I woke up to the worst headache of my life.
My skull felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, then decided that wasn't enough and went back for round two. Groaning, I tried to sit up, only to immediately regret that decision as the room spun violently around me.
"What the hell...?"
My voice came out wrong. Too high and too... smooth?
I froze.
That wasn't my voice.
Panic shot through me like ice water. My hands flew to my throat, feeling the unfamiliar contours of a neck that was definitely not mine. It was too thin and the Adam's apple felt different. Everything felt wrong.
"Okay, okay, calm down Kai," I muttered, forcing myself to breathe. "You just drank too much. Or maybe you're still dreaming. Yeah, that's it. Just a weird dream because you stayed up too late writing that review—"
My eyes snapped open.
The review.
Hero of Light.
That piece of garbage novel I'd spent three hours absolutely eviscerating in a 5000-word essay about everything wrong with modern web fiction. The protagonist who could do no wrong. The villains who existed solely to make him look good. The harem of cardboard cutout girls who fell for him for no reason. The complete lack of consequences or meaningful character development.
I'd been so angry when I hit that post button.
But that didn't explain why I was... wherever I was.
Finally gathering the courage, I looked around the room properly. And my blood went cold.
This wasn't my cramped apartment. This wasn't even close.
I was lying in an enormous four-poster bed with black silk sheets. The room was huge, easily three times the size of my entire apartment, with high ceilings, dark wood furniture that looked antique and expensive, and tapestries hanging on stone walls. Stone walls. Like I was in some medieval castle.
A full-length mirror stood in the corner.
My legs felt like jelly as I stumbled toward it, already knowing, somehow knowing that what I was about to see would change everything.
The face staring back at me wasn't mine.
It was younger. Sharper. Almost pretty in an aristocratic, villainous sort of way. Black hair that fell messily to my shoulders. Pale skin like I'd never seen sunlight. And eyes, dark gray eyes that had a cold, cruel glint to them even though I was currently experiencing a full-blown panic attack.
I looked exactly like the kind of villain from those trashy novels I hated.
"No. No, no, no, no, no—"
And that's when I saw it. On the dresser next to the mirror. A small black leather journal with a name embossed in silver on the cover.
Reven Noir
My hands shook as I picked it up, flipping through pages of handwriting I instinctively recognized as "mine" even though I'd never written any of it. The entries were dated. The most recent one was from yesterday.
>Day 187 since entering Luminara Academy
>
> Father cut off my allowance again. Says I'm "wasting the family fortune on frivolous pursuits." He doesn't understand. A noble needs proper entertainment. Servants. Slaves to show his status.
>
> That bastard Lucian Starborn arrives in two months. Everyone at the Academy won't shut up about the "Hero of Light." How he defeated bandits single-handedly. How he's blessed by the Goddess herself. How he's going to save us all from the Demon King.
>
> Disgusting. He's probably just another self-righteous fool. When he arrives, I'll make sure he understands his place. Perhaps I'll acquire that elf slave the merchants mentioned. That should be entertaining when Starborn tries to play hero...
I dropped the journal like it had burned me.
Lucian Starborn.
Hero of Light.
The protagonist of that godawful novel I'd just reviewed.
"Oh no. Oh no."
This couldn't be happening. This was insane. Impossible. People didn't just wake up in fictional worlds. That was the kind of stupid isekai premise I made fun of other readers for enjoying.
But the evidence was literally staring me in the face.
I was in the world of Hero of Light. And I was Reven Noir.
I tried to remember if that name had even appeared in the novel. There had been so many throwaway villains, arrogant young masters who existed purely to get their faces slapped by the protagonist. Was Reven one of them?
My stomach dropped as fragments of memory that weren't mine started surfacing. The original Reven's memories, bleeding into my consciousness.
Yes. Reven Noir was in the novel. Briefly.
Very briefly.
He was the pathetic minor villain who tried to assault Princess Elara in the Academy gardens eight months into the story. Lucian Starborn had appeared at the perfect moment, defeated Reven effortlessly, and killed him in "self-defense" while the princess watched with tears of gratitude.
It was chapter 47. One of the most cliché scenes in the entire novel. I'd written three paragraphs about how lazy and predictable it was.
And now I was living it.
"Eight months," I whispered, doing the math with growing horror. "I have eight months before the Hero kills me."
A knock on the door made me jump.
"Young Master Reven?" A timid voice called from outside. "It's past noon. Will you be requiring breakfast?"
I stared at the door, my mind racing. A servant. This world had servants. And slaves. And magic. And a protagonist with plot armor so thick he was essentially invincible.
And I was the villain.
The throwaway villain who died to make the Hero look good.
"Young Master?"
"I'm fine," I called back, impressed that my voice didn't crack. "I'll be down shortly."
Footsteps retreated.
I slumped against the dresser, trying to process everything. This was real. Somehow, impossibly, this was real. I'd gone to sleep in my world and woken up here. In a novel I hated. In the body of a villain destined to die.
Because of that review.
It had to be. There was no other explanation. I'd spent three hours tearing this story apart, mocking every trope, every lazy plot device, every—
A flash of light made me stumble backward.
Floating in the air in front of me, visible only to my eyes, was a translucent blue screen. Like something out of a video game.
```
SLAVE DOMINATION SYSTEM
----
Welcome, Master.
You have been granted the Slave
Domination System as compensation
for your transmigration.
Use it wisely. Or don't.
Your survival is not guaranteed.
Current Status:
- Master: Reven Noir
- Age: 15
- Rank: Novice Slaver (0/100 XP)
- Mana Core: Bronze (Low)
Current Slaves: 0
Maximum Slaves: 3
[System Shop: LOCKED]
[Quests: LOCKED]
```
I stared at the screen, then started laughing. It was the kind of slightly unhinged laughter of someone whose brain had just given up on processing reality.
A slave system. Of course. The original Reven had been obsessed with slaves. It was his defining character trait in the novel, the creepy noble who bought slaves for entertainment. Another lazy villain characteristic I'd mocked.
And now it was a game system.
"This is insane," I muttered, waving my hand through the screen. It rippled like water but remained visible. "I'm going insane. That's the only explanation. I'm in a coma somewhere and this is all a hallucination."
```
You are not hallucinating.
You wrote a 5000-word review
criticizing this world's narrative.
You called the protagonist "an
insufferable Mary Sue with plot
armor thicker than a fortress wall."
You called the villains "cardboard
cutouts whose only purpose is to
get stomped so the Hero looks cool."
The world noticed.
Now you get to do better.
Or die trying.
Preferably in a more interesting
way than the original Reven Noir.
```
The screen flickered and minimized to a small icon in the corner of my vision.
I stood there in silence, processing everything.
Then, slowly, I walked back to the mirror and stared at my new face. Reven Noir. Fifteen years old. A minor villain destined to die in eight months to make the Hero look good.
But I wasn't the original Reven. I knew what was coming. I knew every plot point, every power-up, every member of Lucian's harem, every villain who would fall. I'd read this story. I'd *criticized* this story.
And now I had a system that could make me powerful.
A cold smile spread across my face. It looked natural on Reven's features. More
fitting.
"Alright," I said to my reflection. "If I'm going to be the villain, I'll be the best damn villain this world has ever seen."
I had eight months to prepare.
Eight months to get strong enough to survive.
Eight months to flip the script on the Hero of Light.
And it all started with one thing: I needed a slave.
Not for the reasons the original Reven wanted one. But because this System was my only advantage. And if the protagonist could break the world with his plot armor, then I'd break it right back with the one thing he couldn't touch.
I'd build my own power. My own way.
Lucian Starborn wouldn't know what hit him.
But first, I needed to figure out exactly how screwed I was. Time to dig through the original Reven's memories and see what kind of mess I'd inherited.
I picked up the journal again, flipping to the first page, and started reading.
This was going to be a long eight months.