Prologue: The End is the Beginning
The sterile glow of the monitor washed over Takeshi's face, painting his pale skin in ghostly hues. His bloodshot eyes, dry and stinging, remained fixed on the screen. There, shimmering in triumphant gold against a pitch-black background, were the words:
"Congratulations! You have completed Chronicles of the Eternal Blade - All Routes Cleared!"
Takeshi managed a smile, though it was brittle.
Three years. He had poured three years of his existence into this digital void. Not merely for the challenge—though the game was notoriously unforgiving—but for the narrative gravity that refused to let him go. Every route, every hidden ending, every nuance of dialogue; he had carved them into his memory.
"Finally. It is finished," he rasped. He stretched, and his spine cracked—a sharp, staccato protest against a forty-eight-hour marathon.
Chronicles of the Eternal Blade. It was a masterpiece of medieval fantasy, woven with intricate systems of magic and spirits. Players donned the mantle of Aldric Reinhardt, the scion of a knightly house, tasked with shielding the continent of Aethermoor from five cataclysmic calamities.
Takeshi could still recall the awe of his first playthrough. The sprawling world, the visceral combat, and above all, the characters. They breathed. They hurt. Even the villains carried souls scarred by tragedies so profound that striking the final blow often felt less like victory and more like mercy.
This held true especially for the three villainesses of the early arcs.
Lysandra Nightbloom. The silver-haired prodigy consumed by the Spirit of Despair. Takeshi remembered the gut-wrenching sound of her weeping as the spirit shattered, taking her fragile body with it.
Seraphina von Eisenhart. The tycoon's daughter who sought validation through conquest, dying with a smile of relief on her lips, finally free from the crushing weight of expectation.
Celeste Argentum. The platinum-haired mage who dabbled in forbidden rituals to save her kin, only to be consumed by the very magic she sought to master.
And then, there was Elara Starfall.
Oh, Elara.
She was Takeshi's favorite character in the entire mythos. A specialist in Star Magic with hair the color of a vibrant sunset and eyes of golden amber that always shimmered with life. She was cheerful, yes, but wise beyond her years—the kind of soul who always knew exactly which words would heal a fractured heart.
She was also the one who, in one of the game's most heartbreaking routes, sacrificed herself to save everyone from Nihilus, the World-Eater, a primordial entity of living void that descended from the heavens to swallow all light and matter into eternal nothingness.
Takeshi's chest tightened as he recalled that scene. The moment Elara cast the forbidden Ninth-Circle spell, "Stellar Detonation." She had turned her own life force into a supernova to obliterate the encroaching darkness of Nihilus, leaving nothing behind but fading stardust and a silence that felt too loud. He had wept openly the first time he watched it.
In this final playthrough, he had meticulously engineered the path where Elara survived. He had secured the happy ending she deserved. Yet, even in victory, the shadow of that potential sacrifice lingered. In Chronicles of the Eternal Blade, every miracle had a price.
"If only they could all be saved," Takeshi whispered, the silence of his room amplifying his regret. "If only..."
He sighed, the sound heavy in the empty room. "Well. It's just a game."
He pushed himself up, his legs trembling as he aimed for the sanctuary of his bed. But as he stood, the world tilted violently. A sudden vertigo seized him, spinning the room into a blur of colors.
"Eh?"
Before his hand could find the wall, the floor rushed up to meet him.
As the darkness finally swallowed him whole, Takeshi hoped—with the last shreds of his consciousness—that if there was an afterlife, perhaps he could find the peace that had always eluded him.
Maybe there, I won't be alone.
Then, nothing.
Cold.
That was the first sensation. Not the cool breeze of an air conditioner, but a damp, biting chill that gnawed at the marrow. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil and the copper tang of old blood.
Takeshi's eyes fluttered open.
He was not in his room. Above him stretched a rotting wooden ceiling, the cracks bleeding pale moonlight. He was sprawled on a floor of rough-hewn timber, hard and unforgiving.
"Where am I?"
The voice that scratched its way out of his throat was not his own. It was deeper, rougher, laced with an unfamiliar arrogance. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt leaden, screaming with phantom aches. As he braced his hand against the floor, he froze.
The hand beneath his gaze was a stranger's.
Long, slender fingers. Pale skin marred by faint, white scars. And there, gleaming on the ring finger, sat a piece of silver jewelry bearing a crest that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
The Ashford Family Crest.
"No. That's impossible."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his veins. He scrambled toward a jagged shard of mirror leaning against the corner, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He grabbed the glass, bringing it up to face the impossible truth.
Reflected in the dirty shard was a face he had seen a thousand times in cutscenes.
Disheveled, raven-black hair. Eyes the color of a stormy sea—dark, brooding, and devoid of light. A sharp, aristocratic jawline. And the defining mark: a thin, faded scar slicing across the left cheek.
"Vincent Ashford."
The name tasted like ash on his tongue. But as he spoke it, the dam broke. Memories—alien, jagged, and overwhelming—crashed into his mind.
Vincent Ashford. The third son. The minor antagonist of the prologue. The cruel, bullying noble who tormented the protagonist, Aldric, only to be humiliated and discarded by the narrative.
Takeshi—no, Vincent—knew this script. He knew that this character was destined to be exiled from the dorms, disowned by his family, and ultimately forgotten by the plot as the real story began.
"Ha. Haha."
A dry, rattling laugh escaped him. It had to be a hallucination. A dying dream. He couldn't possibly be inside the game he had just conquered.
But the pain was too vivid. The cold was too biting. The grit under his fingernails was too real.
With a groan, Vincent forced his battered body upright. He surveyed his domain: a dilapidated shed behind the academy dorms. A mattress spilling its stuffing, a rickety table drowning in parchment, and a window gaping open to the night. This was where the fallen noble lived.
"Why him?" he muttered, gripping his throbbing temples. "Of all the heroes, all the legends, why the petty villain?"
Yet, as the memories settled, a new truth emerged from the fog. A truth the game never told.
Vincent Ashford wasn't born a monster. He was made one. By his own design.
Crushed by the brilliance of his elder brothers and the icy expectations of his parents, the original Vincent had sought the only escape available: disgrace. He had crafted a mask of arrogance and cruelty, deliberately sabotaging his reputation so his family would have no choice but to cast him out.
He didn't want power. He wanted freedom.
"How ironic," Vincent whispered into the darkness. "You played the villain to save yourself."
Outside, the crunch of footsteps on gravel broke his reverie. Through the gaps in the rotting door, he saw shadows pass.
"Look, the trash is still here." "Sleeping in a shed like a stray dog." "Serves him right."
Vincent's fist clenched. Indignation flared in his chest—an echo of the original soul's pride. But he exhaled slowly, letting the anger dissipate.
He slumped back against the wall, staring at the moonlight.
"Fine," he murmured. "If this is reality—if I am truly in Chronicles of the Eternal Blade—then my priority is survival."
He knew the roadmap. Five arcs. Five catastrophes. Three tragedies.
Lysandra. Seraphina. Celeste.
And of course, Elara.
"I won't interfere," he decided, his voice firm. "Aldric is the hero. He carries the weight of the world. I am just an extra. I will live quietly, train in secret, and survive the chaos."
It was a logical plan. A safe plan.
But as the wind howled through the empty window, Vincent failed to realize one crucial thing: the moment an anomaly enters a system, the system changes.
Somewhere in the vast academy of Valtheris, the gears of fate began to grind in a new direction. Doomed girls slept unknowingly, their tragic destinies waiting in the wings.
Vincent Ashford closed his eyes, welcoming the exhausted sleep.
Tomorrow, his life as a villain would begin. He thought he could stay in the shadows.
He was wrong.