Adam jolted awake, gasping, cold sweat streaming down his young body. For a moment he could not tell if he was still alive. His heart thundered in his chest—too fast, too loud, too strange for a body that wasn't his own.
Gold and silver lined the chamber walls, candlelight flickering across jeweled patterns. The carpet beneath his feet was so soft it felt as though it would swallow him whole. Silence pressed against his ears, heavy and unnatural. For a fleeting instant, he thought it was all a dream.
He raised a trembling hand before his face. Small fingers. Smooth skin. No scars. No blood. He stumbled to the mirror across the room. Reflected back at him was a boy of thirteen—a youthful face, unmarred, yet with eyes as black as voids carved from the abyss. No longer the scarred, broken man who had died at forty-five.
Adam laughed. A sharp, manic laugh that made the chandeliers rattle, the very clock seem to hesitate.
"Ha… ha… ha! It worked. Reality's Rune brought me back."
The door swung open. Standing there was Talia, his attendant. Her expression was strained, her eyes holding a quiet worry she dared not voice.
"Master Adam… are you well? I heard you laughing—"
She stopped mid-sentence, as if caught in the cold gravity that hung around him. There was something in his gaze that no child should possess.
Adam lifted his hand slowly. His voice was hoarse, detached.
"I'm fine. Do not let anyone near this room… for three hours."
Talia hesitated, then bowed, her voice no louder than a whisper.
"As you wish, young master."
She closed the door gently, leaving behind only the fading scent of cold coffee.
Adam sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. And then—inside his mind—a sound stirred. Not a voice of flesh, but a mechanical resonance, cold and precise:
[Greetings, Host. The Fate-Patch System has been activated.]
Adam drew in a sharp breath, then his lips curved into a thin, merciless smile.
"A system? And what are you supposed to be?"
[I am the residue of Reality's Rune. When you offered your soul, the threads of destiny tore. Your timeline was rewritten. My task is to guide you.]
Adam sneered.
"So not a god. Not a miracle. I opened this door myself."
[Correct. But the cost was severe. You were meant to die there. Now your destiny is fragile. Unless you restore your Fate Points, your very existence will unravel. You are not simply unlucky—you are unstable.]
His fists trembled. Darkness rippled in his eyes, the same abyss he had carried through death.
"Brought back… only to die again?"
[Reality does not decide. You do. There are ways to reclaim fate: by stealing opportunities from others, by devouring their futures, by killing your enemies… or by earning points through acts of virtue.]
Adam barked out a laugh filled with scorn.
"Virtue? You expect me to play the hero?"
[The choice is yours. The path of virtue is swift but treacherous—full of deceit. The path of blood is shorter, but drenched in death.]
He raised his head toward the mirror. The reflection showed a boy's face, innocent at first glance—but deep within his eyes, black chains glimmered with madness.
"I've always been the villain. The world demanded my death once before. This time, I'll make them understand—Adam cannot be buried."
[Your route has been fixed: The Villain's Path. Warning: blood and death will walk beside you.]
A cruel smile curved his lips, his chest swelling with the heat of vengeance. Memories crashed through him—Carlos's broken screams, his daughter's bloodied face, a forest burning in crimson flames. His laughter rang out again, echoing like steel scraping against stone.
"Blood and death… they are what I do best. This time, I won't just be the monster. I'll make reality itself writhe beneath me."
He lowered his voice, whispering like a curse:
"Status."
Light flickered in the air above the desk. Not neat tables of numbers, but fractured sparks of information—words blinking in and out of existence.
— Name: Adam von Lucivar.
— Age: Thirteen (new vessel).
— Fate: Undefined. Unstable.
Each flash left behind a faint ringing in his ears, as if something in the world recoiled from being touched. The system revealed no full truth—only fragments, hints, each glimpse costing something unseen.
Adam rose to his feet. His knees wavered, weak as air. His small hands clenched but held no strength. From the window, he saw a boy no older than nine swinging a wooden staff; one strike made the air itself ripple. The truth hit Adam like ice:
This body… was weaker than a child's.
His lips twisted in a bitter laugh.
"Then I won't rely on muscle. I'll make reality itself kneel."
He reached into the air as though dragging hidden letters from the void.
"Mana… sealed. But once I awaken its core, the world will know—the fallen has returned."
Silence followed. Yet within that silence burned a vow:
Not by strength of body, but by cunning and shadow, he would carve his path again.