Prologue

**Swish.**

**Swish.**

A breeze stirred ash across the scorched battlefield.

Amidst the humming of chaos, beneath a sky choked with smoke and sorrow—

On a throne of ash, he sat—alone.

Above him, the heavens wept, thunder rolling like divine judgment.

Below, the earth trembled, scarred by magic and malice.

Before him stood a legion: elves, dwarves, beasts of old, and every creature born of steel or sorcery—united for one purpose.

Their eyes burned with a mix of fear and fury.

Blades shimmered. Spells crackled like caged storms.

They marched as one—to end him.

And yet, he simply watched.

His crimson eyes, brighter than the blood moon above, scanned the countless enemies.

Then—they locked on a single figure in the crowd.

A girl.

Young. Human.

A sword glowing with a blue aura trembled in her grasp.

He tilted his head.

**Curious.**

**Amused.**

She met his gaze.

Hesitated.

**Sigh.**

She drew in a breath—not in fear, but in acceptance.

A voice rose, trembling but resolute:

**"Why are you doing this, William?"**

He smiled.

Not with joy. Not with sadness.

A smile—hollow, jagged as a cracked mirror.

**"Because I can."**

And then—

**Crash.**

War erupted.

Magic clashed with steel. Realms shattered.

The sky itself split open.

In the chaos, his figure remained fixed—unchallenged.

A king of ruin, once a boy who dared to dream.

And in that moment, as the screams rose and reality burned—

A question echoed within him:

**"When did it all begin?"**

Not here. Not now.

Not in this world. Not in this body.

Long before the throne of ash.

Long before he became war incarnate.

It began... in a place of cold steel and endless stars.

His mind drifted…

Back to where the end had truly begun.

On a planet far removed from magic and myth—**Earth 105**—a man sat in a quiet, dimly lit room where shadows clung like memories that refused to die.

He wore a long black coat, tailored and sharp, like the edge of the persona he had once forged. His pants matched, pressed and perfect. Yet beneath the surface—he was broken.

The room around him was deceptively simple, but there was elegance in its stillness:

A bed, barely used.

A tall bookshelf lined with dusty spines.

A lone table, cold and unwelcoming.

And overhead—

A grand chandelier, its crystals dulled by time and silence.

**Thud.**

He closed the book in his hands—some old fantasy novel. The kind with heroes, demon kings, chosen ones, and happy endings.

He placed it on the table with a soft exhale and tilted his head toward the ceiling, letting the silence stretch.

**Sigh.**

His voice cut through the stillness like a blade drawn too slowly.

**"This story was sort of cliché. Predictable. But I get it. People love stories like this."**

A pause.

His lips curved upward, but it wasn't joy.

**Smile.**

A mimicry of what joy might have looked like—once.

**"She would've liked it too,"** he murmured, barely audible. There was no need to say her name. The absence was loud enough.

The tale had been about a hero who defeated the demon king, united the shattered lands, and brought peace. A perfect world on paper.

**Tap. Tap.**

His finger tapped the surface of the table, an anxious rhythm echoing his thoughts.

**"But was it worth it?"**

**"Did the hero even want it to end this way?"**

**"Did he ever truly want to save the world if it meant losing the ones he loved?"**

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely above breath.

**"Maybe… just maybe… he would've been happy in some quiet village. Far from destiny. Far from war. Far from... everything."**

He leaned forward, hands steepled under his chin.

**"But he fought. No... he was forced to fight. Dragged into a role others chose for him."**

A bitter chuckle slipped past his lips.

**"He fought... and he won. Killed the demon king. United the continents."**

He shook his head.

**"But he didn't smile. He cried. Cried for every soul left behind. Every friend. Every love. Every laugh turned to silence."**

**Chuckle.**

Raspy. Hollow. It tasted of regret.

**"Who the hell am I even talking to?"**

His gaze wandered to the walls, the corners, the empty spaces.

**"To the shadows that watched me bleed?

To the souls I crushed beneath my ambition?

To the cries I ignored as I climbed higher and higher?"**

He exhaled slowly.

**"Maybe I'm talking to fate.

The one that cursed me.

That molded me into a tyrant.

A legend to some, a monster to most.

A joke—to fate itself."**

He glanced down at his hands. Calloused. Strong. Stained.

They didn't feel like his anymore.

**"What the hell am I becoming?"**

He whispered it like a confession.

A long silence followed.

Then—

**Knock.**

A sound from the door. Sharp. Jarring.

**"Come in,"** he muttered, voice flat.

The door creaked open. A servant entered—head bowed, nervous.

**"Master, the Margrit family wishes to speak with you again,"** the man said cautiously.

The black-coated man closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

**"Send them away."**

**"But sir… it's their third attempt."**

A pause. Silence stretched like wire.

Then the man slowly raised his head. His eyes gleamed—not with power, but with something darker.

**"Did you not hear me the first time, Carl?"**

**Smile.**

A cold thing. The kind of smile that made men reconsider their loyalties.

Carl shivered—palpably.

He bowed hastily and exited the room without another word.

The man leaned back into the chair, letting the shadows reclaim his face.

**"I spared him,"** he whispered to no one.

**"Twice."**

Then came the laugh.

Low. Gravelly. Regret-laced.

**"The old me would've torn his heart out just for interrupting my thoughts."**

His eyes turned back to his hands.

Hands that had once cradled hope.

Now stained with the blood of both heroes and innocents.

**"Maybe I'm tired,"** he said quietly, like a man surrendering—not to enemies, but to himself.

He closed his eyes beneath the chandelier's dim, flickering glow.

And let sleep claim him.

---

When he opened his eyes again… everything had changed.

The chair was gone. The shadows were gone.

So was the weight on his chest—though something stranger now took its place.

Instead of the cold, stiff seat beneath him, he felt something soft… warm… comforting. He blinked slowly, adjusting to a strange, glowing ceiling overhead. The chandelier was no longer above him. It had been replaced by delicate golden lights embedded in polished wood.

"How...?"

His thoughts drifted sluggishly.

"How am I in a bed? Wasn't I...?"

He wanted to speak, but his lips refused to obey. He tried to move, but his limbs flailed weakly—small, soft, uncoordinated.

"What's wrong with me?"

But before panic could seize him fully, exhaustion overpowered confusion.

"I'm too tired to think…"

Darkness took him again.

Time passed. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes.

When he opened his eyes again, two blurred figures hovered above him.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then clarity struck like thunder.

A woman stood close—her expression filled with affection and worry. Golden hair framed her porcelain face. Her eyes, vast and ocean-deep, were locked on him with overwhelming tenderness.

Beside her was a tall man—elegant, proud. Silver hair, eyes like polished jade, and skin pale as porcelain. His very presence radiated nobility.

"William, how are you, my baby?" the woman whispered, voice soft as a lullaby.

A thousand alarms screamed in his mind.

"How dare they come so close?"

"Who are they?"

"Where am I?"

His instincts surged, ready to attack—

But nothing came out except a—

Gurgling cry.

No sharp command. No roar.

Just the sound of a newborn.

His tiny arms flailed, barely able to lift themselves.

Powerless. Infantile. Trapped.

He felt rage. Horror. And the terror of total helplessness.

And yet—

The woman only smiled.

Gently, she lifted him into her arms and pressed him to her chest.

Unaware of the execution he'd imagined moments earlier.

He looked at his hands—

So small. Soft. Incomplete.

This body—wasn't his.

Cry.

His lungs burned, and he screamed as loud as his infant form could allow.

"Why are you crying, William?"

The woman asked with gentle concern.

Then, she began to hum—soft, lyrical.

Pat. Pat.

🎵

Close your eyes, the stars will keep,

Guiding you gently into sleep.

🎵

Her voice wove into his bones like a spell.

His body—foreign though it was—began to calm.

His eyes drooped. He hated how weak he was.

And yet… there was warmth.

The man stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Don't worry," he said.

"He'll be all right."

She didn't answer at first. Her eyes never left the baby. Her lips trembled.

"I know… but he became so sick so suddenly. I thought we might lose him."

The man gently pulled her close.

The light around them felt too bright. Too kind.

They looked down at him as though he were something precious. Fragile. Sacred.

And then—

Quietly—they stepped away.

Leaving the sleeping child in peace.

The baby slept.

But inside him, the storm raged on.

His mind drifted, drawn backward—

Like a tide pulling him under.

A **field** stretched endlessly before him.

Soft grass. A golden sky. Wind weaving through wildflowers.

There, a **boy** stood.

His hand—tiny, trembling—wrapped around the fingers of a girl.

They were alone.

But in that moment, they were enough.

**"I'll create a world for us,"** the boy whispered.

**"One where we can live without suffering.

Without fear.

A place where joy never ends."**

His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with the weight of hope.

The girl didn't speak.

Her bangs veiled her eyes, but her smile—

Bright and fleeting—was his answer.

And in that smile, the boy believed.

That maybe, just maybe, the future could be rewritten.

---

**Swish.**

Time twisted.

The field fractured.

Reality folded in on itself.

---

He blinked—

And now, he was **older**.

His limbs longer. His back straighter.

But his eyes—still searching for the same peace.

The world around him was silent.

Then—

**"Brother!"**

A voice cut through the stillness.

Four boys approached, laughter in their eyes and pain hidden in their hearts.

"Why are you standing alone?"

He didn't answer right away.

The memory of the girl's smile still lingered.

"Are you thinking about your family?" one asked—the eldest, kind-eyed but weary.

"Shut up," another said, grinning, and pinched him playfully.

**"Ouch!"**

He rubbed the spot, his lips twitching.

"Don't be sad, brother," said the third.

His voice gentle, but unwavering.

"We've all lost someone. But we have each other. We always will."

They stood with him—shoulder to shoulder.

Not by blood, but bound by something deeper.

Shared scars. Shared silence. Shared rage at a world that had taken too much.

"If hell drags you down," the fourth boy said,

**"we'll pull you back. Together."**

And for a moment—just one—he smiled.

It didn't erase the sorrow.

But in their laughter, in their presence—

The world felt right.

---

**Until it didn't.**

---

**Blink.

Silence.**

Laughter shattered into dust.

Warmth bled away.

The world turned cold.

Wrong.

---

He stood—taller now, stronger—but utterly alone.

Bodies surrounded him.

His brothers.

The girl.

All still.

All lifeless.

Blood painted the ground beneath him.

His fingers trembled.

He looked down—

A **pistol** was clenched in his left hand.

Warm. Real.

A weight that made his soul sag.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred.

The smell of iron choked him.

The silence screamed.

---

**Knock.

Knock.**

A sharp rapping pulled him from the abyss.

His eyes—haunted—lifted.

**"Come in."**

His voice rasped, brittle.

---

**Clack.**

The door opened.

Carl stepped in—suit crisp, eyes nervous.

"Master… all the traitors have been executed."

The words echoed like gunshots.

---

Silence.

"Traitors…" he whispered.

He repeated the word like it was foreign.

Distant. Unbelievable.

"Yes… traitors…"

His chest constricted.

His throat clenched.

Then—

A tear slid down his cheek.

Followed by another.

And another.

Until they wouldn't stop.

---

Not the loud sobbing of a broken man.

No.

This was quiet. Raw. Hollow.

Tears that came too late.

Tears that couldn't change what had been done.

---

He turned away.

His voice crumbled into nothing.

Carl, wide-eyed, took a step back.

He bowed silently and left the room, closing the door behind him.

---

Alone again.

He pressed a trembling hand to his heart.

It beat, but barely.

---

**"I killed them…"**

His voice was a whisper.

A confession.

A curse.

---

He dropped the pistol onto the table.

It clattered once.

Then silence returned.

---

And so, the boy who had once dreamed of peace,

Stood in the ashes of what he'd become.

A king of ruin.

A ghost of his promise.

---

**\* \* \* \***

Back in the present, in a cradle of warmth—

The **baby stirred**.

A small brow furrowed in sleep.

His heart pounded beneath his tiny ribs.

The memory had returned too vividly.

Too painfully.

---

**"Why am I dreaming of that… after all this time?"**

He clenched his hands—small fists of confusion.

**"Why am I still trapped in this baby's body?"**

**"Wasn't that just a dream?"**

His mind spiraled.

Faces flashed before him again.

The noble mother. The father of silver and jade.

He knew their names now.

They were characters. From the novel.

He remembered.

The Medici Family.

The cold world of aristocrats and magic.

And at the center—

William.

The male lead.

**"Their appearances match the descriptions perfectly."**

**"This isn't a dream."**

**"This isn't a coincidence."**

He shuddered.

**"I'm in a novel…

But how?"**

He stared at his infant hands.

The tiny body. The helpless shell.

**"Am I William?"**

**"Did our souls swap?"**

**"Where is my world?"**

**"Is someone living *my* life now?"**

**"Is this a punishment?"**

He wanted to scream—but had no voice.

Only one question remained.

**"Why was I brought here?"**

---

His thoughts darkened.

**"Do I have to live William's life?"**

**"Will I be forced into his fate?"**

**"Is this the cruelty of destiny again—making me suffer just to amuse itself?"**

His soul screamed:

**"Why must I always suffer?"**

**"Why must I be a puppet for fate?"**

---

Then—

A soft voice echoed in his memory.

Not angry.

Not bitter.

Just… true.

---

**"Live for yourself."**

---

It cut through the fog like lightning.

The world felt lighter.

He opened his eyes fully.

The fire inside reignited.

**"Live for myself."**

**"I will return to my world. No matter the cost."**

**"Even if I must destroy this one—**

**Even if I have to tear the heavens apart—**

**I. WILL. RETURN."**

---

He looked toward the ceiling.

His baby fists clenched.

His breathing sharpened.

---

**"I won't be a pawn again."**

**"I won't dance for fate's amusement."**

**"I made a promise—

To myself.

To her."**

---

And then—

The **DING!**

A cold chime struck again.

A screen flickered into view before him.

Bright. Artificial.

Impossible—yet completely real.

---

A message scrolled across:

---

\[DING!]**

THE CONDITIONS HAVE BEEN MET.**

} THE VARIABLE HAS QUESTIONED THE EXISTENCE OF FATE.**

} SYSTEM AWAKENING IN PROGRESS.**

---

Two glowing banners appeared.

---

**HEROIC SYSTEM**

> You will be remembered as a hero.

> You will save the world.

> You will earn the love and respect of all.

> You will know the future.

> You will master every skill.

> You will not die.

> You cannot commit evil.

---

**OR**

---

**VILLAINOUS SYSTEM**

**"I WILL DESCEND INTO THE ABYSS AND DRAG THE WORLD DOWN WITH ME."**

> You will become a villain remembered forever.

> You will destroy the world alongside yourself.

> You will sense evil and hostility.

> You will wield the Essence of Corruption.

> You are free from all limits.

---

**\[CHOOSE YOUR SYSTEM]**

---

His newborn eyes stared at the glowing screen.

And as the light danced across his face—

The narration returned, eternal and grave:

**"And so began the tale of a man who would wage war against fate itself.

Fate wrote the story—

But he brought the fire."**