Today was the first day of the rest of my life.
Again.
The train wheezed its way up the mountain path, gears grinding like the old world didn't want to let us go. Through the window, I saw it—Velthorn Academy. Perched like a predator between the peaks. Seven towers, one for each school of magic. All proud. All impossibly tall. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. If fairy tales came with blood sacrifices and gods that forgot your name.
I adjusted the academy robe hanging off my shoulder. Too loose. They didn't have my size. I hadn't exactly registered under my real name.
"First time?" the kid beside me asked. Blue hair, wide eyes, stupidly friendly.
I didn't answer. Just looked away, slow. He got the message.
Good.
Let them think I was some moody bastard. Easier that way.
Inside, I wanted to thank him for breaking the silence. But that's not what villains do. And right now, that's what I was playing.
They say the Academy only accepts the best. Chosen ones. Prodigies. Children of fate. That's a lie. It accepts anyone the system deems "statistically significant." I was the outlier. The deviation. The repeat.
This was my third time here. Or the third version of me. Depends how you look at it.
When the train screeched to a halt, the other students rushed out, carrying hopes and duffle bags. I stepped off last. No luggage. No excitement. Just a folder of forged documents and a scar that ran from my collarbone to somewhere I stopped checking.
A magical guide orb blinked at me. "Aslan Mordrake, Room C-09."
Right. That was my new name.
I walked the path to the dorms under stares and whispers. A hood covered most of my face, but not enough to hide the vibes. People always sensed it—the difference. Some called it aura. Some called it danger. I called it baggage.
A group of upper-years blocked the hall near the east wing.
"You lost, newbie?" one said, twirling a training wand.
I could've walked around. Apologized. Let it slide.
Instead, I stared at him.
"Do I look lost to you?"
"You look like you're about to eat the floor."
"Then try me."
He didn't.
He chuckled, backed off. "Alright, freak. Chill."
It wasn't bravado. I wasn't strong—not yet. But fear isn't just about strength. It's about conviction. People can sense when someone's willing to bleed to prove a point. I always was.
My room was small. Bed, desk, dusty window. Better than my last two timelines.
I sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled.
No system yet. No cheat sheet. No magic tutorial.
The world expected me to be special. The cruel joke was that I was… just not in a way anyone understood.
Afternoon rolled around. Orientation was in the central arena. I walked in ten minutes late, made sure I was noticed.
"Name?" barked the instructor.
"Aslan Mordrake."
He frowned. Checked the list. "...You're not scheduled for duels."
"I signed up late."
He didn't believe me. I didn't care.
The arena was massive—stone platforms suspended in the air, students seated in concentric circles above. Everyone got a front-row seat to the humiliation parade.
Today was part of the entrance exam combat evaluations. The practicals.
I took a step into the ring.
"Opponent?"
The instructor squinted. "Neria Velane."
Of course it was her.
She strutted in like she owned the arena. Neria Velane—poster girl for the House of Valor. Tall, poised, and annoyingly symmetrical. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a high braid that whipped behind her like she was in some propaganda vid. Her sharp green eyes scanned the crowd like she was cataloging future underlings. Cheekbones you could cut glass with. Full lips curled into a rehearsed smirk. Perfect. Controlled. Fake.
And gods, did she love to pose. The kind of girl who looked like she'd slap you for breathing wrong and then win a medal for it.
She bowed. "Let's have a good match."
I didn't bow. "Try not to cry when it's over."
Gasps from the audience.
Her eyes narrowed. "That confidence won't help when you're flat on your back."
I rolled my shoulders. "Wouldn't be the first time."
The duel began.
She charged like lightning. Fast. Strong. Trained. She threw a flurry of blows that should've knocked me out.
I dodged. Barely. Let her graze me on purpose. Showed weakness.
The audience roared.
Then I hit back.
Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to shock. A well-placed palm to her chestplate sent her skidding back.
She looked stunned.
"Still standing," I muttered.
I didn't use spells. Didn't activate a single glyph. Just raw movement, timing, and fear.
She came back stronger. Fire infused fists. I deflected one. Took the second to the ribs.
Pain exploded in my side.
"Good," I thought. "Make it believable."
She rushed again. I grabbed her wrist, twisted, and dropped her.
Match over.
Silence.
Then chaos.
"Incredible! Who is he?" "He's not on the roll!" "Was that luck?"
I stood there. Not triumphant. Just breathing.
No hand extended. No congratulations. I turned away before the applause even started.
Arrogance wasn't a mask. It was armor.
"If you want to pose as the hero of your house, at least try not to roll around in the dirt in public" I whispered without looking back.
"W-what?! You..." she looked like she wanted to chop me into pieces, but I had already left the arena.
That night, I sat under the moonlight on the dorm roof, ribs bruised, heart heavier than it should be.
The first day was over. No one knew me. No one trusted me. They wouldn't see me cry. They wouldn't see me care.
But I did.
Every time I belittled someone, I remembered who they'd be in ten years. I pushed them to grow. Forced them to awaken.
It was cruel.
But it was necessary.
A system notification blinked in my peripheral vision.
[System Initiating…]
I flinched.
[Welcome back, Asmo.]
Oh no.
They remembered me.
[Special Condition Unlocked: "Villain Number Zero." Do you accept this path?]
I stared.
[Y/N]
I closed my eyes and sighed. What was the use of giving options when one clearly had none?
Y.
Let them hate me. Let them curse my name.
If it meant they survived the end…
I could live with that.
Even if I never did.