[Please wait...]
[Ding!]
The notifications appeared in Riyan's vision like cracks splitting across glass—sharp, invasive, undeniable.
[4 Processing Serums obtained!]
[SS+ Affinity with Darkness obtained!]
[Unique Title "The Annihilator" obtained!]
[SS Rank Talent Spear Saint obtained!]
[S+ Rank Talent Adaptation obtained!]
[A+ Rank Talent Photographic Memory obtained!]
Riyan stared at the blue interface floating before his eyes, his expression unreadable. His heart didn't race. His breath didn't quicken. Instead, a cold satisfaction settled into his chest like ice forming over still water.
This was power. Real, tangible power. The kind that could be wielded like a blade against the throat of destiny itself.
He sat up in the oversized bed, the silk sheets sliding off his shoulders. The room around him was obscenely luxurious—mahogany furniture, velvet curtains, magical lighting crystals that cast a soft golden glow. Everything screamed wealth, privilege, excess. The original Riyan Descartes had lived his entire pathetic life drowning in comfort while accomplishing nothing.
That ended now.
"Status," Riyan commanded, his voice flat and measured.
The blue interface expanded, displaying information that confirmed what he already suspected:
[Status
Host Name: Riyan Cris Descartes
Charm: A-
Strength: C+
Speed: B-
Endurance: D-
Mana: A-
Aura: C-
Current Rank: C-
Talents:
S+ Rank Child of the Mana
Unique Rank Dual Energy User
A+ Rank Photographic Memory
S+ Rank Adaptation
SS Rank Spear Saint
Affinity:
S+ Rank Fire
SS+ Rank Darkness
Curse: Destiny's Curse and Curse of the Villain
Age: 15 years
Race: Half Asura and Human
Titles: Prince of Qara City, Asura Prince, Young Master of Descartes Family, Young Master of Mairis Family, Talented Inspiring Hunter, King of Dog Lickers, and The Annihilator
Inventory: 4 Processing Serums
Former Obsession: Fera Starlight
Identity: A Brainless Dog Licking Villain of the Novel "Saint's Odyssey"
Remark: Worst Simp and Dumb Character]
Riyan's jaw tightened at the remark section. King of Dog Lickers. The system wasn't subtle about the original owner's reputation. Every interaction, every humiliating moment where this fool had debased himself for a woman who saw him as less than dirt—all of it was recorded in the memories now lodged in his skull like shrapnel.
He pushed the irritation down. Emotion without purpose was wasted energy.
The stats themselves were mediocre. C-rank at fifteen wasn't terrible, but it wasn't exceptional either. In this world, noble children with resources often hit B-rank by this age. The original Riyan had squandered his potential chasing after Fera Starlight instead of training properly.
But those talents. Those were different.
Spear Saint. A weapon mastery talent at SS rank. That meant his body would adapt to spear techniques faster than any normal practitioner. Muscle memory, spatial awareness, killing intent—all of it would develop at an accelerated rate.
Adaptation. S+ rank meant his body and mind would evolve to overcome obstacles. Poison resistance, environmental adaptation, learning curves that bent in his favor. It was survival made systematic.
Photographic Memory. A+ rank. Perfect recall of anything he saw, read, or experienced. Combined with Adaptation, it meant he could study techniques once and refine them through practice at impossible speed.
And that Darkness affinity at SS+ rank. In a world where most Hunters had one elemental affinity at B or A rank if they were lucky, this was a weapon. Darkness wasn't just shadow manipulation—it was entropy, corrosion, the antithesis of life itself. Properly developed, it could devour energy, corrode defenses, and kill without leaving evidence.
Riyan's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. The Goddess of Annihilation had armed him well.
[Host, there is a letter for you from the Goddess of Annihilation]
[Would you like to open it?]
"Open it."
Text unfurled across his vision, written in script that seemed to pulse with malice:
[Riyan,
I am the Goddess of Annihilation who brought you to this world and provided this system. Don't worry about control—the system is entirely yours to command. I know how much you despise this world and that bitch of an author.
My only task and mission for you is to conquer this world like a true Villain.
Here is information you'll need: Alex is the main Son of Destiny, but there are other minor Children of Destiny scattered throughout this world. As you are naturally a Villain, the God of Destiny and Heaven has placed curses on you to prevent your rise. You cannot use the title "The Annihilator" that I've given you—you're too weak currently.
I have great expectations for you. Good luck.]
Riyan read the message twice, his mind dissecting every implication.
So this wasn't random chance. He'd been selected. Pulled from death and dropped into this world by a goddess with her own vendetta against the author who'd created it. The thought should have disturbed him—being a pawn in a divine game—but instead, he felt only cold satisfaction.
A goddess who hated the author as much as he did. Who wanted him to succeed as a villain. Who'd given him tools to defy the narrative itself.
He could work with that.
But those curses. Destiny's Curse and Curse of the Villain. He'd noticed them in his status, inert but present. Shackles forged by the God of Destiny to ensure he played his role—to lose, to suffer, to be crushed beneath the protagonist's righteous boot.
The God of Destiny wanted him to fail. To follow the script that ended with his humiliation and death at Alex's hands.
Something cold and vicious uncoiled in Riyan's chest.
"They cursed me to keep me down?" His voice was quiet, controlled, but there was an edge to it like frozen steel. "Then I'll make them regret it. Every obstacle they place in my path, I'll turn into a weapon. Every advantage they give their precious protagonist, I'll strip away and claim for myself."
But anger was useless without direction. He needed to think.
His eyes drifted to the inventory display. Four Processing Serums. According to the system description that appeared when he focused on them, they were biological stabilizers—designed to purge accumulated toxins and stabilize a body undergoing rapid evolutionary changes.
Riyan frowned. Why would he need stabilizers?
Then understanding clicked into place. The talents. The affinity boost. His body hadn't just received new abilities—it had been rewritten at a fundamental level. Mana pathways expanded. Muscle fibers reinforced. Neural connections rewired to accommodate perfect recall and accelerated learning.
That kind of change didn't come without cost. The human body—even a half-Asura one—wasn't designed to handle such radical alteration. Without stabilization, the process could cause systemic failure. Organ damage. Neurological degradation. Or at the very least, violent physical rejection of the changes.
The serums were insurance. A way to make sure his new weapons didn't destroy their wielder.
Riyan pulled all four vials from his inventory without hesitation. They materialized in his hands—slender crystal containers filled with liquid that looked like mercury mixed with oil, dark and viscous. The glass was cold against his palm.
He uncorked the first vial and drank it in one swift motion.
The effect was immediate and brutal.
Heat detonated in his stomach like a grenade, spreading through his torso in waves of searing agony. Riyan's hand clenched around the empty vial hard enough to crack the glass. His teeth ground together, jaw locked tight to keep from making a sound.
The heat intensified, burning through his veins like acid. He could feel his body responding—accelerating processes that should have taken days into minutes. Toxins accumulated over fifteen years of life began rising to the surface, pushed out by the serum's aggressive purge protocol.
Riyan forced himself to unclench his jaw and drank the second vial.
The pain doubled. His vision blurred at the edges, white spots dancing across his field of view. Sweat broke out across his forehead, his back, soaking through the expensive silk pajamas. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept his grip steady.
Third vial. The liquid burned going down, and then his entire body felt like it was being torn apart and reconstructed simultaneously. His muscles spasmed, tendons pulling taut. He could feel his mana pathways expanding, the channels widening and deepening like rivers carving new beds through stone.
Fourth vial.
Riyan's control finally cracked. He doubled over, one hand bracing against the bedpost as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. The need to vomit was overwhelming, his body desperately trying to expel the foreign substances flooding his system.
But more than nausea, there was something else. Something worse.
His digestive system was in open revolt. The serums were purging everything—not just toxins, but waste, corrupted cells, malformed tissue. His intestines cramped violently, and Riyan's eyes widened as he realized exactly what was about to happen.
"Shit," he gasped, the irony of the word choice not lost on him even through the pain.
He staggered toward the bathroom attached to his room, barely managing to stay upright. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, uncoordinated and weak. He slammed through the bathroom door, not bothering to close it behind him, and collapsed onto the toilet just in time.
What followed was the most humiliating ten minutes of his life.
The serums were ruthlessly efficient. Everything his body had been holding onto—every impurity, every bit of toxic buildup, every malformed cell—came out in waves of black, foul-smelling waste. The smell alone was enough to make his eyes water, a nauseating combination of rot and chemicals.
Riyan sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and endured.
This was the price. Power wasn't granted freely, even by a goddess. It had to be paid for in pain, in humiliation, in suffering. The original Riyan had never understood that. He'd thought strength came from talent alone, from being born into the right family.
But real strength was forged in moments like this. When your body was breaking itself down to rebuild stronger. When you had to sit on a toilet for ten minutes expelling literal poison from your system and keep going anyway.
The cramping finally began to ease. Riyan flushed, then flushed again, then a third time before the water finally ran clear. He stood on shaking legs and stripped out of his sweat-soaked pajamas, tossing them into a corner. They were ruined anyway.
But he wasn't done yet.
He cranked the shower to cold—not because he wanted comfort, but because he needed to see what was happening to his body. Hot water would steam up the mirror and obscure the changes.
The moment the ice-cold spray hit his skin, he hissed through his teeth. But the shock of it was grounding, pulling him out of the lingering haze of pain. He stood under the water and watched as black residue began seeping from his pores.
It looked like tar mixed with blood, viscous and dark. The water hitting his skin turned black immediately, running down his body in oily streams. The smell was horrible—metallic and organic and wrong.
Riyan grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed hard, methodical and thorough. His skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed. The black sludge kept coming, purged from fifteen years of accumulated damage and imperfection.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. The water gradually ran clearer, the black discharge slowing to a trickle and then finally stopping altogether.
Riyan shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel. His body felt different. Lighter, but also denser somehow. Like excess weight had been carved away while the remaining muscle had been compressed and refined.
He wiped the fog from the mirror and looked at his reflection.
The face staring back was still recognizably Riyan Descartes, but sharper. More defined. His features had always been aristocratic—high cheekbones, strong jawline, the mixed heritage of Asura and human bloodlines creating something striking. But now those features looked carved from stone, every angle precise and deliberate.
His skin had changed too. The light brown tone was still there, but it had a quality to it now, smooth and unmarred. No blemishes, no scars, no imperfections. It looked almost unnatural in its perfection, like a weapon that had been polished until it gleamed.
But it was his eyes that drew attention. The crimson irises were deeper now, darker. They looked like fresh blood in certain light, or aged wine in others. Combined with the black hair and the refined features, the overall effect was predatory. Dangerous.
Riyan studied himself dispassionately. This wasn't about vanity. Appearance was a weapon like any other in this world. Beauty opened doors. It made people underestimate you, or overestimate you, depending on how you wielded it.
His hair was still shoulder-length, the same as the original Riyan had kept it. Black and straight, practical enough not to interfere with combat but long enough to be distinctive.
He'd never understood the original's reasoning for most things, but the hair at least made sense. It was a marker, a visual identifier. In a world where Hunters became celebrities, branding mattered.
"Status," Riyan commanded.
[Ding!]
[Status
Host Name: Riyan Cris Descartes
Charm: A
Strength: C+
Speed: B-
Endurance: C-
Mana: A
Aura: C
Current Rank: C+
Talents:
S+ Rank Child of the Mana
Unique Rank Dual Energy User
A+ Rank Photographic Memory
S+ Rank Adaptation
SS Rank Spear Saint
Affinity:
S+ Rank Fire
SS+ Rank Darkness
Curse: Destiny's Curse and Curse of the Villain
Age: 15 years
Race: Half Asura and Human
Titles: Prince of Qara City, Asura Prince, Young Master of Descartes Family, Young Master of Mairis Family, Talented Inspiring Hunter, King of Dog Lickers, and The Annihilator
Inventory: None
Former Obsession: Fera Starlight
Identity: A Brainless Dog Licking Villain of the Novel "Saint's Odyssey"
Remark: Body successfully stabilized. Ready for combat optimization.]
His Charm had increased slightly, from A- to A, but that was a side effect rather than the goal. More importantly, his Endurance had jumped from D- to C-, and his rank had increased from C- to C+. The serums had done their job—his body was now stable enough to handle the new talents without degrading.
The remark had changed too. Ready for combat optimization. The system was telling him the foundation was set. Now he needed to build on it.
[Ding!]
[There is a Task for Host. Would you like to open it?]
Riyan's eyes narrowed. "Open it."
[Ding!]
[Loading Task...]
[Task: Become Famous in This World
Sub-Task: Increase Your Popularity
Reward: Unique Skill Aura Breathing
Time Limit: Two Years]
Riyan read the task description, his mind already analyzing the implications.
Fame wasn't just celebrity worship. In this world, fame translated directly to influence, resources, and opportunity. Hunters who were well-known received sponsorships, preferential treatment from guilds, access to exclusive dungeons and training grounds. They had pull with merchants, politicians, and other powerful figures.
Right now, despite being born into two influential families, Riyan's personal reputation was garbage. He was known as a joke—the obsessed fool who'd humiliated himself chasing after Fera Starlight. That reputation would follow him unless he overwrote it with something stronger.
But there was a problem with the timeline.
In this world, you couldn't register as a Hunter until age twenty. Reyas Academy, where the main story would unfold and where Alex would build his legend, only accepted students eighteen and older. Riyan had three years before he'd even be eligible to apply to the Academy, and five years before he could get a Hunter's license.
Three years of being invisible. Three years where Alex would be making a name for himself doing... whatever it was that Children of Destiny did at fifteen.
Unless Riyan found another path.
"System," he said quietly. "Explain the purpose of this task."
[Host, this mission's purpose is for you to establish your own influence in the world before Academy admission. Currently, you only have the influence of the Descartes Family, their Guild, and the Mairis Family. You need personal power and recognition that belongs to you alone. Your family's reputation will not protect you from the Curses of Destiny. Only your own strength and influence can counter the narrative working against you.]
Riyan absorbed that, turning it over in his mind. The system was right. Family influence was borrowed power. It could be revoked, turned against him, or simply prove insufficient when the protagonist's plot armor activated.
He needed his own foundation. Something that couldn't be taken away.
The question was how.
An idea began forming, cold and calculated. In his previous life, Riyan had understood how fame worked in the modern world. Social capital, personal branding, strategic visibility. The rules were different here, but the fundamentals remained the same.
Hunters were celebrities, yes. But there were other paths to visibility.
The modeling industry. Entertainment. Sponsorships and brand ambassadorships that didn't require being a registered Hunter. In the major cities—particularly the capital—there was an entire ecosystem built around appearance, charisma, and marketability.
With his current appearance—A-rank Charm after the stabilization process—he could break into that world. Models appeared in advertisements across the continent, on magical broadcasts, in promotional materials for everything from weapons to potions to fashion. They built followings, became recognizable faces.
And with his Photographic Memory, he could study the techniques, the poses, the expressions with perfect recall. His Adaptation talent would let him refine his performance rapidly, turning amateur attempts into professional-grade work in a fraction of the normal time.
It was almost elegant. Use the tools he'd been given to build a public persona completely divorced from his family connections. Let people know his face, his name, before they knew his background. Then, when he entered the Academy, he wouldn't be "another privileged noble." He'd be "that model who's also apparently a Hunter."
It would also put him in proximity to information networks. Models worked with merchants, guild representatives, politicians' families. They attended events, galas, exhibitions. Every photoshoot was an opportunity to gather intelligence, make connections, and position himself.
And perhaps most importantly, it would piss off everyone who expected him to fail. The nobles who'd mocked him. The protagonist who'd eventually look down on him. The author who'd written him as nothing but a disposable villain.
Riyan's expression remained neutral, but internally, he felt that cold satisfaction deepen.
"Two years," he murmured. "That's more than enough time."
A soft knock echoed through the bedroom, followed by a feminine voice from beyond the door. "Young Master, please come to the dining hall for breakfast."
Riyan glanced toward the door, then back at his reflection. Time to meet this new family. Time to start laying the groundwork.
He pulled fresh clothes from the wardrobe—black pants, a dark crimson shirt that matched his eyes, and a fitted jacket. The style was expensive without being ostentatious, practical for movement but clearly high-quality. He added the green bracelet that was apparently a signature accessory of the original Riyan, a magical artifact that regulated mana flow.
One last look in the mirror. The person staring back looked like a weapon wrapped in aristocratic polish. Perfect.
"Coming," Riyan called back, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone who'd already decided how this conversation would go.
He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the handle, allowing himself one moment of honest assessment.
This world wanted him to be a villain. The God of Destiny had cursed him to ensure he played that role and lost. The author had written him as disposable trash.
But the Goddess of Annihilation had given him tools. The system had given him information. And he'd brought his own mind—his own capacity for strategy, manipulation, and ruthless pragmatism.
They wanted a villain?
Fine.
He'd be the best villain this world had ever seen.
And when he was done, the protagonist wouldn't just lose. Alex would be destroyed so thoroughly that even the narrative itself couldn't save him.
Riyan opened the door and stepped into the hallway, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet.
The villain's second life had begun.
And this time, he was going to win.