Three years.
Three years had passed since the night Atticus vanished into thin air.
The Verian estate, once known for its unshakable calm, had never truly recovered. His disappearance was a wound that refused to close, a haunting absence that echoed through every corridor and courtyard.
---
The Mother
Lady Verian carried the grief most openly. In the first year, she searched ceaselessly, exhausting every favor, every thread of influence, even kneeling before temples in desperate prayers. Yet no god answered.
By the second year, her cries had quieted. She no longer wept before the servants or spoke of her lost son. Instead, her grief calcified into silence. She trained her children with harsher discipline, her voice rarely soft. In her eyes burned a single unyielding demand: become strong enough so no one can ever be taken again.
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The Sister
Selyra too had changed.
The once bright and mischievous girl now trained until her hands bled. The clan elders praised her for her discipline, her talent, her progress—but those who looked closer could see it. Every strike of her sword carried desperation, as though if she grew fast enough, strong enough, she could bring her brother back.
The bond they had shared, though brief, had rooted deeply in her. She never once doubted Atticus was alive. At night, when no one watched, she would whisper into the sky, "I'll find you, no matter how long it takes."
Her flame grew fiercer with every year. By the time she reached her early teens, she was already considered one of the brightest stars among the three great clans. Yet behind the brilliance lingered sorrow, sharp as a blade hidden under silk.
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The Twin
Razeal, however, was the hardest to read.
On the surface, he was unchanged—cold, calculating, reserved. He spoke little, smiled less. Yet those who watched closely saw the subtle cracks. The way he sometimes stared at the empty seat during meals. The nights he remained awake, gaze fixed at the ceiling, fists clenched.
Unlike Selyra, he did not voice his pain. Unlike his mother, he did not pray. His grief turned inward, buried deep inside a silence so heavy it became part of him.
And yet, somewhere in that silence, his system stirred.
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It was the month before the Coming-of-Age Ceremony. Razeal sat alone in his chamber, moonlight spilling across the floor. For years, his system had been a whisper of potential—guidance, small boosts, nothing more. But tonight, it trembled awake.
> [System Notice: Fate-thread stabilization nearing completion.]
[Host has endured temporal divergence. Core feature unlocked.]
[Access granted: Villain Archive.]
Razeal's breath caught. He sat straighter, eyes narrowing.
"Villain Archive…?" he muttered.
Before him, a black window appeared, stark against the pale moonlight. Unlike the blue glow of ordinary systems, this one pulsed with a darker, heavier aura—like a forbidden book opening its pages.
One by one, names appeared in crimson script:
> [Demon King Veylith – Destroyer of Ten Worlds.]
[The Pale Saint – Betrayer of Heaven.]
[Kain Shadowrend – Knife of Endless Revolutions.]
[Seraphina the Fallen – Angel of Calamity.]
And dozens more, each name heavier than the last. Figures who had defied gods, shattered empires, rewritten histories in blood. Villains whose very existence shaped entire eras.
A voice, deep and resonant, suddenly echoed through his mind.
"So, the new inheritor awakens…"
Razeal stiffened. His hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt, though he knew it was useless here.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
The shadows in the chamber thickened, forming the vague outline of a figure cloaked in darkness. Its presence pressed down on him like a mountain.
"We are the Archive. The echoes of villains who carved their marks across countless worlds. Through us, you will learn. Through you, we will rise again."
Razeal's pulse quickened. "Rise again? What do you mean?"
"Every villain is bound by fate to lose. Yet here you stand, outside the script. An anomaly. If you choose to walk our path, you will inherit our strength, our legacies, our sins. But know this, child—fate will not forgive you. Nor will the gods."
The shadow leaned closer, its form indistinct but its eyes burning crimson.
"Do you dare?"
Razeal's hands tightened into fists. He thought of Atticus, of the night his twin had vanished. He thought of the whispers of fate, of gods who played with lives as if they were nothing but threads on a loom.
For three years, he had felt powerless, watching his family break piece by piece. But now—now power was in his grasp.
"I dare," he whispered.
The shadow's grin cut through the darkness.
"Then let us begin, heir of ruin."
The window flared with light, and chains of black energy wrapped around Razeal's arms. They did not restrain—they branded. Etched into his very soul were fragments of the villains' legacies, searing pain and ecstasy alike flooding him.
Screams echoed faintly in his mind, not his own but belonging to countless figures across time. Their rage, their ambition, their despair, all pressed into him until he felt as though he would break.
Yet he did not break. He endured.
And when the light finally faded, the voice returned, softer this time, almost reverent.
"The Archive accepts you. Walk the path, and you will never again be powerless."
The chamber fell silent once more.
Razeal sat trembling, sweat slicking his brow, but his eyes—his eyes blazed with something new. Resolve. Hunger. A dangerous light that promised the world would never forget his name.
---
Outside, the Verian estate slept. Selyra dreamed of her brother's return. Their mother endured another sleepless night.
And in the shadows, Razeal began his descent into power.
Three years of grief had forged the family into something harder, sharper. But fate had not finished with them yet.
The Coming-of-Age Ceremony was near. And when it arrived, the seeds of ruin and fire alike would awaken.
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