Chapter 5: It Seems I Reincarnate as a Minor Villain, 1
The knock had already come twice before he chose to answer.
"Young Master," came the muffled call again, tinged with both urgency and respect. "The banquet has begun. Lord Cassian awaits your presence."
For a long moment he stood there in silence, his gaze locked upon the gilded mirror. The boy who stared back at him was not the god who once tore apart sects, nor the man who had sat hunched before a glowing screen. The face was youthful, unweathered by battle or regret, and yet eerily striking. Ashen white hair spilled to his shoulders, a pale crown against the dusky richness of the chamber. Two mismatched eyes glowed faintly beneath the chandelier's light—one dark green, deep and earthly; the other amber, bright as molten sap. Handsome, almost delicate, yet his reflection seemed to mock him: this is what you are now, this fragile boy of fifteen.
And yet… there was power behind the fragility, though it was hidden, sealed. He raised one hand and pressed his fingertips against the mirror's cool surface, as if testing whether this body truly belonged to him. The glass shivered faintly with the weight of his breath, and then, with deliberate calm, he turned away and crossed the room.
The brass handle of the door was cool beneath his fingers. He paused one last moment, collecting the fragments of thought that threatened to scatter. Then, with a smooth motion, he opened it.
The servant waiting outside bowed instantly, a young man garbed in the house livery—deep blue trimmed with silver thread, a crescent moon entwined with a black flame embroidered over his chest. His posture was stiff with discipline, yet his eyes betrayed relief.
"Young Master," the servant said again, straighter now. "Please, follow me. The Lord and Lady await."
He gave a single nod. No words. Words, after all, could give too much away.
The servant led him down corridors bathed in the warm glow of candelabras, moonlight spilling in through arched windows. Every surface gleamed with wealth—the polished marble floors, the intricate blue-and-silver tapestries, the tall suits of armor polished to a mirror shine. He walked through it all with a stillness that felt unnatural for a boy of his apparent years, the silence between his footsteps deliberate.
Finally, the servant stopped before a pair of great doors of dark oak carved with the Von O'Dimm crest. He bowed once more and pushed them open.
The sound struck him first—laughter, voices raised in cheer, the clatter of goblets against plates. Then came the scents: roasted venison, buttered pheasant, onions steeped in herbs, honeyed bread, the faint tang of wine. The banquet hall stretched before him, vast and golden beneath its chandeliers, every pillar draped with banners of midnight blue. Nobles crowded the long tables below, jewels glittering at their throats, silks and brocades shining in the light. Servants moved among them in a carefully orchestrated dance, carrying platters piled high.
At the far end, elevated upon a dais of black stone, the high table commanded all attention.
A herald's voice rose clearly above the noise:
"Presenting the Young Master of House Von O'Dimm."
The chatter faltered. Dozens of gazes turned as he stepped forward, their weight a cloak across his shoulders. Some eyes were curious, some disdainful, some guarded. Few, if any, were friendly. He could feel it—the subtle judgment, the whispers of a script already written in their minds.
Yet he did not falter. His stride was measured, neither hurried nor hesitant, each step echoing across the marble floor as though he owned it. He walked through the golden light as if it bent around him, a boy who did not bow beneath the hall's grandeur.
On the dais, the man at the center rose slightly from his seat. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired streaked with silver, draped in a cloak of white fur over navy silk embroidered with crescents—this was the patriarch. His presence carried command, but his eyes… his eyes softened when they fell on the boy approaching.
"Son," the man said, voice carrying easily across the hall. "Come. Sit."
Lord Cassian Dorian Von O'Dimm.
He reached the high table, and beside Cassian sat a woman whose silver-blonde hair gleamed beneath the candles, braided and adorned with sapphires. Her gown was pale blue, flowing yet dignified, and her posture was as straight as a blade. She turned as he drew near, her gaze sharp as a hawk's, yet warmed by something quieter when it landed upon him.
Lady Selene Marcellia Von O'Dimm.
And then there was the girl, seated eagerly to her mother's right. Barely eleven, her white-ash hair tied into playful braids with green ribbons, her round face flushed with excitement. Green eyes sparkled as she nearly bounced from her chair.
"Brother!" she cried, voice bright enough to carry across the hall. "You're late!"
Serenya Von O'Dimm.
He inclined his head faintly, the barest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, and slid into the seat left open for him. A servant poured wine into his silver goblet at once, another laid fresh bread at his side.
Around him, the feast roared back to life. Platters clattered, goblets clinked, laughter surged once more. Nobles resumed their conversations, though more than a few cast glances his way, eyes narrowed with quiet calculation. He caught the flicker of Solar-aligned banners at the tables further down the hall, their bearers wearing embroidered suns and golden sigils. Their gazes lingered longest—bright, judging, venom behind their smiles.
But here, at the high table, the world was quieter.
Cassian turned his full attention upon him, one hand heavy on the table's edge. His dark eyes held weight, as though measuring him anew.
"How's your everyday's training?" Cassian asked. His voice was steady, but not unkind. "I hope it has shown progress. You promised to join the tournament."
The words pulled at something deep. Training. Tournament. Promises made by the boy whose body he now inhabited. He knew none of them. Yet he did not allow the pause to linger. He raised his goblet, the ruby-red wine catching candlelight, and answered smoothly, his voice steady:
"All in all, it is good. You shouldn't worry, Father."
The table grew momentarily still. Selene tilted her head faintly, her sapphire hairpins glinting as she studied him. Cassian's brow creased slightly, though not with disappointment. No—it was something else. Something rarer.
The patriarch's hand tightened briefly on the table, then relaxed. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost hesitant.
"Son," Cassian began, "I know you wanted to join the tournament. But… can you not?"
The question stunned even the nearby nobles into silence. Selene's eyes widened slightly, though she masked it with composed grace. Serenya blinked, then frowned in confusion. Cassian's gaze, however, did not waver.
"I want you to live peacefully," Cassian continued, the faintest tremor in his deep voice. "You are already talented. I—" he faltered, swallowed, and tried again, softer this time. "I just want you not to get hurt."
The hall's din carried on beyond the dais, but to him, the world had narrowed to that voice, those words.
Warmth. Concern. Alien things, almost dangerous in their unfamiliarity. In his first life, no one had cared if he lived or died. In his second, the heavens themselves had conspired to destroy him. But here, this man—this father—looked at him as though his life mattered more than victory, more than glory, more than duty.
He set his goblet down and let a faint smile curve his lips, careful and composed like a mask fitted over raw nerves. "You need not worry, Father. I will make this family proud."
Before Cassian could answer, a voice burst in, light as birdsong.
"Good luck, Brother!" Serenya cried, her fists clenched in mock triumph. "You'll win for sure! I know you will!"
Laughter rippled faintly through the surrounding nobles. Even Selene's lips softened into a faint smile as she reached to hush her daughter gently.
Cassian sighed and shook his head, though there was no true reproach in his eyes. His hand slid across the table and rested briefly on his son's shoulder, a weight heavy with unspoken things.
The feast continued. Trays of spiced lamb were laid out, goblets refilled, sweet berries and glazed pastries appeared as musicians strummed softer tunes. Nobles whispered politics and alliances below the dais, while Solar loyalists watched the family with veiled disdain.
But at the high table, warmth clung stubbornly. Selene reached across at one point, adjusting the boy's collar with delicate fingers, murmuring, "You push yourself too hard. A blade must be sharpened, yes, but never until it breaks." Her eyes lingered, full of quiet worry, before she withdrew.
Serenya tried more than once to place food onto his plate herself, giggling when she nearly dropped a slice of venison, scolded gently by her mother. She clung to his arm at one point, eyes wide with youthful certainty. "You'll see, Brother. You'll be the best. No one will beat you."
He smiled again, carefully. But inside, the thoughts twisted.
A father who worries. A mother who watches with love. A sister who cheers without doubt. This was never mine. Yet now, it is given. Why? And how long before it is taken?
The banquet glowed around him, but beneath the golden light, he felt the script waiting, coiling, unseen.