The first thing he felt was pain.
It seeped into every corner of his body, a dull, relentless ache that made even breathing feel like dragging rusted iron through his lungs. His eyes fluttered open, catching the faint glow of candlelight dancing across an ornate ceiling painted with angels and warriors—mocking reminders of strength in a body that had none.
He tried to move. His fingers twitched, trembling like twigs caught in the wind. That tiny effort sent a stabbing throb through his chest, forcing him to stop.
Weak…
The word rolled bitterly in his mind, sharper than any blade.
He wasn't supposed to be like this.
He remembered—at least, fragments. A different life. A life where he hadn't been bound by a body that betrayed him with every heartbeat. He remembered streets, noise, books, choices. But that was gone now. What he had instead was a frail vessel that belonged to a boy others had already given up on.
The door creaked open. A maid entered, her steps soft, her eyes cast downward in the practiced manner of servants who had long since stopped expecting thanks. She carried a tray with medicine bottles and a bowl of thin soup.
"Your medicine, young master." Her voice was flat, professional.
He stared at the vials. Bitter concoctions meant to ease the pain, not cure it. He knew this body's fate already—the Duke's third son, bedridden since childhood, diagnosed with a rare disease that would waste away his organs until he withered before reaching twenty.
An extra.
That was his role in this world's tale.
In the original story—the one he had stumbled into by fate or misfortune—the Duke's terminally ill son existed only as a background note. Mentioned once, pitied briefly, then forgotten when the "true" protagonist rose to glory.
That was supposed to be him. A stepping stone. A name without weight.
But the difference now was simple: the soul inside wasn't the same.
He took the medicine, not because he believed in it, but because he needed to keep the body moving a little longer. The liquid burned his throat, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste that clung stubbornly to his tongue.
The maid left without a word. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint ticking of a clock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Each sound was a reminder. A countdown.
How many ticks until his heart stopped? How many tocks until this fragile shell caved in?
He could almost hear it—fate whispering mockingly: You will die forgotten, like you were meant to.
"…No."
The whisper slipped past his lips before he realized it. His voice was hoarse, raw, but laced with something his body couldn't erase.
Resolve.
"I won't die like this. Not as some footnote in another man's story. Not as an extra villain forgotten in the margins."
His chest burned with the effort of speaking, but he didn't stop.
"I don't care if they call me monster, tyrant, villain—I will live."
The words echoed faintly in the lonely chamber, but they were enough. Enough to mark the moment where weakness began to twist into something sharper.
If he couldn't rely on this failing body, then he would rely on his mind.
If medicine couldn't cure him, then he would cure himself.
If fate insisted on his death, then he would carve a new ending with his own hands.
The Duke didn't care about him. The brothers mocked him. The nobles dismissed him. The world had already consigned him to the grave.
Good.
That meant no one would see him coming.
He closed his eyes again, letting the pain wash over him, letting it remind him of the chains binding him. Chains that he would break, no matter the cost.
Somewhere deep inside, beneath the frail flesh and cursed blood, something stirred.
A faint pulse.
Dark, cold, but alive.
Not illness. Not death.
Power.
It was buried beneath layers of agony, sealed by the disease eating at him, but he felt it. Like a beast waiting in the dark, snarling for release.
For the first time since awakening in this broken body, he smiled.
Weak. Yes. Dying. Yes.
But powerless?
No.
Not for long.
The candle flickered, shadows stretching across the walls like grasping hands. He looked at them and whispered, voice barely audible but steady.
"If fate wants a villain, then I'll be the greatest villain it's ever seen."
The candlelight trembled, as if the world itself had heard his vow.
And in that trembling glow, the prologue of a dying boy's tale began—
A tale not of surrender, but of survival.
A tale of the extra villain.