Kael Viremont didn't sleep; he just couldn't.
He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the carved wood as the crystal lamp dimmed and brightened with its own pulse. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—the execution platform, the crowd, the blade coming down, and his head rolling down the execution platform, but those fuckers in the crowd were cheering, looking at him.
Fuck.
Three years.
That was the time he had been given.
Three years until his name became a footnote in someone else's legend.
In the novel, these three years were barely worth mentioning. Who would even properly write a side villain story who is going to die in a few chapters anyway? A few lazy lines about how Kael grew more arrogant, more desperate, more stupid. Then—boom—Chapter Forty-Seven. Public execution. End of relevance.
Kael let out a dry laugh.
"Yeah. Sounds about right."
He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair, his whole body drenched in sweat. His heart was still racing, like his body hadn't accepted that he wasn't about to die right now.
He wasn't calm.
He wasn't grateful.
He was pissed, angry at this world and at his fate.
"Of all the worlds," he muttered, voice hoarse, "of all the people… I get reincarnated as this guy?"
Not the hero. Not even a major villain.
A disposable obstacle.
A warning label.
A fucking tutorial enemy.
Kael stood and walked toward the mirror again, staring at the unfamiliar face that now belonged to him. Seventeen years old, pale, sharp and unfocused. On his face can be seen immaturity, which has caused his face to soften.
This face had begged for attention, recognition. This face had demanded respect it hadn't earned.This face had died screaming inside while pretending to be proud.
Kael clenched his jaw.
"I won't play your role," he said quietly. "Not for the hero. Not for the readers. Not for fate."
Memories rose uninvited.
Kael Viremont's childhood wasn't tragic—but it was cold. Tutors instead of affection. Expectations instead of understanding. A father who never raised his voice because disappointment didn't need volume. Sometimes silent treatment of parents speaks more of disappointment than mere words.
Darius Viremont hadn't hated his son.
That would've been easier.
He had simply… stopped expecting anything from him.
That kind of indifference hollowed a person out.
"No wonder you turned into an asshole," Kael muttered to the reflection.
The original Kael had tried to compensate the only way he knew how—throwing his status around, acting like an asshole, insulting people weaker than him, picking fights with those stronger in the hope they'd notice him; he just carved attention.
And the hero?
Leon Ashford had been everything Kael wasn't.
He is talented, has a calm character, and he has strength. He is simply the perfect protagonist and the dream life one could ask for.
The kind of man the world bent itself around, the chosen one.
Kael scoffed.
"Fuck that".
He turned away from the mirror and began pacing the room.
Priority is survival.
And survival meant one thing above all else—
"Use everything to stay the hell away from the plot."
The academy.The hero's journey.The church's spotlight.
Every major event revolved around those three.
Which meant the capital was poison; going there meant just sitting there waiting for death.
Kael stopped pacing.
"That settles it," he said. "I'm leaving, and no one can stop me."
Morning came too fast.
Kael dressed without summoning servants, choosing plain clothes over his usual noble finery. The fabric felt lighter, less suffocating.
Let them think I've finally given up, he thought. Underestimation is safer than attention.
When he entered the dining hall, his father was already there.
Lord Darius Viremont sat straight-backed at the head of the table, his posture perfect, expression looking neutral, like nothing happening could cause his expression to change. The man looked carved from stone—unyielding, emotionless, enduring.
"You're late," Darius said.
Kael bowed slightly. "My fault, Father".
Darius's eyes flicked up—briefly. A pause. Almost imperceptible.
That alone told Kael how bad the old Kael had been.
The atmosphere in the dining hall felt frozen; only the voice of the clattering of plates could be heard
Kael could feel his heart pounding. This was his first challenge in this world. This conversation mattered more than any dramatic showdown. One wrong tone, one slip into arrogance, and the fragile future he was building would crack.
"Father," Kael said at last, setting his utensils down. "I want to leave the capital."
Darius didn't respond immediately.
"Explain," he said finally.
"I need distance," Kael replied. "And discipline."
That earned him a look—sharp and skeptical.
"You?" Darius said flatly. "And Discipline?"
Kael felt his throat dry; he swallowed.
But he didn't flinch, still at the same time.
"Yes."
The silence stretched.
"You've embarrassed this house enough," Darius continued. "Why should I believe this isn't another whim, Why should I fulfill your childish demand"?
Kael's fingers curled under the table; he was nervous.
Because if not, I will die a brutal death, he wanted to say.
Because you'll watch my head roll in three years.
Instead, keeping his calm, he said, "Because staying here will destroy me."
That was the truth.
Not dramatic. Not poetic.
Just painfully, brutally honest.
Darius stared at him for a long moment. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"…Where?" he asked.
"The northern border," Kael said. "There's nothing glamorous there. No salons. No noble games, nothing to distract me".
"Only danger."
"That's right".
Darius leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"If you fail," he said, "don't expect me to clean up after you."
Kael bowed deeply. "I won't."
And for the first time, the words didn't feel hollow. This was his confidence, his only chance, and he will not waste it, he can't.
Three days later, Kael left the capital.
The carriage rolled past the towering gates, guards offering lazy salutes. The city receded behind him, stone and gold shrinking into memory.
Kael leaned back, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
He felt that his body and mind were lighter, like some load was finally lifted off.
Like he'd finally stepped off a stage he never wanted to be on.
Then the carriage slowed.
"Halt!" a guard shouted.
Kael's pulse spiked instantly.
No no no no no no no. Not right now, not at this time.
He pulled the curtain aside.
White and gold armor.
Holy insignia.
Golden hair.
Leon Ashford.
Kael's stomach dropped; he was confused.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he whispered.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
This meeting was early—too early.
The carriage stopped.
Leon approached calmly, sword at his side, his expression polite, but nothing could be read from his face.
"Routine inspection," Leon said. "Please step down."
Kael forced his face into neutrality and stepped out.
"Kael Viremont. House Viremont," he said, bowing just enough to show proper etiquette, but not submissive.
Leon's gaze lingered on Kael.
"Viremont…" Leon repeated, brows knitting slightly, thinking about something.
Kael felt it then—the pressure suffocating him.
Like invisible hands trying to shove him back into place.
Recognize me. Hate me. Fight me.
Kael smiled thinly.
"I'm traveling north for training," he said before Leon could ask.
Leon tilted his head. "Training"? His face was full of question marks.
"Yes."
"You don't look like someone who enjoys pain, or can endure it".
Kael shrugged. "I'm tired of being weak."
That wasn't acting, but his true thought.
Leon studied him for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then he smiled.
"Have a safe journey," Leon said, and, just taking a last look at him, he announced to his team to back off.
Kael bowed slightly and climbed back into the carriage.
As the carriage rolled away and gained enough distance, Kael's hand shook and now only has he felt that his whole body was drenched in sweat.
That was close.
Too close.
He leaned back, letting out a long breath.
"So that's how it starts," he muttered. "Fate nudging the board, making its move".
Kael stared out at the road ahead, his eyes burning with firm resolve.
"Well," he said quietly, "it can shove all it wants, however it wants".
This time—
The villain wasn't going to die quietly; he was going to become someone that the story can not erase at its whim.