The first sensation was leather.
Tight. Supple. Perfectly fitted—molded to my fingers like a second skin. Black gloves, seamless and faintly gleaming even in the dimness. I flexed my hand slowly, watching the material crease without a whisper of sound.
Impeccable.
Villainous.
The sort of detail an author obsesses over to telegraph dangerous elegance.
Then came the cold.
Not the bite of winter air, but something deeper—an aura that seeped into bone and marrow like ink bleeding through water. Smoke curled lazily at the edges of my vision, slow and deliberate, though there was no fire.
I opened my eyes.
A vast chamber unfolded before me.
Walls of polished obsidian reflected fractured indigo light cast by floating orbs—suspended without chains, without stands, as though gravity itself had been dismissed. At the chamber's heart, carved directly into the floor, lay a colossal chessboard.
Its squares alternated between void-black and ghost-white marble.
And the pieces—
They were no mere set.
Towering sculptures, each three feet tall at least. Kings and queens wrought from swirling shadow and solidified light. Knights reared atop ethereal steeds, frozen mid-charge. Pawns stood like silent sentinels, faceless and patient.
My right hand rested on the crown of the black king.
Its carved face was cruel. Regal. Hollow eyes yawning like twin voids—staring back.
I knew this room.
I knew this.
Lucius Varnholt.
The Shadow Sovereign.
The antagonist of Eclipse Chronicle—that bloated, overhyped webnovel I'd binged out of sheer boredom during tournament downtime. The man who orchestrated continental wars from the dark, always ten moves ahead—until the protagonist's asspulled "Light Awakening" bulldozed strategy with destiny.
Chapter 342.
Lucius kneels in the rain, bloodied, broken, delivering that godawful line:
"Even in darkness, light prevails."
I'd hurled my tablet across the room.
I waited for panic.
For disorientation. For screaming denial that this was real.
It never came.
Because I was Anthony Crowe.
Twenty-four. Undefeated grandmaster since sixteen. The player who ended careers with a polite handshake while already calculating the post-mortem. The reader who despised victories won by friendship and feelings.
Death had been anticlimactic.
Rain-slick asphalt. Headlights. Impact.
Then nothing.
Now this.
No blue screen.
No goddess whispering about second chances.
No system notifications screaming [Host Awakened! Choose Your Cheat!].
Just me.
This body.
This knowledge.
Perfect.
I withdrew my hand from the black king and rose to my feet.
The motion was fluid—too fluid. Younger. Stronger. Muscles coiled with a power my Earth body had never possessed. A high-collared black coat settled heavily over my shoulders, a tailored suit beneath—crisp, immaculate.
I crossed the chamber to the mirror on the far wall, framed in thorns of twisted silver.
The reflection struck like a calculated gambit.
Raven hair—artfully disheveled yet controlled. Skin pale as moonlight on fresh snow. Features sharp enough to draw blood: high cheekbones, aristocratic jawline, menace carved into bone.
And the eyes—
Electric blue.
Glowing faintly with inner frost, piercing through the haze like twin blades.
For a heartbeat, the body felt wrong.
Lighter. Stronger. Alien nerves firing in unfamiliar patterns. A flicker of vertigo—like stepping into someone else's skin and discovering it fit too well.
I crushed the sensation.
Breathe in. Analyze. Adapt.
This was an upgrade.
"Good," I murmured.
The voice was low. Resonant. Velvet-smooth and threaded with threat—the kind the author had hammered into every Lucius description.
It suited me.
I turned back to the chessboard.
In the novel, this chamber served as Lucius's sanctum—a meditation hall where shadow magic intertwined with strategy. The pieces weren't symbolic; moving them subtly influenced the world.
Factions. Individuals. Events.
All bound by threads of darkness only the Shadow Sovereign could weave.
Convenient.
Almost fair.
The board's state told a familiar story.
White dominated.
Radiant pieces clustered around a central king—the royal family, academy prodigies, future allies. Black lay scattered. Pawns exposed. Knights isolated.
The classic doomed-villain formation.
Brilliant strategist.
Outnumbered by destiny.
I reached down.
My gloved fingers closed around the black king.
And I toppled it.
The piece struck the floor with a deep, resonant thud that echoed through the chamber like a funeral bell. Shadows rippled outward, disturbing the floating orbs.
Then I righted it.
Placed it one square forward.
Aggressive.
Black claimed the center before white could castle.
As I released it—
Something shifted.
A white knight twitched.
Barely a fraction of an inch.
Leonhardt Rayne.
I recognized the piece instantly.
No ripples. No surge of shadow.
I stared.
Imagination? Residual disorientation?
I dismissed it.
Anomalies were data points.
Data points became advantages.
"Let's begin."
The words activated the chamber.
Reality responded.
Shadow tendrils uncoiled within my mind, brushing against thought and memory. Information poured in—spy reports, troop movements, court whispers.
The timeline crystallized.
Early.
Gloriously early.
Leonhardt Rayne was still a first-year at the Imperial Academy. Talented. Arrogant. Unawakened. No holy sword. No prophecy fulfilled.
And Lucius Varnholt—
I—
Existed only as rumor.
Optimal position.
White hadn't even developed its pieces.
To test the power humming beneath my skin, I focused on the nearest wall.
Shadows pooled at my feet.
I stepped forward—
And dissolved.
The world cooled into nothingness.
No sensation of motion.
Only intent.
I emerged beyond the wall, inside a hidden alcove. Effortless. Silent.
A faint smile touched my lips.
The novel had undersold this.
Shadow stepping wasn't teleportation.
It was freedom.
I moved into the corridors.
Black marble veins streaked the floors like captured lightning. Indigo flames burned in torches, casting shadows that bowed as I passed.
Servants froze. Bowed deeply. Fear radiated from averted eyes.
Good.
Fear was currency—sharper than gold.
One figure bowed less deeply.
A woman stepped from a side passage. Tall. Cloaked in gray. Hood shadowing all but sharp amber eyes.
Vesper.
Lucius's spymaster.
She knelt. Perfect. Controlled.
"My lord. Urgent tidings from the capital."
I let the silence stretch.
"Speak."
Shadow threaded the air.
"Guildmaster Harlan Voss has accelerated his plans. Illicit mana crystals routed through Rayne territory. Evidence suggests collusion."
Rayne.
Interesting.
"And the boy?"
"At the academy. Excelling. Unawakened."
I nodded.
"You will prepare a team. Voss vanishes tonight. No body. Leave evidence implicating the Rayne family."
She hesitated. "This invites scrutiny."
"Exactly."
The shadows stirred.
"Plans change," I said softly. "Do you question me?"
"Never."
I passed her, pausing only to press a small obsidian king into her palm.
"A promise," I said.
She vanished.
Alone, I smiled.
The board was open.
The gambit accepted.
And this time—
No author dictated the ending.
Your move, little king.