One month had passed since that breakfast conversation, and the world had shifted beneath my feet in ways I couldn't have anticipated.
The photo shoot had been... intense. Professional photographers, stylists who treated my hair like sacred artifacts, makeup artists who spent hours perfecting lighting and angles. I'd stood under hot lights for six hours straight during the first session, learning quickly that modeling was far more physically demanding than it appeared.
But the results had been undeniable.
The portfolio we'd assembled showcased a range I hadn't known I possessed—aristocratic elegance in formal wear, dangerous charm in casual street fashion, even vulnerability in artistic shots that played with shadow and light. My SS+ Charm rating translated into photographs that seemed to capture attention and refuse to let go.
Syra had been surprisingly helpful throughout the process, despite her initial reluctance. She'd negotiated with agencies, reviewed contracts with a lawyer's scrutiny, and taught me the basics of media management. Our relationship remained prickly, but the outright hostility had dulled to something more like cautious professional respect.
"Don't let the attention go to your head," she'd warned after my first major campaign was confirmed. "Fame is fickle, and scandals spread faster than achievements."
I'd taken her advice to heart.
The Descartes name had opened doors, but my appearance and the strategic campaign Syra orchestrated had done the rest. Within two weeks, I'd signed with one of Qara City's premier modeling agencies. Within a month, my face was appearing in advertisements across the city.
The response was immediate and overwhelming.
Social media exploded with commentary—some positive, some skeptical, all attention nonetheless. The posts ranged from genuine admiration to shocked disbelief:
*"Young Master Riyan looks completely different! What happened?"*
*"That's the dog-licker villain? Are we sure this is the same person?"*
*"I don't care about his past behavior—he's absolutely stunning!"*
*"The Descartes family is really pushing this rebrand hard..."*
The "dog-licker" reputation still haunted me, but I'd expected that. Changing public perception would take time and consistent action. What mattered was that people were talking, paying attention, watching to see what I'd do next.
My first major runway show came three weeks after signing with the agency—a high-profile fashion event featuring emerging designers. I'd trained obsessively for it, studying videos with my Photographic Memory talent and practicing until my movements became second nature.
The night of the show, standing backstage with my heart hammering, I'd felt the weight of dozens of eyes on me. Other models, designers, crew members—all wondering if the privileged young master would crash and burn under pressure.
I'd walked that runway with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
The applause had been deafening.
But I hadn't rested on that success. Between photo shoots, runway shows, and brand meetings, I'd maintained my training regimen. Every morning before dawn, I was in the Descartes training grounds with Livia, working on combat skills that had atrophied in the original Riyan's body.
My mother had insisted on it, and I'd been grateful for the foresight.
"Fame won't save you in a dungeon," Riya had said bluntly during one of our training sessions. "And if you think you're getting into Reyas Academy on looks alone, you're delusional."
She'd proceeded to beat the overconfidence out of me with a training spear.
Four months after my modeling debut, I'd released my second major campaign—a partnership with a continental luxury brand that put my face on billboards from Qara City to the coast. The artistic direction was bold, almost provocative, playing up the contrast between aristocratic elegance and dangerous edge.
The campaign went viral.
My name, "Riyan Descartes," became synonymous with a new generation of style. Fashion magazines requested interviews. Other brands competed for endorsement deals. My follower count on social platforms multiplied exponentially.
The system had been monitoring my progress:
[Fame Index: 78% Continental Recognition]
[Task Progress: 89% Complete]
[Estimated Time to Full Completion: 3-4 weeks]
But fame alone wasn't enough. I needed substance behind the image—something that would cement my reputation beyond just a pretty face.
That's when opportunity presented itself in the form of tragedy.
I'd known it was coming. The memories from the novel had been clear about the timeline—a gate in the southern district would go berserk approximately four months after the start of the story. The outbreak would catch hunters off-guard, resulting in a massacre that claimed dozens of lives before being contained.
Syra would be the one to clear the gate, cementing her reputation as one of the continent's elite hunters. But the cost in civilian and hunter casualties would be devastating.
I had three options: intervene and try to prevent it, warn people and risk being ignored, or let it play out and use the aftermath strategically.
The pragmatic part of me—the part that understood I was a villain in this story, not a hero—chose the third option. And I hated myself a little for it.
But changing the timeline had risks I couldn't fully calculate. If I prevented Roy Mark's death (one of the minor Sons of Destiny who would perish in the gate outbreak), would it create butterfly effects that disrupted my knowledge advantage? Would it alert whatever cosmic forces controlled this world's "destiny" that something had changed?
More practically, who would believe me? A teenage model claiming to know when a gate would go berserk would be dismissed as attention-seeking or mentally unstable. I had no credible way to prove foreknowledge.
So I waited, trained harder, and prepared for the aftermath.
The day of the outbreak, I was in the middle of a photo shoot when news broke. My phone exploded with notifications—emergency alerts, news updates, frantic messages from Livia asking if I was safe.
The southern district had erupted into chaos. A B-rank gate had destabilized and broken, releasing a flood of monsters into populated streets. Hunters scrambled to respond, but the surprise attack had already claimed lives.
I excused myself from the shoot, much to my manager's irritation, and followed the news coverage obsessively. Video footage showed the devastation—destroyed buildings, injured civilians being evacuated, hunters fighting desperately to contain the outbreak.
And then, like a force of nature, Syra arrived.
The cameras captured her cutting through monsters with lethal efficiency, her wind magic creating devastating combinations with her blade work. She fought for three hours straight, clearing the gate and eliminating every escaped monster before finally emerging, exhausted and covered in blood.
A hero.
The media coverage was relentless for days. Syra's face dominated every news outlet. Interviews, commemorations, public speeches thanking her for her service. Her favorability with the public skyrocketed, and I watched it all with careful attention.
On the seventh day after the incident, I made my move.
I'd spent the previous week preparing for a charity photo exhibition, using my platform and connections to organize an event that would honor the fallen hunters and raise funds for their families. The exhibition featured powerful portraits of hunters, both famous and unknown, interspersed with stark images documenting the aftermath of gate outbreaks.
The centerpiece was a series of photographs I'd had commissioned specifically for this event—portraits of the hunters who'd died in the southern district outbreak, provided by their families. Each image was accompanied by their names, ages, and brief stories of their lives.
The exhibition opening drew massive crowds and media attention. I'd invited Syra as a guest of honor, and she'd accepted—probably out of obligation to family more than any personal warmth.
At the opening ceremony, I gave a speech that I'd carefully crafted and memorized:
"We celebrate the living heroes, as we should. But let us not forget those who gave everything—not because they sought glory, but because protecting others was simply what they did. These hunters, these ordinary people who made extraordinary sacrifices, deserve to be remembered not as statistics, but as individuals. As family members. As friends. As heroes whose names we should speak with gratitude."
The speech was calculated, emotional without being manipulative, respectful without being exploitative. And it worked.
The exhibition became a cultural phenomenon. Media coverage shifted from just celebrating Syra's heroism to honoring all the fallen hunters. My name was attached to the initiative, and public perception of me shifted noticeably.
*"Young Master Riyan shows unexpected depth..."*
*"Using his platform for good—respect."*
*"Maybe we were too quick to judge based on past behavior."*
The system confirmed what I already knew:
[Ding!]
[Fame Task Completion: 100%]
[Continental Recognition: 94%]
[Public Favorability: Significantly Improved]
[Rewarding Host with Skill: Aura Breathing]
A warm sensation flooded my body as new knowledge integrated into my mind. Aura Breathing—a technique that would allow me to strengthen my body and aura passively, even while doing other activities. It was foundational for any serious hunter.
[Ding!]
[New Task Generated...]
[Would you like to open it?]
"Yes."
[Task: Achieve First Place in Reyas Academy Entrance Exam]
[Time Limit: 2 months]
[Reward: Yunling Spear (★★★★★)]
[Additional Objective: Defeat or surpass Alex Karots in exam rankings]
[Bonus Reward: +500 Villain Points]
I smiled. Finally, a task that would put me directly in competition with the protagonist.
Two months until the entrance exam. Two months to prepare for my first real confrontation with destiny's chosen one.
Time to get to work.