It's a Bitch
Somewhere in the Manson of the Crimson Family, deep within the Southern Dukedom's capital—
Xavier woke to pain so violent he thought someone was peeling his mind apart. His eyes shot open, and instead of the familiar apartment he knew, he saw an unfamiliar room bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow. When he tried to stand, his legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor as agony tore through every nerve.
Ether drifted through the air like dust made of light. When he sucked in a breath, the air burned down his lungs as if he were inhaling fire. He tried pushing himself up again, only to collapse once more. Minutes passed—long, aching minutes—before he was finally able to stand, clutching the edge of the bed for support.
Staggering forward, he reached the mirror.
And froze.
The reflection staring back wasn't his.
A handsome boy with pristine white hair and deep, blood-crimson eyes met his gaze. Before shock could even settle, another wave of agony slammed into him—different, deeper, terribly wrong. Memories that were not his own flooded through him like molten metal searing into his skull.
He saw Azrael Crimson—now his body's previous owner—training alone under a waterfall of glowing petals. He felt the sting of cold blades, the rhythm of relentless drills, the crushing weight of a talent so immense even academies whispered about it in fear.
And then he saw her.
Azrael's sister—not his—Margaret Crimson. Adored by their family. Cherished by the entire dukedom. Loved as though she were the sun of their lineage.
For her sake, Azrael hid a talent that knew no bounds. He slowed his growth intentionally so she could be announced as the heir. He concealed his brilliance, trained in secret, held back in exams, even pretended to struggle.
His reward?
His father's disdain. His sister's indifference. The cold shoulder of an entire household.
Only his mother had cared for him—and she died protecting him during an attack when he was eight, leaving him completely alone. The son of the Crimson Duke… yet treated as nothing more than a background figure. An extra in someone else's grand tale.
The memories burrowed deeper. Azrael's admiration for Margaret—how he had looked at her not with jealousy but devotion—bled into Xavier's heart. Every sacrifice, every hidden wound, every silent act of loyalty hit him like a hammer.
He wasn't just remembering Azrael.
He was feeling him.
Xavier's body convulsed as Azrael's grief, loneliness, and bitter resignation sank into his bones. He felt nauseous, trembling uncontrollably, his fingers clawing at the glowing moss beneath him. The torrent didn't stop. Azrael's entire life—his kindness, his wasted potential, his desperate attempts to protect Margaret's pride—pierced Xavier until he wanted to scream.
For two hours, the agony continued—a storm that refused to pass.
When it finally ended, Xavier lay motionless, chest heaving, limbs shaking. The shimmering leaves above him blurred as he struggled to gather himself. His senses were too sharp, his instincts too acute—Azrael's power humming faintly beneath his skin, unstable yet alive.
And with chilling clarity, he understood everything Azrael had suffered.
He hated it.
He hated Azrael's loyalty.
He hated his blind trust.
He hated how he had dimmed his own brilliance for someone who never cared.
"Why?" Xavier whispered into the silent room, voice trembling with bitterness. "Why would you choose someone like that over yourself?"
His own voice felt foreign, carrying the weight of two lives forced into one body. He pressed trembling fingers to his forehead, trying to steady the storm inside him. He wanted to reject Azrael's memories—erase them, deny them—but the emotions were carved so deeply into the inherited soul that Xavier felt them as though they were his own.
He looked down at the clothes he wore—the attire of a duke's son. A noble. A prodigy. Someone who could have been a hero… yet had become an extra. A background character fated to die without a name.
The truth settled in him like ice.
This wasn't Earth.
This wasn't his body.
This wasn't his story.
And he wasn't Xavier anymore—not completely.
"I… transmigrated," he whispered.
The luxurious room remained silent, its etheric glow indifferent to his turmoil. His heart pounded as he forced himself to breathe. Power thrummed faintly beneath his skin—Azrael's monstrous potential, slumbering but real. His fingertips tingled with knowledge he had never learned. His muscles remembered forms he had never practiced. His senses detected movements far beyond human capability.
Whatever he was now… he was not weak.
But he was not Azrael either.
And he would never repeat Azrael's mistakes.
Never kneel to destiny.
Never dim his light for anyone.
Never trust blindly again.
He pushed himself to his feet, breath steadying, resolve hardening.
If fate had dragged him into this world, then he would drag fate down with him. He would carve his own path—a destiny Azrael never received, a future unfathomable to those who once dismissed him.
He might have inherited Azrael's memories.
But he refused to inherit his ruin.
"I'll survive," he murmured, clenching his fist as a ripple of ether shimmered at his knuckles. "And I'll change everything."
Even the room seemed to respond to his declaration, the air trembling faintly—as if the world itself sensed the birth of a rewritten fate.
Fate had toyed with him until now.
But soon… he would make fate kneel. and his bitch...
The forgotten extra would rise.
Not as a side character.
But as a legend no one could ever reach..