The first thing Kael felt was... silence. Not peace—just the kind that's too quiet, like a void after something terrible has happened.
He opened his eyes.
Silk banners hung above him. Candlelight flickered across polished stone floors. And people—too many people—stood around him. Knights in armor. Cloaked nobles. All staring. Some looked like they'd seen a ghost.
Maybe they had.
"Your Grace…"
A voice, shaky and quiet. "Y-You collapsed. During the duel. We—We thought you were—"
Dead?
Kael blinked slowly. The words didn't land right. None of this made sense. His head throbbed like a muffled war drum, and something beneath his skin itched—like static.
Then it hit.
[System initializing…][User: Kael Virellius][Class: Villain Lord of the Northern Flame][Status: Normal][ERROR: Runtime mismatch. Anchor corrupted.]
He flinched. What the hell?
The voice in his head wasn't his. It was digital. Cold. Broken. And it was lying. He wasn't "normal." He wasn't even… sure he was real right now.
"Where… am I?" His voice sounded strange. Hoarse. Like it didn't belong to him.
A tall man in silver armor stepped forward. "You're in the Grand Hall, Your Grace. You fell—struck during a duel with the Crown Heir. You were… bleeding out. Then…" He hesitated. "Then, you stopped."
"Stopped?"
"Everything. Your pulse. Your breathing. We called for a priest. The rites were halfway done."
Kael stared at him. So… I died. Again.
But if this was death, it was cleaner than the last time. Too clean. Too shiny. No mud. No fire. No gunshots.
Why do I remember… a battlefield?
Then—snap.
The world twisted. The floor vanished. Cold air slapped his face.
He was somewhere else.
A scream. Smoke. Gunfire. A soldier—his soldier—dragging a wounded man across scorched concrete. "Kael, MOVE!"
His body reacted on instinct, spinning toward the sound—just in time to see the explosion tear through—
Snap.
Back. The Grand Hall again. He staggered slightly. The world spun.
The people around him froze. One of the knights dropped his sword.
"You... vanished," someone whispered.
Kael didn't answer. His hands were shaking. Just a little. He made them stop.
[Temporal Sync Error: Detected. Anchor Unstable.][System Recovery: 7% complete]
He didn't even know what the system was. Or why it was inside his head. But it was glitching. And somehow, so was he.
"No one leaves this room." His voice came out too calm. Too flat.
People obeyed immediately.
He glanced at his reflection in a glass vase: pale skin, white hair matted across his forehead, eyes the color of moonlit steel.
Was this really him?
Or was it just... a role?
"I want answers," he said, pacing now. "What year is it?"
A few nobles exchanged nervous glances.
"It's the 9th year of the Ember Throne," one finally said. "Your Grace… surely you remember?"
Kael didn't respond. Ember Throne? What the hell kind of name was that? He was trying to act normal. Calm. But every second he felt like screaming.
He gripped the edge of a marble column to steady himself.
Focus, Kael. You're not dead. Or maybe you are. Whatever this is… it's not your world. But it's yours now.
"You said the Crown Heir struck me down?"
The knight stiffened. "Yes. During the ceremonial duel. But it was supposed to be practice. You… collapsed after the first strike. Your Grace, the healer said your heart stopped."
Ceremonial. Right.
Then why had he just seen an explosion and men dying?
Kael exhaled slowly.
He turned and walked across the room, deliberately. Watching them all flinch like whipped dogs. Whatever "Kael Virellius" had done in the past—it was enough to make grown men tremble.
Maybe he wasn't the real villain here. But if they thought he was...
Why not use it?
"Prepare my quarters," he said. "I want every guard removed. I want the door sealed from the inside. Anyone who interrupts my rest dies on sight."
Whispers rose like smoke.
"But—Your Grace—"
He turned his head slightly.
The knight stopped talking.
Alone at last, Kael stood before a tall mirror in his chambers. The room was beautiful—vaulted, gilded, impossibly pristine. Too pristine.
[Sync Error. Identity mismatch detected.][System suggests memory rollback.]
"Yeah, no thanks." He muttered.
He reached toward the glass. His reflection followed, of course. But something about it felt... delayed. Like a bad game render.
"I don't belong here, do I?" he asked the mirror. "Neither does this face. Or these powers."
There was a knock.
He didn't move.
A second knock. Firmer.
Then the door creaked open—without permission.
A woman stepped in. Red hair, pulled tight. A blade strapped to her thigh. Her face? Ice. Controlled rage.
"You should be dead," she said, shutting the door behind her. "We saw your coffin. I helped bury you."
Kael tilted his head. "So… did I make a good corpse?"
"No jokes. Not now."
He studied her silently.
"You're not the same man," she said. "Something's wrong."
Kael's smirk faltered. For a moment, just a flicker, something real crossed his eyes. Pain? Or fear?
He covered it fast.
"You're right," he said softly. "I'm not."