There was a moment, just a flicker, where he thought he was dreaming.
The scent of steel, sweat, and sun-scorched stone drifted through the air. Somewhere, wind chimes clinked in the breeze. His hands ached, his chest rose and fell with unfamiliar rhythm, and the weight of a sword sat heavy in his grip.
Then came the voices.
"You're trembling, Adam. Try not to wet yourself this time."
The jeering laughter stung as if meant for him, not just the body he inhabited.
Something was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
He blinked rapidly. The world didn't shift or blur as dreams usually did. His vision was razor sharp. The courtyard stretched before him, polished white marble, scorched training dummies lining the edge, noble-blooded warriors watching from the shade. The Durell crest, a black hound wrapped in chains, hung from the far banners.
This wasn't a dream. This was the novel.
His knees weakened. The sword almost slipped from his hands.
No. No, that's not possible. This... this is fiction.
But the truth pressed against his skull like a blade to the throat. He remembered the training grounds. The marble. The duel. The mockery. The death.
Adam Durell. Third son of House Durell. Reckless. Arrogant. Disposable.
In the novel, The Culling Blade, Adam was a footnote. He challenged his elder brother during training, overstepped, and was killed. The family brushed it off. The story moved on. His death was the first domino, a lesson in failure, a stepping stone to the greatness of another.
And now he was him.
His heart thundered in his chest. Sweat prickled at his collar. It was real, the sting of the sun, the cool breeze slipping through the northern pines, the ache in his arm muscles from a body not his own.
A voice snapped him back.
"Adam Durell. Step forward."
It was the instructor, Sir Halmon, he remembered from the book. Strict, fair, loyal to House Durell. And utterly unconcerned with what was about to happen.
He turned his head, and there stood Roderic Durell.
Tall. Immaculate. Eyes like carved marble. His older brother by birthright and by brilliance, and the one who would end him.
Just like the story.
I die here. I die here unless...
The urge to scream, to call a halt to it all, clashed with instinct. He couldn't look weak. Adam never did, and weakness was blood in the water to a family like this.
He forced his feet forward.
The onlookers smirked. Some were knights. Others nobles-in-training. Among them, he spotted Serana Durell, his younger sister. Silver hair braided down her back, a faint curl to her lips. Amused, as if watching a hound try to fight a lion.
Alric Durell was there too, the second brother. Reclining lazily on the wall, eyes half-lidded but glinting with interest. Of them all, Alric smiled the most when things went wrong.
"Begin when ready," Halmon said.
No. Not yet. Give me a second. Just one second to think.
Adam's mind raced. He had maybe a minute before the fight started, before Roderic came at him with form-perfect strikes, and he made the fatal mistake of parrying low instead of high.
That's how he died in the novel.
That's what was meant to happen.
Unless I change something.
He glanced at the sword in his hands. Too heavy. Unbalanced. His grip was unfamiliar, he could feel the difference. This wasn't his body, but he could feel its memories somewhere in the back of his mind. Muscle memory. Rage. Pride.
Adam had never wanted to lose.
But he didn't want to die.
Stay alive. That's the only goal now. Don't try to win. Just survive.
He raised the sword into a defensive stance.
Roderic's eyes narrowed. "You've learned to guard. I'm impressed."
There was no mockery in his tone, that was the worst part. Roderic didn't hate Adam. He didn't care enough to hate him.
He's not trying to kill me. He's trying to teach me a lesson. That's why it's so easy for him in the book. He's not even serious.
Sir Halmon dropped his hand.
"Begin!"
Roderic moved like water over stone, precise, fast, beautiful.
Adam barely raised his blade in time. The impact rattled his bones, forced his feet back three paces. The force cracked through his shoulder. He tasted blood.
Another strike, downward, like a guillotine. He sidestepped, stumbled, dropped to a knee. Parried with the flat of the blade.
He's not fighting to kill me yet. That's my window.
Adam didn't try to strike. Instead, he scrambled, using his momentum to put distance between them. He ducked behind one of the training dummies, catching his breath.
The crowd laughed.
"Running already, brother?"
But he felt it, the shift. Roderic's stance tightened. His amusement faded. He was annoyed now. He hadn't expected Adam to avoid the second blow. He was recalibrating.
Which meant he wasn't perfect.
Adam spat blood and wiped his mouth. "You've gotten slower, brother."
That did it.
Roderic's face turned still. Calm anger, the kind that led to broken bones. He charged, this time with more force. Less restraint.
Exactly what Adam wanted.
He dropped low. Not to strike, not to parry, but to dodge. The blade swept overhead, missing by inches.
Cheers turned to murmurs.
Another clash. This time, Adam took the hit to the shoulder and let it carry him backward, rolling with the momentum. He didn't fight the impact, he used it.
His lungs burned. His hands were shaking. But he was still alive.
This is it. I'm rewriting the scene. I'm already off-script.
He rose again, sword dragging in the dirt, half-slumped.
Roderic came in for the finisher, a downward arc, exactly like the novel described.
But Adam shifted.
Instead of blocking, he stepped forward into the strike, angled his shoulder, the flat of the blade glanced off his armor. He slammed the hilt of his own sword into Roderic's side.
It wasn't enough to wound.
But it was enough to stop the kill.
The crowd gasped.
Roderic stepped back, face hard.
"Sir Halmon," Adam wheezed. "I yield."
There was silence.
Then Halmon nodded. "Bout concluded. He yields with honor."
Roderic stared at him for a moment longer, then turned away with a faint nod.
The crowd didn't cheer. They just murmured. Confused. Curious.
Adam dropped to one knee again, coughing, blood dripping from his lips.
But he didn't care.
He'd done it.
He'd survived.
[Narrative Divergence Detected...
Tyrant System Initialization Complete...]
A glowing panel appeared in front of him.
---
[TYRANT SYSTEM INSTALLED]
You have defied your pre-written fate.
You were never meant to survive this day.
Welcome, Usurper.