Chapter 1 — The Villain Who Should Have Died
Pain was the first thing Adrian Falkenrath felt.
Not confusion.
Not fear.
Pain.
It spread through his skull like shattered glass, sharp and merciless, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat that felt unfamiliar—too weak, too shallow, too young. The smell of iron clung to the air, mixed with damp stone and old incense. Somewhere nearby, a clock ticked softly, each sound echoing as if mocking him.
Adrian opened his eyes.
A high ceiling loomed above him, carved from dark stone veined with crimson marble. Heavy iron chandeliers hung overhead, their candles burning low, casting long, warped shadows across the walls. The room was vast—too vast for comfort—and unmistakably aristocratic. Everything about it screamed wealth, history, and cruelty.
This was not his room.
His gaze shifted sluggishly, and the movement sent another wave of pain crashing through him. He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan. His body felt wrong. Lighter. Weaker. As if it had been starved, beaten, and neglected for far too long.
He slowly raised his hands.
They were pale. Slender. Long-fingered, with faint scars along the knuckles and wrists—marks of training mishandled and punishment endured. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying exhaustion and malnourishment.
This was not his body.
A memory surged forward without warning.
A raised platform.
A crowd roaring with hatred.
Chains biting into his wrists.
A blade gleaming beneath the sun.
And a voice—cold, ceremonial, final.
"Adrian Falkenrath, by decree of the Church of Radiant Fate, you are found guilty—"
His breath hitched.
He sat up abruptly, pain screaming through his ribs, and scanned the room with frantic intensity. A large canopy bed dominated the center, its dark velvet curtains torn slightly at the edges. To the side stood a tall mirror framed in black iron.
Adrian forced himself out of bed.
His legs nearly buckled beneath him, but he caught the bedpost just in time, breathing hard as sweat broke out across his skin. Step by step, he dragged himself toward the mirror.
The man who stared back at him was a stranger.
He was young—no older than nineteen. Tall, though his frame was unnaturally thin, lacking muscle definition. His skin was pale to the point of sickness, marred by faint bruises along his collarbone and jaw, half-hidden beneath the open collar of a noble shirt that had once been expensive but now hung loosely on his body.
His hair was ash-black, slightly wavy, falling messily around his face as if it had never been properly cared for. His features were sharp—high cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, thin lips usually set in a tense line. But it was his eyes that made Adrian's breath stop.
Steel-silver.
Cold. Watchful. Deep.
Eyes that looked like they had seen death and refused to kneel.
A chill crawled up his spine.
Adrian Falkenrath.
The third son of House Falkenrath.
The villain.
The scapegoat.
The man who should have died today.
The memories crashed into him fully this time, merciless and complete.
This was Gala Prime—a fantasy world governed by heroes and fate, by divine scripts and convenient miracles. A world where chosen ones rose effortlessly, and villains existed only to fall.
And Adrian Falkenrath's role was clear.
He was despised.
A cruel noble who abused servants.
A coward who hid behind his family name.
A disgrace blamed for crimes he did not commit—and some he had never even imagined.
He remembered now.
He remembered being dragged through marble halls by armored guards. Remembered his father's indifferent gaze. His mother's silence. His brothers' smiles.
They had already decided.
He was meant to die so House Falkenrath could survive.
Adrian let out a slow, controlled breath.
"So this is how it begins," he murmured, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar—low, restrained, carrying a faint aristocratic cadence.
A transmigration.
Into the body of a villain destined for execution.
For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at his reflection, letting the truth settle. He did not scream. He did not panic. There was no point.
He had been an adult once. He had lived, failed, learned, and died in another world. And now he had been given something far crueler than a second chance.
Foreknowledge.
If the timeline remained unchanged, he would be arrested again within days. Accused publicly. Executed as an offering to fate and the Church. His death would elevate a hero, strengthen the narrative, and be forgotten.
A clean, convenient tragedy.
Adrian's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.
"No," he said softly. "I don't think so."
A knock sounded at the door.
Sharp. Hesitant.
His body tensed instantly, instincts flaring despite weakness. He turned toward the sound just as the door creaked open.
A girl slipped inside, closing it carefully behind her.
She was young—sixteen at most—with soft chestnut-brown hair that fell just past her shoulders, loosely tied with a faded ribbon. Her face was gentle, almost fragile, with wide hazel eyes that constantly seemed on the verge of apology. She wore a modest noble dress, simple in design, its colors muted—nothing like the opulence expected of House Falkenrath.
She looked out of place.
She looked terrified.
"B-Brother?" she whispered.
Clara Falkenrath.
His younger sister.
The only one.
She stepped closer, her movements cautious, as if approaching a wounded animal. Up close, Adrian noticed the faint dark circles beneath her eyes, the way her hands trembled as she clasped them together at her waist.
"You're awake," she said softly, relief flickering across her face before fear quickly replaced it. "I heard… I heard the guards say you were beaten badly last night."
Beaten.
Of course.
Adrian straightened slightly, forcing his posture into something less pitiful. Clara flinched instinctively—and then froze, guilt washing over her expression.
"I—I'm sorry," she rushed to say. "I shouldn't have come, but I was worried and—"
"You don't need to apologize," Adrian interrupted gently.
His own voice surprised him.
It was calm. Steady. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Clara blinked.
She stared at him as if he had spoken in another language.
"You…" she hesitated, studying his face with uncertainty. "You sound… different."
Adrian met her gaze.
Up close, Clara's resemblance to him was undeniable—the same dark hair, the same pale complexion—but where his features were sharp and hardened, hers were soft, unscarred by malice. She was innocence trapped in a viper's nest.
And in his memories—both inherited and future—she had died crying his name.
Not today.
"Do I?" he asked quietly.
Clara swallowed. "Yes. I mean—no. I don't know."
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle, holding it out to him with both hands. "I brought medicine. And bread. I know you're not supposed to eat much, but… you looked so thin."
Adrian stared at the bundle.
No one had ever brought him anything in this room before.
He took it carefully, their fingers brushing for just a moment. Clara recoiled slightly, instinctively bracing for anger that never came.
"Thank you," he said.
Her breath caught.
"You're… not angry?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
Adrian shook his head. "Not with you."
Tears welled in her eyes, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.
"They're planning something," she whispered. "Father met with the Church envoys this morning. Eldric was there. And Mathias too."
Of course they were.
The execution was already being prepared.
Adrian's gaze hardened—not with rage, but with clarity.
"Clara," he said. "If things become dangerous… if I tell you to leave this place, will you listen?"
She hesitated only a second before nodding. "Yes. I promise."
Good.
He would need that promise later.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond the door.
Clara stiffened. "I should go."
Adrian nodded. "Be careful."
She paused at the doorway, glancing back at him one last time.
"Brother," she said quietly. "Even if everyone else believes the rumors… I never thought you were beyond saving."
The door closed softly behind her.
Adrian exhaled slowly.
He walked back to the bed and sat down, clutching the cloth bundle as if grounding himself in reality. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with anticipation.
The world believed him weak.
His family believed him disposable.
Fate believed him finished.
Adrian Falkenrath lowered his gaze to his hands.
Hands that would one day hold a sword—not as a hero, not as a savior, but as a man who refused to follow a script.
"If fate wants me dead," he murmured, silver eyes sharpening, "then it will have to work harder."
Outside, bells began to ring—slow and solemn—calling the faithful to prayer.
Somewhere above, unseen threads shifted.
And for the first time in Gala Prime's long, cruel history—
A villain had awakened who did not intend to die.