I spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, trying to organize memories that weren't mine alongside knowledge that was too real. The world of Elysia sprawled out in my mind like a map I'd drawn but never walked—until now.
In my novel, The Hero is Born, a hero was prophesied to save the continent from the Demon King Malphas. That hero was Alex Clay, a seventeen-year-old commoner destined to awaken incredible power, gather companions, and fight the encroaching darkness.
The story followed the classic formula: humble beginnings, a mysterious power awakening, and attending the prestigious Lovina Royal Academy, where he'd face discrimination. Alex would eventually prove his worth and lead a rebellion against both the demons and the corrupt nobles who enabled them. A simple narrative of good versus evil with clear moral lines.
Julius Vaelorian had been the epitome of everything wrong with the aristocracy. Entitled, cruel, and utterly lacking in empathy, he embodied the systemic rot that the hero would eventually cleanse. His attempted assault on Elaine Windrider—an elf maiden studying at the academy—was the final demonstration of noble corruption before her brother, Mathias Windrider, arrived to deliver justice.
But I wasn't writing from the outside anymore. I was living it.
A soft knock interrupted my brooding. Joseph entered with a precise, measured step that spoke of years serving the nobility.
"Young Master Julius," he said, his voice carrying a note of concern I'd never bothered to write into his character. "Lord Vaelorian requests your presence in his study. He says it's urgent."
My blood ran cold. In my previous life, the phrase "your father wants to see you" had never meant anything good. It meant I'd done something wrong, or that I was about to be blamed for something I didn't do, or that my father had been drinking. Even after his death, those words carried the weight of a dozen childhood beatings.
Joseph must have noticed my pale face because his expression softened. "Sir? Are you feeling well? Perhaps I should tell Lord Vaelorian you're still recovering—"
"No," I said too quickly, then forced myself to breathe. This wasn't Kim Jiwon's father. This was Duke Aldric Vaelorian, head of one of the most powerful noble houses in the kingdom. A man I'd written to be cold and demanding but not physically abusive. At least, not in the ways that mattered to the plot. But I'd never truly explored Julius's family life, had I? I'd focused on making him irredeemable without exploring what might have shaped him that way.
"I'll go," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My body felt strange—stronger than Jiwon's had ever been, but unfamiliar. "How do I look?"
Joseph helped me into proper attire—a silk shirt, a tailored jacket, and a jacket—everything expensive enough to feed a family for months. As he worked, I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror. Julius's face was undeniably handsome, but there was something in those violet eyes that looked hollow. Empty.
What kind of childhood creates a monster? I wondered. And why didn't I bother to ask that question when I was writing him?
"Young Master," Joseph said quietly as he adjusted my collar, "your father has been… particularly concerned since your incident in the forest. He's arranged several meetings with healers and—"
"What incident?" I asked, then realized I should probably know this. Julius had been found unconscious, supposedly after being attacked by bandits. But that was just the cover story for my transmigration, wasn't it?
Joseph's hands stilled. "Sir, you were found three days ago in the Darkwood Forest, beaten unconscious. The rescue party said it looked like you'd fought off multiple attackers but took significant injuries. Don't you remember?"
I shook my head, which seemed to worry him more. Great. Amnesia would be a convenient excuse for personality changes, but it would also raise questions I wasn't prepared to answer.
"Perhaps the trauma affected your memory," Joseph murmured. "That would explain why you seem… different."
Different. Right. The original Julius had been a nightmare of entitlement and cruelty, while I was just a traumatized writer trying not to have a panic attack at the prospect of facing another powerful father figure.
"Joseph," I said as we walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, "what kind of relationship do I have with my father?"
He glanced at me sharply. "Sir?"
"Humor me. I'm trying to remember."
Joseph was quiet for a long moment, weighing his words. "Lord Vaelorian is a demanding man who expects excellence from the Vaelorian name. He's… invested considerable effort in your education and conduct."
Diplomatic. But I caught the hesitation, the careful phrasing. In the servants' quarters, I imagined the conversations were less charitable.
We stopped in front of massive oak doors carved with the Vaelorian family crest—a dragon coiled around a sword. I'd described these doors briefly in Chapter 15, but seeing them in person was different. They felt like the entrance to a tomb.
"Shall I announce you, Young Master?"
"No," I said, then knocked myself.
"Enter."
The voice that answered was deep, commanding, and utterly without warmth. I pushed open the doors and stepped into what could only be described as a shrine to power. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and mounted weapons from campaigns I'd invented. Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat Duke Aldric Vaelorian.
He looked exactly as I'd envisioned him—tall, imposing, with silver hair and the same violet eyes that Julius had inherited. But where Julius's beauty had a cruel edge, his father's was as sharp as winter steel. Everything about him spoke of absolute authority, from his perfect posture to the way his gaze dissected everything it touched.
"Julius." He didn't look up from the documents he was signing. "Sit."
I sat in the chair across from his desk, feeling suddenly small despite Julius's height. The silence stretched, broken only by the scratch of his pen across parchment.
It was a power play I recognized from my own father—make them wait, make them wonder what they'd done wrong, make them feel guilty before you even speak.
But I'm not fifteen anymore, I reminded myself. And this isn't my father.
Finally, Duke Aldric set down his pen and fixed me with those cold violet eyes. "The healers tell me your physical injuries have mended, but they're concerned about potential damage to your mana core. How do you feel?"
"Better," I said, which seemed safe enough.
"Hmm." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with the intensity of a man evaluating livestock. "Joseph tells me you've been asking strange questions. Memory issues?"
I nodded.
"Convenient," he said dryly. "Perhaps a trauma-induced selective amnesia will help you forget some of your more… problematic behaviors."
Here it comes, I thought. Time to learn exactly what kind of monster the original Julius had been.
"Since you claim not to remember, let me refresh your recollection. In the past year alone, you have: assaulted three servants who 'looked at you wrong,' been expelled from two private academies for conduct unbecoming a noble, gambled away enough money to fund a small war, and most recently, were found in a brothel in the lower city engaged in activities that nearly resulted in a diplomatic incident with the Elvish Embassy."
My stomach turned. I'd written Julius as cruel and entitled, but hearing the specific details made it real in a way that fiction couldn't. These weren't just character flaws—they were crimes. Lives he'd damaged or destroyed for his own amusement.
"The Elvish incident," Duke Aldric continued, "involved you forcing yourself on a young elf woman who happened to be the niece of their ambassador. Only my considerable influence and a substantial donation to their cultural preservation fund prevented a complete breakdown in diplomatic relations."
Elaine Windrider. It had to be. I'd written that Julius assaulted her, leading to Mathias coming for revenge, but I'd never detailed what actually happened. Now the reality of it sat in my stomach like a stone. Julius hadn't just been a cartoon villain—he'd been a rapist. And now I was him.
"Father," I said quietly, "I—"
"You will not speak unless I give you permission," he cut me off with such cold authority that I flinched instinctively. The reaction was immediate and visceral—muscle memory from a childhood spent learning when to be quiet or face consequences.
Duke Aldric noticed my flinch, and something shifted in his expression. Not softness, exactly, but perhaps recognition.
"I have spent considerable time and resources attempting to mold you into something resembling a proper heir," he said. "Your mother, rest her soul, believed that love and patience would guide you toward righteousness. I told her that some children require a firmer hand."
Your mother. I'd never written anything about Julius's mother. She'd simply been absent from the story, irrelevant to the plot. But the way his father spoke of her, the past tense…
"She's dead?" I asked, forgetting the prohibition against speaking.
Duke Aldric's eyes flashed dangerously, but then he studied my face with new intensity. "You truly don't remember. Interesting. Yes, Julius. Your mother died when you were twelve. A riding accident."
The way he said it carried layers I couldn't parse. Accident. Sure. In a world where I'd written political intrigue and noble conspiracies, accidents were rarely accidental.
"After her death," he continued, "your behavior became increasingly… problematic. I had hoped that discipline would correct your course, but it seems I may have been too lenient."
Too lenient. Looking at this man who radiated cold control, I couldn't imagine what his idea of strict discipline looked like.
And suddenly I understood something about Julius that I'd never bothered to explore as his creator. He'd been a broken child who'd grown into a broken man. His cruelty wasn't just aristocratic entitlement—it was learned behavior. Survival mechanisms twisted into weapons against a world that had never shown him genuine love or safety.
Just like I'd been, before my father died.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. Julius and I weren't so different after all. We'd both been shaped by fathers who confused fear with respect, who used power as a tool for control rather than protection. The only difference was that Julius had been born with enough privilege to make his damage everyone else's problem.
"However," Duke Aldric said, his voice cutting through my revelation, "I have decided to give you one final opportunity to redeem the Vaelorian name."
He pulled out an official-looking document with an ornate seal. "You will be enrolled at Lovina Royal Academy for the upcoming term. You will conduct yourself with the dignity befitting your station. You will excel in your studies, forge appropriate connections with your fellow nobles, and you will not—under any circumstances—embarrass this family further."
Lovina Royal Academy. Where the hero Alex Clay would be starting his journey. Where the original plot of my novel would truly begin.
"If you fail to meet these expectations," Duke Aldric continued, "I will have you declared mentally incompetent and transfer the family inheritance to your cousin Marcus. You will spend the remainder of your days in comfortable but supervised seclusion, a ward of the family rather than its heir."
The threat was real. I could see it in his eyes—he'd already considered this option, probably preferred it. Julius was his son, but that blood tie meant less than the family's reputation.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," I said automatically.
"Good." He turned back to his papers, dismissing me with practiced indifference. "The term begins in two weeks. Joseph will help you prepare. Try not to burn down the estate before then."
I stood to leave, but something made me pause at the door. "Father?"
He didn't look up. "What?"
"What was my mother like?"
For the first time since I'd entered the room, Duke Aldric's composure cracked slightly. His pen stilled, and when he looked at me, there was something almost human in those cold eyes.
"She believed people could change," he said quietly. "Even when all evidence suggested otherwise."
Then the mask slipped back into place. "Get out."
I left his study with my mind reeling. The original Julius had been even worse than I'd imagined—not just cruel, but traumatized, shaped by a father who'd confused control with care and twisted by the loss of what might have been his only source of genuine love.
But I wasn't the original Julius anymore. I was Kim Jiwon, a man who'd spent his life trying to escape the cycle of damage his own father had started. And now I had a choice: become the monster Julius had been, or use his privileged position to write a different story entirely.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent three years writing about a hero who would save the world from corruption and evil. Now I had the chance to save it myself—not as the prophesied hero, but as the villain who died because his story demanded it.
Of course, first I'd have to survive long enough to matter. With Mathias Windrider eventually coming for revenge and a father who'd disown me at the first sign of public embarrassment, that was far from guaranteed.