimensional rifts called Gates, and Hunters fought them back. An academy named Reyas, the most prestigious institution for training Hunters on the Sera Continent.
And a girl. Fera Starlight. Beautiful, talented, powerful—and completely, utterly uninterested in him. But the original owner of this body had been obsessed with her. Pathetically, embarrassingly obsessed.
The memories kept coming, relentless and merciless, painting a picture of a spoiled young master who had everything handed to him and still managed to fuck it up through sheer stupidity and arrogance.
Riyan Cris Descartes. That was his name now. A villain from—
"No. No, no, no, no, NO."
He forced himself to his knees, then to his feet, swaying as the room spun. This couldn't be happening. This was insane. He'd died. He'd been hit by a truck and then stabbed by a serial killer with a grudge against men of culture. He was supposed to be dead. Not... not this.
The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. The luxurious room. The younger body. The memories of a world with Hunters and Gates and magic.
"Saint's Odyssey." The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "I'm in fucking Saint's Odyssey."
That piece-of-shit novel he'd been reading before he died. The one with the ending so terrible it had sent him to bed furious. The story about Alex Karots, the plucky orphan protagonist who attended Reyas Academy and built up a harem of powerful female Hunters while defeating increasingly dangerous threats.
And Riyan Descartes—the character whose body he now inhabited—was the villain. The pathetic, dog-licking, arrogant young master who spent the entire story simping after Fera Starlight despite her obvious disinterest. Who antagonized the protagonist at every turn for the stupidest reasons. Who ultimately ended up humiliated, broken, and dead in one of the most miserable ways the author could conceive.
"That sadistic bastard," Riyan muttered, remembering his rage at the novel's ending. And now he was trapped in that same story, in the body of a character destined for a fate even worse than the protagonist's.
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both. The irony was so perfect it hurt. He'd cursed the author for being cruel to the main character, and now he was stuck as a side character with an even shittier ending.
A melodic chime suddenly rang through his mind, pure and clear as a bell.
[Ding!]
Riyan froze. That sound hadn't come from outside. It had resonated inside his head, bypassing his ears entirely.
Words appeared in his vision, floating in the air like a video game interface that only he could see. Glowing blue text arranged itself in neat lines:
[The Villain Conquest System has Activated!]
For a long moment, Riyan just stared at the message. Then, despite everything—despite the death, the reincarnation, the body-swapping, the doomed future—a grin slowly spread across his face.
A system. Of course there was a system. Every isekai protagonist got one. Granted, he was technically the villain, not the protagonist, but he'd take what he could get.
[Villain Conquest System's mission is to help the host conquer this world and prevent the host from making idiotic mistakes typical of villains]
[The host will encounter Choices at pivotal points in the plot. Rewards will be based on the choices made. Complete tasks given by the system to obtain corresponding rewards.]
[The host can plunder the opportunities, luck, status, and resources of the original protagonist to earn Points. These Points increase the host's power and can be used to purchase items from the System Store.]
[System Inventory available for storage of any items.]
Riyan's mind raced as he absorbed the information. This changed everything. He wasn't just some doomed villain anymore. He had a tool, a weapon, a way to rewrite his fate.
He knew how this story went. He'd read the damn thing. He knew every plot point, every major event, every opportunity the protagonist would stumble into through sheer luck and plot armor. And now he could steal them all.
Alex Karots was going to have a very different experience than the original novel depicted.
"Alright," Riyan said aloud, his voice steadier now. "I'm not going to be that pathetic dog-licker from the novel. I'm not going to waste my time chasing after some girl who doesn't want me. And I'm sure as hell not going to let some orphan protagonist take everything that should be mine."
The system chimed again.
[Since the host has understood the system's functions, a Newbie Package is available.]
[Would you like to open it?]
Riyan's grin widened, taking on a edge that the original Riyan Descartes had never possessed. The old Riyan had been stupid, arrogant, and blinded by obsession. But he was different. He'd lived another life. He knew what was coming. And he had no intention of following the script.
He'd plunder every opportunity meant for Alex. He'd crush that protagonist's plot armor into dust. He'd claim the resources, the power, the advantages that the story had lined up for that naive orphan.
And maybe—just maybe—he'd enjoy watching that sadistic author's carefully constructed narrative collapse into chaos.
"Open it," Riyan commanded, his red eyes gleaming with anticipation in the lamplight. "Let's see what you've got for me."