The night sky above the Eternal Nocturne Empire burned.
Not with stars—but with alarm flares, crimson formations tearing through the heavens like wounded dragons. Bells thundered across the imperial capital, each peal heavy enough to rattle marrow and soul. Formation lights surged along the palace walls as ancient arrays awakened, their runes screaming a single truth into the bones of the world.
The empire was under attack.
Inside the Third Prince's residence, silence ruled.
Azrael Noctyrr Valebane lay motionless upon a bed of black silk embroidered with coiling dragons. His chest did not rise. His breath did not stir. For a long, terrifying moment, it seemed as though the so-called Useless Third Prince had finally died—forgotten even before his corpse grew cold.
Then—
His eyes opened.
Not slowly.
Not confused.
They snapped open like abyssal gates.
A torrent of memories flooded him.
A novel.
A cultivation world.
A villain prince destined to die like a stepping stone beneath Heaven's chosen son.
An empire annihilated.
A mother humiliated.
A sister broken.
A family erased to polish another man's legend.
And then—another layer.
This body's memories.
Mockery.
Indifference.
Contempt.
"Useless."
"Weak."
"A dragon with broken wings."
Azrael exhaled softly.
"…So this is the beginning," he murmured.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Outside, explosions thundered as palace barriers cracked. Somewhere far away, cultivators screamed. Blood was already being spilled for a fate that, until this moment, had been unavoidable.
Azrael sat up.
The instant he moved, something shifted within his chest.
Thump.
A deep, ancient heartbeat echoed—far heavier than a human heart had any right to be.
So it's sealed, he realized.
The dragon.
His true race.
A Primordial Dragon Sovereign, bound into human flesh by imperial fate and Heaven's chains. Even suppressed, the power lurking beneath his ribs was vast enough to crush cities.
Azrael swung his legs off the bed and stood.
His body felt… light.
Fragile, even.
Perfect.
"To survive as a villain," he muttered, "one must first look harmless."
At that moment, a translucent panel bloomed before his eyes.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Abyssal Sovereign Fate Devourer
Status: Activated
Host Confirmed: Azrael Noctyrr Valebane
Current Fate Rank: Doomed Villain (Locked)
Dragon Core: Sealed (99.9%)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
A smile tugged faintly at his lips.
"So even Heaven admits I'm supposed to die tonight."
The door burst open.
A palace guard stumbled inside, blood soaking his armor.
"Y-Your Highness!" the man gasped, collapsing to one knee. "Enemy cultivators breached the eastern array! The Second Prince has already mobilized, but—"
He hesitated.
"—the Crown Prince is surrounded."
In the original novel, this was the night.
The night the eldest brother would be gravely injured.
The night the imperial family's downfall truly began.
Azrael tilted his head, feigning confusion.
"…Oh?"
His expression was vacant. Weak. Disinterested.
Just as everyone expected.
Inside, calculations raced faster than lightning.
If the Crown Prince falls now, the protagonist gains Heaven's favor.
If my family bleeds, my fate accelerates toward annihilation.
Conclusion—
Azrael yawned.
"Tell the formations division," he said lazily, "that the western suppression array is misaligned."
The guard blinked. "B-But, Your Highness, the western array is sealed by imperial authority. Only the Empress—"
Azrael's gaze lifted.
For a fraction of a breath, the air froze.
The guard's soul screamed.
Not from killing intent.
From recognition.
A predator.
A dragon.
"Do it," Azrael repeated softly.
The guard fled.
The moment the door shut, Azrael straightened.
His lazy posture vanished.
The weak prince mask shattered.
Power—not unleashed, but acknowledged—stirred beneath his skin.
"System," he whispered.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Target Detected: Minor Fate Bearer (Enemy Commander)
Opportunity: Fate Interference
Condition: Kill / Collapse
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Azrael stepped toward the balcony.
Outside, the imperial palace burned.
Above it all, unseen by mortals, threads of fate twisted violently.
Azrael smiled.
"Let the crisis begin," he said.
Tonight, the Useless Prince awakens.
And fate takes its first breath of fear.
The balcony doors slid open without a sound.
Azrael stepped into the night.
Heat slapped his face first—burning talismans detonating against the palace shields, the copper-sweet scent of blood carried on formation winds. Below him, the imperial complex writhed like a wounded beast. Towers blazed. Courtyards churned with cultivators clashing mid-air, sword light and spellfire ripping open the dark.
He leaned against the balustrade, posture loose, almost bored.
Inside, the dragon stirred.
Pathetic, a distant, ancient instinct scoffed.
Azrael ignored it.
This was not the time for majesty.
This was the time for surgery.
A ripple passed through the palace—subtle, but absolute. Every formation rune along the western quadrant flickered, hesitated, then realigned by a hair's breadth. To any formation master, it would look like routine correction.
To Azrael, it was a guillotine being nudged into position.
Below, an enemy commander—robed in crimson, haloed by stolen Heaven luck—raised his spear, laughing as imperial guards fell back.
"Pathetic empire!" the man roared. "Your dragons are extinct! Your royal blood is thin!"
Azrael's eyes cooled.
Target acquired, the System whispered.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Fate Bearer Identified
Name: Xun Kai
Fate Rank: Minor Heaven-Linked
Status: Active
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Azrael lifted one finger.
He didn't chant.
Didn't form seals.
Didn't even focus particularly hard.
He simply allowed a fraction of his sealed authority to leak.
The western formation snapped shut.
Not explosively.
Precisely.
Space folded inward by a margin so small no ordinary cultivator could perceive it—except the one standing at its center.
Xun Kai's laughter cut off.
His spear bent.
His bones screamed.
"What—?!"
Gravity inverted.
Pressure descended like a dragon's claw pressing a bug into stone.
With a wet, anticlimactic crunch, the enemy commander collapsed—flesh, soul, and fate crushed into a single, extinguished point.
No spectacle.
No witnesses.
Just… gone.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Fate Devoured
Minor Heaven Luck
Cultivation Insight (Fire Path)
Destiny Fragment
Dragon Core Resonance: +0.1%
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Azrael exhaled slowly.
So that was how it felt.
Not power.
Ownership.
Somewhere far above, beyond the world's firmament, Heaven shuddered.
Azrael smiled faintly.
Behind him, footsteps echoed.
Measured. Regal. Unhurried.
Only one person walked through a burning palace as if strolling a garden.
"Azrael."
The voice was calm. Cold. Beautiful.
The Empress.
Azrael turned.
Lilith Noctyrr Valebane stood framed by firelight, her imperial robes untouched by ash, her eyes sharp enough to dissect souls. Power coiled around her like a sleeping serpent—terrible, restrained, absolute.
She looked at her third son.
The useless one.
The disappointment.
Her gaze lingered.
For the first time in years… it sharpened.
"The western array stabilized," she said. "You did that."
Not a question.
Azrael slouched, scratching his cheek.
"…Did I?" he replied lazily. "I just told a guard it looked crooked."
The palace shook as another explosion thundered.
Lilith studied him in silence.
Then—she smiled.
A smile that had presided over executions.
"Interesting," she murmured. "Very interesting."
She turned toward the chaos.
"The Crown Prince is pinned at the Azure Pavilion," she said. "If he falls tonight, our enemies gain momentum. Heaven gains leverage."
Azrael's eyes flicked up.
For a heartbeat, the weak prince mask cracked.
Just enough.
"Then," he said softly, "he won't fall."
Lilith paused.
Slowly, she looked back.
And for the briefest instant, the Empress of the Eternal Nocturne Empire felt something she had not felt in centuries.
Anticipation.
"Stay behind me," she ordered.
Azrael smiled—and obeyed.
Like a good, useless son.
Above them, fate threads twisted violently.
Some snapped.
Others slithered toward Azrael's hands.
The dragon stirred again.
Hungry.
—