Now that I've been reincarnated here, crying won't change anything. I need to survive this hellhole.
Axel forced his breathing to steady. Panic would only waste time, and time was the one thing he could not afford to lose.
The academy death flag was manageable. That part of the story was easy to avoid if he stayed out of trouble and never crossed the protagonist. The real threat was something far worse.
The Abyssal Dragon.
That monster was not just a villain. It was one of only two transcendent beings in the entire novel. Transcendent beings were known as Ninth Order Awakeners, entities that stood beyond the limits of the world. Aside from the Golden Dragon and the Abyssal Dragon, no one else in the story had ever reached that level.
The protagonist had been destined to reach the Ninth Order because he inherited the power of the Golden Dragon. Even then, the timing had been cruel. The Abyssal Dragon was revived too early, forcing the final battle to happen while the protagonist was still at the Eighth Order.
Axel remembered that arc clearly. Lucien had fought with everything he had, but he was still incomplete. If he had been given just two or three more years, he would have broken through and become a true transcendent. Only then would he have stood a real chance.
Axel clenched his fist.
"I'm fourteen now," he muttered. "That gives me five years."
Five years to prepare. Five years to change fate.
With two gold-tier traits, Axel was confident he could reach the Eighth Order himself. Talent was not the problem. Time was. Lucien only reached that level because he inherited the legacy of a Ninth Order being. Even then, it pushed him to his limits.
Reaching that realm in five years without such an inheritance was nearly impossible.
And yet, Axel knew something Lucien did not.
As the editor of the novel, Axel knew exactly how the Abyssal Dragon was revived. He knew about the cult that operated in the shadows, the sacrifices they made, and the key events that led to the resurrection. It was not sudden. It was a process, one that could be disrupted.
"The revival is inevitable," Axel thought quietly. "But I can slow it down."
With his knowledge alone, he could delay the resurrection by at least a year. If he directly interfered with the cult, sabotaged their rituals and erased their foundations, he could buy another year.
Two years.
Two years might be enough.
But even then, everything depended on the protagonist. Lucien had to reach the Ninth Order within that time. Without a transcendent to face the Abyssal Dragon, the world was doomed regardless of what Axel did.
"If only that bastard of an author gave me a real cheat," Axel muttered, his jaw tightening. "I'd kill the thing myself."
But reality did not care about wishes.
Axel exhaled slowly.
If he could not become the hero, then he would become the shadow that made sure the hero arrived on time.
At least I got reincarnated into a rich and powerful noble family, Axel thought. That alone makes things easier, even if I am stuck as a villain.
He stood near the tall window of the bedchamber, the morning light spilling across the polished stone floor. Outside, the city stretched out before him.
Marisola , the capital of the Duchy of Wavecrest.
The port city was exactly as he remembered designing it. White and pale-gold buildings rose along winding waterways, their balconies draped with linen banners that fluttered gently in the sea breeze. Stone bridges arched over canals where merchant boats and small cargo vessels moved steadily, their sails marked with the crests of trading houses. Beyond the inner canals, the harbor opened wide, crowded with ships from every corner of the world. Masts stood like a forest against the sky.
The rooftops were tiled in warm shades of red and brown, clustered tightly together, while domed structures and bell towers rose above them like landmarks. It was beautiful in a quiet, lived-in way. Not a city built for war or grandeur, but one shaped by trade, wealth, and the sea.
Marisola had been inspired by Venice when Axel and the author first outlined it. At the time, it had only been words on a page.
Now it was real.
Axel rested his hand against the glass, staring out at the city he had once only imagined. There had been moments, back when he was still an editor, when he had wished he could see this place for himself. He never thought that wish would be answered like this.
He then shifted his attention towards the table where the maid had put his breakfast.
At the center of the table were loaves of fresh wheat bread, crusty on the outside and soft within, sliced thick and brushed lightly with olive oil. Small dishes of goat cheese and soft ricotta sat nearby, along with bowls of honey and fig preserves imported from the southern coast.
There was fruit as well. Fresh pears and apples, along with a small bunch of grapes that had clearly traveled far to get here. A plate of olives rested near the edge of the table, glossy with brine and herbs.
For protein, there were thin slices of cured meat, lightly salted and air-dried, nothing heavy enough to dull the senses early in the morning. A shallow bowl of warm porridge made from milk and grain steamed quietly beside it.
To drink, there was water diluted with a small amount of wine.
Axel picked up a slice of bread and tasted it.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Definitely a breakfast fit for nobles."
He found himself eating with practiced ease, his posture straight, movements smooth, manners precise. He did not have to think about where to place his hands or how to hold his utensils. It all came naturally.
That was when he realized something strange.
Axel had not yet accessed Rowan's memories. And yet, his body knew what to do. There was a familiarity in the way he moved, a quiet certainty guiding his actions. He knew which clothes were meant for which occasions. He knew where things were kept. It was not memory, exactly. It felt more like instinct.
Muscle memory, Axel thought. And something deeper.
After a moment of reflection, he came to a conclusion.
"Maybe our souls are fusing."
It made sense. The system offering access to Rowan's memories was likely just accelerating a process that was already happening. The original Rowan was not gone, not entirely. Their existences were overlapping, blending together piece by piece.
Most people would panic at that thought. The idea of losing oneself, of becoming someone else, would drive them into an existential crisis.
Axel did not feel that fear.
He had bigger problems to worry about.
A death flag hanging over his head. A transcendent dragon waiting to destroy the world. And five years to make sure that did not happen.
If becoming Rowan Wavecrest was the price, then so be it.
He took another bite of bread, looking back toward the window.
Luxury was nice. Power was useful.
Axel finished his breakfast slowly, savoring every bite. The food was simple, but rich in a way that spoke of quiet wealth rather than excess. When he finally set his utensils down, he felt an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction.
He glanced up at the large clock mounted on the wall. Its steady ticking echoed faintly through the dining room.
"Time for a bath, huh," Axel murmured.
He left the table and followed the familiar layout of his large room without thinking, his feet carrying him down the corridor and into the bathing chamber. Warm steam lingered in the air, and the faint scent of herbs clung to the stone walls.
Before stepping further in, his attention was drawn to the mirror.
It was tall, nearly as high as the ceiling, its surface polished to a clear sheen. Axel stopped in front of it and stared.
The face reflected back at him was not his own.
The boy in the mirror was fourteen, still young, but undeniably striking. His hair was a vivid shade of red, not bright or garish, but deep and rich like polished copper. It fell to his shoulders in loose, slightly wavy strands that framed his face naturally, giving him a refined yet effortless look. His eyes were a clear, sharp green, calm but observant, the kind that made people hesitate before speaking too freely.
His complexion was fair and unblemished, his features well-balanced and elegant. There was a softness to his appearance that came from his age, a gentle charm rather than overwhelming presence.
Axel studied the reflection quietly.
Yeah… this makes sense.
When Axel had helped design Rowan Wavecrest, he had been very deliberate. Rowan was meant to be the first real human obstacle for the protagonist. A noble born with everything. Talent, status, looks. Someone people instinctively paid attention to.
At fourteen, Rowan was the kind of boy who made people look twice. Servants would linger just a little longer when speaking to him. Young nobles would feel both admiration and irritation. Girls his age would find their eyes drawn to him without quite understanding why.
And Axel knew what came next.
Given a few more years, once the softness of youth faded and his build filled out, Rowan Wavecrest would become devastatingly handsome. The kind of man whose presence alone could bend a room's attention toward him. The kind that could charm or intimidate without raising his voice.
Axel exhaled slowly.
"So this is the face of the villain I made," he muttered.
There was no pride in his voice. Only a strange sense of distance.
He did not feel particularly attached to the reflection, nor repulsed by it. It was simply the body he now inhabited, no different from the world outside the window or the city beneath it.
Power, status, beauty. All of it was meaningless if he died the way Rowan was supposed to.
Axel turned away from the mirror and stepped toward the bath.
Looks would not save him.
But they might help him survive.
His eyes shifted from the huge mirror to the bathing chamber.
The walls were lined with polished marble, carved with delicate patterns of waves and seashells. The bath itself was a deep basin of black stone, filled with steaming water scented faintly with lavender and herbs . Golden taps glinted in the light streaming through the high windows, and soft cushions lined the edges for comfort. It was more than a bath. It was a private sanctuary, a space designed entirely for one person's pleasure and reflection.
He let out a low whistle. This was luxury. Something he had only read about or imagined in his editor's notes. The chamber was completely empty except for the red haired young man standing in the edge of the tub. The original Rowan had hated having servants around during these moments, seeing baths as sacred personal time. Axel had included that, and he was thankful that he would not have to pretend to be Rowan in front of the servants.
He slid into the warm water, feeling it seep into his muscles and relax the tension in his shoulders. The heat was immediate, soothing, almost intoxicating. For the first time in this life, he allowed himself to just be, letting the steam cloud his thoughts as he closed his eyes.
"System, synchronize memories," he said in his mind.
The effect was immediate. A sharp, stabbing pain ran along his spine and across his temples. He gasped and gripped the edge of the bath, eyes wide. It was not agony in the usual sense, but a raw, invasive sensation. Every memory that belonged to Rowan Wavecrest poured into him in waves, some familiar, some startlingly new.
He remembered being a child, running through the halls of the Wavecrest manor. He could feel the soft warmth of his mother's hand, remember her voice laughing as she corrected him when he tripped over his small feet. Those were memories Axel had crafted, yes, but now he was experiencing them as reality. There were also fragmented, painful memories he had never included—pieces of Rowan's early childhood he had forgotten or never imagined in detail.
He saw himself sitting alone in his room, playing with wooden toys while trying to earn a smile from his stern father. He remembered the gentle scolding of tutors, the quiet nights spent longing for the warmth and comfort of his mother, and the sharp sting of being mocked by other children for not having her. A small, persistent ache of loss lingered in his chest.
Then the memory of her death hit him fully. She had been kind, compassionate, teaching young Rowan to treat everyone equally, regardless of status. Her death at the hands of a revolutionary organization that sought to purge nobles had been cruel, unjust, and entirely preventable. The hatred Rowan had grown toward commoners was rooted here. Axel felt it, raw and burning, but tempered by his own mind. Rationality whispered that not every commoner was the enemy. He cursed the unjust circumstances and the lingering anger, but he refused to let it consume him entirely.
The memories continued, rolling forward. He remembered attending countless balls, dressed impeccably in silks and fine linens, standing proudly while mingling with nobles and aristocrats. He saw himself mocking and belittling children from lesser families, delighting in the control and attention he wielded. Only the children of the Duke and the princesses were exempt from his scorn. Many of the other nobles despised him, yet some clung to him, either out of fear or in hopes of gaining favor.
He recalled the engagement with the second princess of the Virellian Empire. The memory was sharp, ridiculous, and cringe-inducing. He could feel the awkwardness, and second hand embarrassment seeing young Rowan trying to impress the princess . He grimaced in the bath at the recollection, feeling the absurdity as if he were a different boy entirely.
There were moments of solitude too—quiet walks along the estate gardens, nights staring at the stars from his balcony, afternoons reading by the canal, moments where he felt both the weight and the privilege of being a Wavecrest. There were memories of training with his two older brothers, competing in small challenges, laughing and shouting and learning what it meant to survive under the watchful eye of their father. Some memories were bitter, others were bittersweet, but all of them shaped the arrogance, pride, and confidence that Rowan carried.
Axel closed his eyes beneath the steam, letting the memories wash over him like the water around his body. He could feel the fusion of his own mind with Rowan's, subtle but undeniable. The system had accelerated it, but the base of it was already happening naturally.
Interesting, he thought. Most people would panic, afraid of losing themselves. But I have bigger problems than worrying about who I am. I have five years to survive and change the world.
The luxurious bath, the gentle warmth, the taste of freedom in having a moment to himself—it all felt absurdly indulgent. And yet, it grounded him. He was Rowan Wavecrest now, yes, but he was also Axel. Both minds, both wills, merging to survive the impossible.
He let the water cradle him, the memories, both joyous and painful, flowing together.
From now on Axel was Rowan and Rowan was Axel.
(AN : Axel will be referred as Rowan in 3rd person POV in the later chapters)