Chapter: 4 [Despair] [1]
How does one know if they are a protagonist or not? It's simple, really. There are certain atmospheric consistencies, a set of recurring cosmic clichés that all main characters possess.
First, they must have a miserable, soul-crushing past—a backstory designed specifically to harvest sympathy from the masses. They usually start their path to power later than everyone else, a "late bloomer" trope that makes their eventual explosion in strength feel more dramatic. They are invariably smart, often handsome, and possessed of either a "heavenly talent" or, paradoxically, no talent at all—which is just a mask for a hidden, god-tier bloodline. They rank up with a speed that defies logic; people despise them at first, only to fall in love with them once they show a hint of their true power. And then there are the "extras": a sentient system, a legendary treasure, a ghostly mentor living in a ring, or memories of a past life that grant them the knowledge of a god.
This is how protagonists are built. They are easy to detect if you know where to look. And that was how I was able to determine, with chilling certainty, that the boy who had beaten me into the dirt was the "Main Character." He was the one destined to build a harem of beauties and reach the apex of this world. And I? I was just the dirt under his boots.
As I pushed open the heavy, reinforced doors and entered the main hall, the sheer scale of the manor's interior hit me with the force of a physical blow. The living and dining areas were a masterclass in royal excess, a place where money was clearly used as a weapon to remind guests of their insignificance. Every corner was adorned with rare flora; exotic, bioluminescent flowers dripped from porcelain vases that looked like they cost more than a commoner's life, their petals shedding a faint, sparkling dust that shimmered in the air like microscopic diamonds.
The carpets beneath my feet were woven from the silver-white furs of high-rank mana beasts, so thick and soft that my footsteps were completely swallowed, making me feel like I was walking on a cloud made of luxury. Even the floorboards were made of high-quality marble, polished to such a degree that the golden light from the massive crystal chandelier above seemed to dance in the stone like trapped lightning.
The furniture—the high-backed chairs and the heavy sideboards—was carved from dark, lustrous African Blackwood, shining brilliantly like obsidian under the morning sun. Maids in stiff, charcoal-grey uniforms moved like ghosts, their movements perfectly synchronized as they silently served silver platters of aromatic dishes. The smell was overwhelming: the savory scent of roasted mana-boar, the sweet fragrance of nectar-soaked fruits from the southern islands, and the sharp, metallic tang of high-grade nutrient soups.
The dining table itself was a behemoth of that same black wood, its surface inlaid with a massive pane of tempered glass that allowed a clear view of the intricate, jet-black carpet beneath. It was a table designed for a dynasty, capable of seating a dozen people with room to spare.
As I approached, the low hum of conversation died a sudden, violent death. The clinking of silver cutlery against fine china stopped. Every face at the table turned toward me, their gazes ranging from the cold, clinical indifference of a scientist looking at a failed specimen to the active, simmering disgust of a noble forced to share space with a beggar.
Sitting at the head of the table was my blood-related uncle, Matrix Leafs. He was an [A+] ranker, a man whose name was etched into the kingdom's military history for several successful "cleansing" operations in the borderlands. He was tall and lanky, standing at 183 cm, but don't let the lack of visible muscle fool you. His frame was lean and whip-cord sharp, like a rapier hidden in a cane. His skin was unnervingly fair, almost translucent, and his features were sharp and handsome, framed by jet-black hair and piercing light-green eyes that seemed to calculate the price of everything they landed on. He was in his early forties, and beneath that mask of noble elegance, he was a man consumed by a silent, ravenous greed.
Beside him sat his wife, my aunt Sasa Leafs. A [B] ranker of neutral standing, she was undeniably beautiful, with midnight-black eyes and cascading brown hair that fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. In public, she was the epitome of cold, aristocratic grace, but she had been smiling warmly—genuine warmth, the kind I had never seen directed at me—at the boy next to her. The moment our eyes met, that smile vanished so quickly it was as if it had never existed, replaced by a thin, hard line of disappointment that cut deeper than any insult.
I averted my gaze, my skin crawling as if invisible insects were marching across it, and saw him.
The protagonist. Aaron Hein.
Even at fifteen, he didn't possess a shred of immaturity. His eyes were like twin abysses—bottomless, black, and unnervingly calm, as if he had already seen the end of the world and found it boring. He stood at 182 cm, already towering over me, his posture radiating a quiet, unshakable confidence that only comes from knowing you are favored by the heavens. He was a [G+] ranker, the very person who had recently used my face as a punching bag to test his newly awakened powers. He was the "Main Character," which meant he had the ultimate weapon: Plot Armor. He was destined to win, regardless of the odds, and I was just a stepping stone on his path to divinity.
Just six months ago, Aaron Hein was considered "trash," a late-awakener who couldn't even circulate a single drop of mana. Yet in half a year, he had absorbed nearly 6,000 EXP. That was an average of 33 EXP daily. 33 EXP. To put that into perspective, even with my [Mist Breath] 1-Star manual—a manual my father had spent a small fortune on—and pushing my physical limits until my veins felt like they were bursting and my lungs were on fire, I could barely scrape together 10 EXP a day. People claim "young masters" like me have it easy, but one argument with a protagonist like Aaron is enough to incinerate your entire future. No one is a villain in their own story; it's all a matter of perspective. If I had been reincarnated into Aaron's body, everyone reading this would be cheering for my "revenge" instead of wishing for my downfall.
'As expected,' I thought, watching the scene unfold with a bitter taste in my mouth.
Everyone was busy currying favor with him, trying to bind their fates to his rising star before he became unreachable. As a typical MC, Aaron had the required tragic past. His parents, Aston and Natasha Hein, had been elite [S] and [S-] rankers—the strongest Viscounts of their era—before they mysteriously disappeared during a mission in the Forbidden Forest. His grandfather had vanished into the wilds searching for them, and his grandmother had spiraled into a meditative depression, leaving the household in shambles.
Aaron had been left to the "mercy" of his step-uncle, Zorak Hein, a man who had snatched the family's assets and treated Aaron worse than a stray dog in his own home. That was Aaron's life until six months ago. Then, he awakened, and the "trash" became a god in the making.
My predecessor, the original Ascera, had been stupid enough to bully Aaron because my fiancée, Rosy Maple, had shown more interest in the "trash" than in her own betrothed. It was a classic setup for disaster, and the old Ascera had walked right into the trap.
I stepped further into the room, my shoes clicking rhythmically on the marble, noticing my uncle's personal butler, Vera Ort, taking his place behind Matrix. Vera's crimson eyes flickered with a rare, genuine spark of respect as he nodded to Aaron. Aaron, in turn, gave a sharp, regal nod back, his chin lifted just enough to show his status. The alliance was already forming, and I was the common enemy.
There were ten of us in the room now. Aside from the power players, there was my grandfather, Jack Leafs, a formidable [S-] ranker who looked no older than thirty-five despite being in his sixties, his skin perfectly preserved by high-rank cultivation. Beside my aunt was my grandmother, Tina Leafs, an [A+] ranker who smelled faintly of old parchment and jasmine, with my five-year-old cousin Ray bouncing on her lap, oblivious to the tension.
And then there was Rosy Maple. My ex-fiancée. She was a [G] rank beauty with blonde hair tied in high twin-tails and blue eyes that looked like sharpened sapphires. She wore a thin white gold chain around her neck and a light red gown made of rare fire-silk that did absolutely nothing to hide her developing, athletic curves. Looking at her, I felt a familiar, annoying heat rise to my face.
'Aahh, fuck.'
It wasn't my fault. I was twenty in my head, but this body was fifteen, surging with hormones and biological imperatives. Back on Earth, I had spent enough time on the internet to know what I was looking at. Seeing a girl like Rosy in the flesh, with the morning light catching the curve of her neck and the shimmer of her dress, was a different beast entirely. I'm not a pervert, I'm just a normal guy trapped in a teenager's body, I told myself, trying to ignore the way the red silk hugged her figure with every breath she took.
Beside her sat Jasmine Leafs, my uncle's daughter and a [G-] ranker. She was beautiful, certainly, with the same sharp features as her father, but when I looked at her, I didn't feel attraction. I felt a cold, oily sensation of hatred rising from my gut. In the memories of the old Ascera, Jasmine wasn't just a sister—she was a rival who had looked down on him his entire life, mocking his slow progress and his mediocre talent. To her, I wasn't a brother; I was a stain on the family crest.
I stood at the edge of the table, the "villain" among "heroes," the only one without a seat or a warm welcome. I realized then that if I wanted to survive this breakfast—and the rest of my life—I wouldn't just need to eat. I'd need to navigate a room full of people who would be more than happy to see my name removed from the family register and my body cold in the ground. I took a deep breath, steadying my hands, and prepared to play the part they expected, while planning a future they would never see coming.