Chapter 7: Rudeus Blackheart 1
I stare at the mirror again, because it's the only thing that'll answer me honestly.
Rudeus Blackheart.
Yeah. That's the name. The bastard staring back at me with eyes too red, too sharp, too pretty for his own damn good. A name that hits my tongue like poison. A name I know all too well, because I've spent enough hours in front of a glowing screen to burn his miserable little story into my skull.
And I can't believe outta everyone in that damn game, I got stuck as him.
You ever play a game where there's ten golden boys? Ten perfect suitors, all polished up and ready to throw themselves at the heroine's feet? You got your knight in shining armor, your brooding prince, your roguish thief with a heart of gold, your genius scholar, the works. It's a buffet of male fantasy cutouts.
And then there's Rudeus.
Number eleven. The "hidden" route. The one you unlock only if you're crazy enough to jump through the hoops the developers built just to watch you suffer. You don't meet him by accident. No, you gotta deliberately trip every wire in the game: ignore three suitors, betray the heroine's trust once, then save her from a carriage accident while holding a specific item you only get from side-quests. Do all that, and bam — the screen fades, the music softens, and there he is.
Rudeus Blackheart.
The eleventh love interest. The disposable one.
The weakest bastard of the bunch.
And now? He's me.
Ain't that a sick joke.
Let me tell you who Rudeus really is, because the game sure as hell didn't do him justice.
Born the bastard son of Duke Blackheart — one of the nastiest snakes in the aristocracy. His mother? A maid. Beautiful, quiet, poor. She "disappeared" not long after giving birth. Yeah. We all know what that means. The Duke scrubbed her out of the family like a wine stain on silk.
So Rudeus grows up in the Blackheart estate, but not really in it. They keep him tucked away like a dirty secret. He gets the noble clothes, the noble education, the noble food — but none of the respect. None of the warmth. The servants whisper when he walks by. The nobles snicker at his back. Every dinner, every ball, every council meeting, he's the shadow in the corner. Too noble to throw out, too filthy to acknowledge.
A ghost with a last name.
That's Rudeus Blackheart.
The game paints him like some tragic romantic archetype. You know the type: fragile, mysterious, cursed by fate, yearning for love. The one girl in the world could heal his wounded heart — blah, blah, blah. All roses and poetry.
But underneath? He's a walking dead man. A glass statue waiting for the hammer.
Because here's the truth: Rudeus is weak. Weak politically, weak socially, weak in reputation. No allies, no faction, no inheritance. He's handsome as hell — unfairly handsome, painfully handsome — but that's it. Strip away the face, and he's a punching bag with a noble's name.
And the world he lives in? It doesn't forgive weakness.
You wanna know his backstory in detail? Sit down, kid, I'll give it to you like a report.
Rudeus was raised in a wing of the Blackheart estate nobody visited. A wing with windows facing the gardens so the servants could pretend he didn't exist. They gave him tutors, sure. Swordplay, etiquette, music, all the noble polish. But none of it mattered. Every lesson came with whispers: "Remember your place, bastard."
He had no friends among the other children. At balls, he stood at the edge while the Duke's legitimate heirs danced. At councils, he sat in silence while his father ignored him.
And the cruelest part? He wanted their acceptance. He wanted his father to look at him and see a son. He wanted to be loved.
The game plays that up like some tearjerker, but to me? That's the death of him right there. A man who wants love in a world built on knives is already buried.
Now, let's talk about gameplay.
Rudeus' stats? Rock bottom.
Strength: pathetic.
Influence: none.
Money: crumbs.
Allies: zero.
He's the weakest link in a cast of powerhouses. Every other suitor's got armies, empires, or brainpower. Rudeus? He's got a sad smile and a violin.
And don't get me started on the death flags. Christ, the guy's life is a minefield.
Reject him? Dead.Ignore him? Dead.Pick the wrong choice in dialogue? Dead.Hell, even if you pick the right choices, he still dies half the damn time. Poisoned by jealous nobles. Executed on false charges. Betrayed by supposed allies. Sometimes he dies in your arms, whispering some last poetic line about finally knowing love. Other times, you don't even get to see the body — just a line of text telling you he's "gone."
He's disposable. Built to break your heart.
And now? He's me.
I lean closer to the mirror, staring at those crimson eyes. They glisten like blood made into glass. Beautiful, sure. Haunting, yeah. But weak. They don't look like survivor's eyes. Not like mine. Not like the ones I earned crawling out of alleys full of corpses.
"Look at you," I mutter to my reflection. "Pretty boy. Heartthrob. Tragic sonuvabitch. You'd last five minutes on the streets."
The reflection scowls back at me, noble and flawless.
"You're me now," I whisper. "Which means I'm screwed."
Here's the thing. I used to laugh at Rudeus' route when I played the game. Who the hell designed a character so weak, so fragile, that even when you bent over backward for him, he still died? It was absurd. Tragic, sure, but in a parody kind of way.
But now, standing in his skin? It ain't funny. It's terrifying.
Because I know what's coming. I know how the story goes.
Rudeus Blackheart is doomed.
And unless I figure out how to cheat the script, I'm doomed with him.
I flop back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My chest feels heavy.
"I died on a mountain of corpses just to get reborn as the weakest bastard in a love story."
I laugh, bitter and cracked.
"Figures. Story of my life."