Reincarnated as the Villain

I drummed my fingers against the desk, staring at the monitor with growing frustration. The RPG adaptation of my novel—my bestselling novel—flickered before me, and each minute of gameplay only deepened my disappointment. When I'd signed away the rights to Celestial Games, I'd expected them to honor the world I'd created, the characters I'd breathed life into. Instead, they'd gutted the storyline, simplified complex character motivations, and transformed my nuanced fantasy epic into a glorified hack-and-slash adventure.

"This isn't what we agreed on," I muttered, adjusting my glasses as I navigated through another poorly designed menu screen. The testing room at Celestial's headquarters was eerily quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional click of my mouse.

The company executives had insisted I try the near-final build, probably hoping my public endorsement would boost pre-orders. Fat chance of that happening now. I was mentally drafting a scathing email to my agent when the screen suddenly darkened, replaced by a simple text prompt:

What do you like most?

I frowned. This wasn't part of the character creation process I'd seen in the earlier builds. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered the question. Was this some kind of personality test to determine starting attributes?

"Dragons," I typed, almost without thinking. Dragons had been the cornerstone of my novel's mythology—complex, ancient beings with their own societies and magic, not the mindless beasts the game had reduced them to.

I hit enter, expecting to see the standard character customization screen. Instead, blinding white light erupted from the monitor, flooding the room, consuming my vision. I felt a strange weightlessness, as if my body had suddenly lost all substance.

Then—nothing.

I became aware of myself as... something else. Not flesh and blood, but a strange, ethereal entity—a white flame with cartoonish eyes, hovering in a vast, empty space. Before me floated six golden words, pulsing with an otherworldly light: DEVA, ASURA, ANIMAL, HUMAN, PRETA, NARAKA.

"What is happening?" I tried to shout, but no sound emerged. My thoughts simply echoed in the void.

A timer materialized above the options, counting down from thirty. My non-existent heart would have raced had I still possessed one. Was this some elaborate VR experience the developers hadn't warned me about? A hallucination from too many sleepless nights working on my next manuscript?

I tried to move, to reach out, but I had no limbs to control. The timer continued its relentless countdown: 10... 9... 8... panic seized me as I realized I couldn't make a selection even if I wanted to.

As the counter reached one, the option labeled "DEVA" illuminated of its own accord, its glow intensifying until it was painful to look at. Another flash of light engulfed me, and darkness followed.

"Deculein, are you ready for the ritual?"

The voice—cultured, feminine, with an edge of impatience—snapped me back to consciousness. I blinked, disoriented by the sudden transition from nothingness to... wherever this was.

A grand throne room materialized around me, all polished marble and soaring columns. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting multicolored patterns across the floor. Before me stood a blonde woman in her forties, dressed in elaborate ceremonial robes embroidered with silver threads that caught the light with every movement. Her piercing blue eyes studied me with a mixture of concern and annoyance.

My attention was drawn to a translucent timer hovering in my field of vision: 03:59:38... 03:59:37... 03:59:36...

Where the fuck am I? I thought, fighting rising panic.

"What ritual?" The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, my voice unfamiliar—deeper, resonant, with a slight accent I couldn't place.

Looking down, I discovered my body was not my own. Gone was my average build and pale, writer's complexion. Instead, I possessed the physique of a Greek god—all defined muscles and alabaster skin. A white ceremonial towel was my only clothing, draped around my waist.

My question was met with stunned silence, broken by a thunderous voice that seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall.

"Don't make weird questions now! Take the key and imbue your mana in it!"

The command came from an imposing figure seated on an ornate throne—a white-bearded giant of a man whose massive frame dwarfed the seat designed to contain it. A crown of twisted gold sat upon his brow, and his eyes blazed with supernatural intensity. The king, I realized with a start. The king of Eldoria.

Terror jolted through me at his rebuke, my body moving on instinct. I lunged forward, grasping the hilt of a sword embedded in the marble floor before me. The weapon was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—its blade inscribed with runes that glowed faintly, its hilt wrapped in leather and adorned with a dragon's head pommel crafted from some iridescent metal.

Without knowing how, I channeled something from within—a warm current of energy that flowed from my core, down my arm, and into the sword. The runes blazed to life, pulsing with golden light.

A translucent message appeared before my eyes: Do you want to bond with this?

"Do I want to bond with this?" I repeated aloud, still processing the impossibility of my situation.

"You do!" The king's voice thundered again, making me flinch.

I mentally selected "Yes," and the sword erupted with blinding light, energy coursing up my arm and spreading throughout my body. The sensation was indescribable—like being filled with liquid fire that somehow didn't burn.

Hours later, I sat alone in lavish chambers, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind as I cradled a large egg in my lap. Its shell was a deep crimson, marbled with veins of gold that seemed to pulse with a life of their own beneath my fingers.

"This is the dragon egg," I whispered, running my hands over its warm surface. The realization had been building slowly, but now it crashed over me with the force of a tidal wave: I had somehow been transported into the world of my own creation—not just as any character, but as Deculein, the prince of Eldoria and one of the primary antagonists of my story.

In my novel, Deculein initially appears as an ally to the protagonist, accompanying him into battle against a rival nation before revealing his true colors with a devastating betrayal. The hero, of course, survives and eventually kills Deculein in a climactic duel.

"System," I said aloud, testing a theory. As I'd suspected, translucent text appeared in my field of vision:

Name: Deculein

Class: Dragon Rider

Tier: 4

"God damn it," I muttered, carefully placing the egg on a velvet cushion. "Why have I reincarnated as this shitty character?"

I paced the room, my mind racing. If my memories of the novel were correct, Deculein was the youngest prince of Eldoria, a kingdom where humans lived alongside several non-human races. He was born with unusually low mana reserves—a source of shame for the royal family—which explained the dragon contract ritual. The bond would allow him to draw on the dragon's power, channeling it through the sword that served as a conduit between them.

"I've reincarnated to a time when he just obtains a dragon," I realized aloud. "I'm weak right now."

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Sir Deculein, how are you feeling right now?" A maid entered, carrying fresh linens. Her eyes were downcast, avoiding direct contact with mine—a sign of deference, but also fear. In my story, Deculein had a reputation for cruelty toward servants.

"Alright," I replied, glancing at the countdown timer that still hovered in my vision: 00:02:56... 00:02:55... 00:02:54...

What was that counting down to? I wondered. Some game mechanic? The duration of this... possession?

"Maid, what year is it?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.

She looked up, startled by the question. "Huh? Sir, it is the year 1294 of the Imperial Calendar."

My heart sank. 1294—the same year in which the protagonist's journey begins in my novel. Events were already in motion.

"Good. May I get something to eat?" I asked, trying to sound normal while my mind raced through the implications.

"Yes, sir. I will bring food to you. Anything you specifically want?"

"No, just bring anything."

She nodded, then hesitated. "Also, your father has an important message for you. He told me—"

Before she could finish, my vision began to darken at the edges. The timer had reached zero. Panic gripped me as the world dissolved into blackness.

I found myself back in the strange void, once again existing as the disembodied white flame. The six options hovered before me: DEVA, ASURA, ANIMAL, HUMAN, PRETA, NARAKA.

This time, I noticed something different. The DEVA option was grayed out, no longer golden like the others. Above it ran another timer: 19:59:40... 19:59:39...

Before me, the main countdown began again: 00:00:26... 00:00:25...

"Too many timers!" I thought in frustration. Was this some kind of reincarnation system? Had I just experienced a temporary possession of Deculein? Would selecting DEVA again return me to him?

I didn't wait to find out. Before the timer expired, I focused my consciousness on the HUMAN option, selecting it with pure intent.

Darkness enveloped me once more, but this time, when my vision cleared, I found myself staring at a chalkboard. The smell of chalk dust and adolescent bodies filled my nostrils. Around me, students in matching uniforms sat at desks, some taking notes, others gazing out windows with bored expressions.

A classroom. I was in a classroom.

I looked down at my hands—smaller, softer, the hands of a teenager.