Of the Clock That Never Ceased Its Turning, and the Infant Who Began to Loathe Repetition
Several months had passed since the night upon which the skies of Fletcher were cleft by a pale green radiance—since the hour when the name of Sledios ceased to answer prayer, and the priests of House Zeneris were left with nothing but fragments of utterance that descended like sentences torn from their context.
Not voices.
Not full revelations.
Only broken phrases—vague, incomplete, and often ending before meaning could settle.
"Prosperity… awaits those who endure."
"Do not resist the cycle before thou hast seen it."
"Books are sharper than the sword."
These were the sole remnants of their Hersie's presence.
Within a chamber warmed by the light of morning, Friesy Zeneris sat reclined in an old wooden chair, cradling her daughter with motions she had memorised since the child's first breath.
"Hush now… hush…" she murmured softly, patting the small back with gentle rhythm.
Yet the infant in her arms showed no sign of crying.
Not now.
Not ordinarily.
Vleresia Clev Zeneris, now six months of age, was—according to the household servants—a child far too tranquil to be considered wholly human.
Her violet eyes lay wide open, their star-shaped pupils of sea-blue edged in pale white reflecting the window's light like a night sky compressed into miniature form. Her hair had begun to grow—fine and soft—the green common to Zeneris blood, yet touched with a faint golden gradient visible only when the light struck from a certain angle.
"Look," whispered one maid from the doorway.
"She is staring at her lady… as though she understands."
Friesy smiled faintly.
"Is Mother speaking too much?" she asked gently, lowering her gaze. "Or are you truly listening, hm?"
Vleresia's lips moved.
A small sound—still unformed, yet possessed of an almost deliberate cadence—escaped her mouth.
"…a… ah…"
Friesy froze.
"She… answered?" she murmured, uncertain.
Another maid covered her mouth, stifling both laughter and astonishment.
"This child," she whispered, "will surely be most talkative when she grows."
If there was one thing Vleresia understood with startling clarity, it was boredom.
The days felt identical.
Patterns repeated.
Sounds, faces, touches—everything flowed in cycles far too predictable.
Wake. Be held. Be fed. Be laid down.
Wake. Be held. Be praised for cuteness.
Wake. Be held. The world falls silent once more.
This… is tedious.
The thought arose with disquieting clarity—far too clear for an infant of six months.
And Vleresia did not care for it.
She began to crawl.
At first but inches, then small, unsteady distances driven by unmistakable intent. The servants were often startled to discover their young mistress suddenly in the main hall—or, more alarmingly, in the kitchen.
"Mercy—Little Miss!"
"How did you get here?!"
"Do not go near the stove!"
Vleresia merely stared at them.
And then… smiled.
A baby's smile.
Pure.
Disarming.
Minutes later, she sat in the kitchen's corner with a small piece of soft bread clutched in her hand.
"This is… unfair," muttered one cook.
"I feel as though I have been manipulated by a creature half a year old."
Another servant nodded gravely.
"She is employing forbidden weapons."
"You mean… cuteness?"
"Yes."
Vleresia chewed slowly.
Efficiency, she thought with quiet satisfaction. Far superior to burping.
Yet boredom returned.
One afternoon, as she crawled into the main hall, her gaze was drawn to a great object that stood unmoving, yet never ceased to move.
A large wall clock.
The pendulum swung.
The hands revolved.
Tick… tock… tick… tock…
Vleresia's 🌟 eyes widened.
And something—something that ought not yet have awakened—fractured.
Breakout of Recycle
This blessing did not explode.
Did not shine.
Did not alter the world in any immediate fashion.
It functioned as a crack in glass:
small, nearly invisible—yet sufficient to render the whole structure fragile.
Breakout of Recycle was awareness of repetition.
Not memory of the past.
Not vision of the future.
But comprehension that life was being replayed by a lazy narrative.
And as Vleresia stared at the clock, the false cycle collapsed.
Tick—
no longer mere sound.
Tock—
no longer mere time.
She saw it.
Simplified repetition.
A safe path laid out for supporting figures.
A life designed to be sufficient—so as not to disturb the principal tale.
Ah… so this is what has been prepared for me.
Her eyes sparkled.
So this is the life intended for my keeping.
Her small hand struck the clock.
THUD.
The servants gasped.
"Miss?!"
THUD. THUD.
Vleresia struck it again—not in anger, but fascination.
The servants exchanged glances.
"…Is she angry?"
"No… she appears to be… thinking."
One of them raised a camera 📷.
"This is far too charming to miss."
A small flash filled the room.
Within herself, Vleresia smiled coldly.
If I am but a supporting figure,
then the safe road is nothing but a prison.
Ambition—something that should not exist within an infant—began to bloom in her soul.
I shall choose the path of thorns.
I shall become something that cannot be ignored.
A villainess… perhaps.
And in that moment—
her consciousness as a complete living being fully formed.
Not at five years of age, as with others.
Not through natural maturation.
But since she had met her ancestor…
and now, since she had seen the cycle itself.
"Lady Friesy!" cried a servant in panicked laughter.
"Our young miss is striking the clock with great feeling!"
Friesy entered the room, startled—then softly amused.
"Vleresia… do not trouble the clock."
She lifted her daughter, holding her close.
"The world will not cease merely because you strike it, you know."
Vleresia gazed at her mother.
And for a moment—
the gaze was far too mature.
The clock continued its ticking.
But for Vleresia Clev Zeneris,
repetition had ended.
And the story…
had only just begun.
Of Blue Chains, the Gate of Dvenos, and the First Cry of Narrative
Time, at so tender an age, possessed no shape a child might comprehend.
It was merely a gentle pulse—rising and falling—like the breath of the world itself.
Vleresia did not grasp seconds.
She knew nothing of minutes.
Yet her small body, newly sated in her mother's arms, understood something far more ancient than language:
safety.
The great clock upon the family hall's wall stood as a silent witness to an older civilisation—tall, darkened by age, its long hand moving with near-cruel precision. Each tick was not a sound, but a decision.
Vleresia watched it.
Her infant eyes—clear, untainted by the world's narrative—followed the motion as though something there called to her.
"There, there…"
Friesy's gentle voice intervened, lifting her daughter carefully, as though the small body were porcelain, liable to fracture under ill intent.
Friesy was a woman of quiet beauty. Her hair was bound simply; her face bore the fatigue known only to mothers who love too deeply. She patted Vleresia's back with steady rhythm.
Hup… hup…
The child gave a small burp.
"Oh, gracious heavens…" Friesy smiled in relief. "You are quite voracious, my dear."
Vleresia yawned.
Her tiny mouth opened wide, as though to swallow the world itself.
Her eyelids grew heavy. Consciousness—not yet fully born—began to sink back into the sea of sleep, where new souls usually reside before the world summons them with cruelty.
But this world…
was not patient.
The spirit appeared without a door.
No smoke.
No flash of light.
No theatrical sign as in cheap folktales.
It simply manifested—as though it had always been there, awaiting the moment human awareness faltered.
Its form was unstable. At times a thin human shadow with a twisted neck; at others, a pulsing black mass like a breathing wound. At its centre lay something resembling an eye—yet that eye did not see.
It read.
An Evil Narrative Spirit.
A being that did not consume flesh, drink blood, nor steal souls outright.
It devoured possibility.
It fed upon infants of great potential.
It consumed characters before they chose their roles.
And Vleresia—born alongside the world's protagonist—was far too sweet a meal to ignore.
The spirit extended something like a hand.
Slow.
Certain.
Without emotion.
At that instant—
the world refused.
CLANG.
A metallic resonance echoed—not through air, but through the structure of reality itself.
Blue chains erupted from nothingness.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
Each link bore symbols not belonging to any language still spoken by mankind. The letters writhed and shifted, as though the sentence itself refused to be read by any being lacking permission.
The chains bound the narrative spirit with cold, absolute cruelty.
The creature screamed—yet produced no sound. Its scream was distortion, causing the air to tremble, making meaning itself fear the loss of definition.
Above the sleeping body of Vleresia, a gate slowly opened.
The Gate of Dvenos.
It was not grand.
It did not shine.
It was silent.
Its surface resembled black stone that had absorbed too much regret. Along its arch were carved reliefs of faceless beings—souls that had crossed the threshold and never returned.
Dvenos was the swiftest path to death.
And the straightest road to the ancient spirit realm of magic—where punishment was untempered by mercy.
The blue chains pulled.
Slowly.
Without hesitation.
The evil narrative spirit was dragged forth, crushed layer by layer, its existence wrung out like a cloth long past use.
The gate closed.
And the world…
fell silent once more.
Vleresia did not awaken.
Her sleep was too deep.
The sleep of an infant who had yet to know dreams—let alone nightmares.
Yet within the depths of her awareness—within a space not yet named—a voice whispered.
It was not loud.
Not authoritative.
Nor warm.
It sounded like a reader who had gazed upon tragedy for far too long.
[Notification]
[Villainess Status — Lv. 0]
Ten experience points have been attained.
The Master has acquired a minor quantity of False Villainess Narrative.
[Villainess Points: 10]
Vleresia's finger twitched slightly.
Unaware.
Uncomprehending.
The voice fell silent.
Friesy, walking toward the nursery, suddenly halted.
"How strange…" she murmured.
It felt as though someone had just called her daughter's name—not with sound, but with intent.
She glanced behind her.
The family hall lay empty.
The great clock continued its ticking.
"Perhaps I am merely fatigued," she told herself.
She resumed her steps, laying Vleresia within the neatly prepared cradle. White cloth, simple embroidery—each stitch sewn by her own hands.
Friesy bent down, kissing her daughter's brow.
"Sleep soundly," she whispered. "This world is not yet worthy of knowing you."
Peace descended.
And beyond the curtain of reality—
[Villainess Points: 9]
The mysterious voice could only whisper,
for its master had fallen asleep.
Elsewhere, at that very hour, the protagonist of Fletcher likewise slumbered within fate's cradle.
Two infants.
Two paths.
One world.
And without any soul perceiving it—
the role of the Fake Villainess had begun.