The Archduke's study was a temple of absolute silence.
Inside, the only permitted rhythm was the scratch of a quill on paper—calm and emotionless, like the ticking of an ancient clock in the corner. The heavy air was saturated with the thick scent of black ink, layers of dust from old books, and a faint whisper of cinnamon.
Outside the window, the sky was creeping toward faded yellow, signaling the end of the day. Cold afternoon light pierced the gaps in the thick velvet curtains, casting sharp-lined shadows across the rigid marble floor and walls.
In the midst of that cold grandeur sat Yudhe Kai Villiers.
He was a living marble statue—posture rigid and upright, as though wearing invisible formal armor beneath his clothes. His white hair fell neatly and menacingly to his shoulders. His eyes were lowered, fixed on the never-ending stack of documents. His face was a blank canvas: sharp jawline, straight lips that refused to show even a ripple of emotion.
As the Archduke, feared head of House Villiers, he was known among the nobility as a man of few words. Yet behind that silence, not a single shadow, not a single betrayal, ever escaped the cold calculation of his gaze.
The thick wooden door was knocked.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Without lifting his eyes or pausing his quill, Yudhe spoke—his voice flat as the surface of frozen water.
"Enter."
The figure who stepped inside was Qui Ture. An old man in black-silver uniform with gold embroidery at the collar. His hair was snow-white, but his eyes remained sharp—like an eagle that had witnessed too many nobles fall from golden thrones into pools of red blood.
"Your Highness Archduke," Qui bowed shallowly, placing another thick stack of documents on the corner of the jade-stone desk. "These are today's progress reports."
Yudhe did not look up. His hand continued its relentless scratching—numbers, decisions, orders flowing like water through tightly sealed channels, swift and without pause.
That silent signal was enough for Qui to move to the heart of his report.
"And regarding Young Master Darion," he said, tone shifting to caution. "He has skipped his sword training schedule, Your Highness. Both yesterday and today."
No reaction. The quill kept moving.
Qui Ture continued, now even more careful. "To complete the report: last night, Young Master Darion was found unconscious in his room following the maid incident. The family Solbringer verified it was merely extreme exhaustion."
Yudhe stopped writing. His eyes remained on the document.
"Exhaustion?" Yudhe repeated—not surprised, but carrying cold cruelty. "Shouldn't that Solbringer revise his report to 'Laziness'? If an heir collapses from exhaustion, it means he is not yet strong enough."
Qui bowed his head. "Of course, Your Highness. I will ensure the terminology is corrected."
"Good." Yudhe resumed writing.
"This morning as well… he smashed a cactus pot on his bedroom floor."
Again, silence—but Qui pressed on. "The cactus pot had been ordered on his own command, only to be destroyed by him moments later—for no discernible reason, Your Highness. The eyewitness was the servant, Fillion."
The quill paused for only a heartbeat. Yudhe drew a thin breath—a movement so slight it felt more like machinery recalibrating balance.
"The boy is still alive?"
Qui nodded. "For now, Your Highness."
"Good. We needn't bother disposing of another corpse in the report from that one maid's body."
Qui pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the cold pressure of the silence. "However, today as well, the Young Master has shown no sign of heading to the training grounds. Despite this being a special internal training schedule."
Yudhe turned a page. His demeanor dismissed the matter—yet Qui knew the Archduke of Villiers never dismissed anything. He was merely filtering.
Qui steeled himself. "I know, Your Highness, that the Young Master… has a reputation. And there are far more pressing matters." He stared at the towering shadow Yudhe cast across the desk. "Yet considering his age—and the sudden change in behavior—I believe it is worth mentioning."
Silence drifted. Then Yudhe spoke.
"What do you think."
It was not a question. It was a command. Yudhe's voice—unchanged in tone—sounded like an oral examination that could decide a servant's fate.
Qui Ture—who had served two generations of monsters—did not flinch.
"If I may speak frankly," he said, squaring his shoulders, "I believe this is a form of… seeking recognition."
The quill in Yudhe's hand stilled. For the first time, his pale violet eyes lifted and locked directly onto Qui.
"…Continue."
"At the Young Master's current age, he is in early puberty. He is growing rapidly, Your Highness. Unfortunately, there is little room for children in the blood of this family."
Qui took half a step forward, placing all his experience into one statement. "I have watched many generations of nobility. Many died young, or rotted in hatred because they sought one thing—attention and acknowledgment."
Yudhe touched his temple—a fleeting, almost invisible gesture. His eyes returned to emptiness, gazing into the distance.
"Your Highness… I believe this is not about laziness. It is about wanting to be trained by you personally." Qui bowed. "Perhaps he wants you to see him. To forge his blade—not merely order others to do it."
Silence. No birdsong, no wind. Only the old clock in the corner continued breaking the quiet.
Then Yudhe stood. Slowly. His figure towered, cold, and profoundly terrifying. He walked to the large window, gazing out at the thinly snow-dusted mansion courtyard—as though looking into the past.
"The little bastard once said…" Yudhe's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Children are not created to be loved. They are created to inherit blood that has not yet been buried."
Qui remained silent, like a dog waiting for its master's command.
Yudhe turned. "Do you believe that, Ture?"
"I," Qui answered, meeting his gaze directly, "believe children never asked to be born into the hell their parents created."
And Yudhe smiled.
Not a warm smile—but a dangerous, calculating one. A cruel acknowledgment.
"Ironically, this is the perfect hell for him—just as it is the perfect hell for me. Find him," he said at last. "See whether my little bastard can still swing a sword—or only his mouth. If he is slacking… drag him to the training grounds alive."
Qui bowed respectfully. "Yes, Your Highness."
But before Qui could retreat, Yudhe's footsteps moved quietly toward the iron safe at the side of the room. His pale, clean hand reached in and withdrew a pair of black leather gloves. He slipped his fingers in slowly. The sound of leather rubbing was clear in the silent room.
He stopped before the wall where a long sword in black cloth hung. The weapon bore no flashy ornament, yet its aura made Qui's spine feel as though it would crack.
Yudhe drew it. The silver blade slid out with a soft, razor-sharp sound—like death's mockery. He gazed at his own reflection in the gleaming surface. His pale violet eyes remained cold, yet now filled with predator-like calculation.
Then he spoke—quietly, but the words carved like an epitaph:
"Leaving a scratch is an honor. Isn't that right, Father?"
Without another word, Yudhe sheathed the sword across his back and strode past Qui.
The door closed slowly behind him.
And Qui—who had served two generations of monsters—finally allowed himself to exhale.
"May you be strong, Young Master…"
•••
"Long ago, in a Kaivalya untouched and unrecorded in history books, there lived a hero who never desired the title of hero."
"His name… was Kanata. Yoshihara Kanata."
That was the opening line I once read. Or… perhaps, that is the story now gnawing at me, the one I am beginning to live.
I don't know exactly when the boundary of reality cracked. One morning I was simply Kyouya—a man too tired, flipping page after page of a mad fantasy novel titled *The Greatest Hero*. But after a moment of gnawing pain and clouded memory… when I opened my eyes, the world had swallowed me whole.
And now this body belongs to Darion Valdis Villiers—the cruel Villain destined to fall in arrogance, slain by the hero he himself shaped through tragedy.
But before we drown in this cursed fate, allow me to tell his story. Not the story of the Darion beside me. But the story of Yoshihara Kanata.
Once, he was just a misplaced soul. An ordinary college student dragged by an alien pull, then awakened in the body of the middle child of Marquess Yoshihara—Naoya, Kanata, and Yanagi—triplets who shared fate, but only Kanata did not belong to this land.
Essentially, Kanata was also a transmigrator—which is why I asked Fillion what year and month it was. As I strangely suspected, we transmigrated on the same day. But for now, I cannot act rashly.
Kanata himself had no guide in this world. No map, no whispering god, no 'System' to lead him. All he knew was one bitter truth: this was not his home.
And in the midst of the Kazuko Empire—gnawed by war, intrigue, and noble hypocrisy—a Kanata who didn't know how to play the role became a fragile pawn. No miracle saved him. No instant divine power. He only had disturbed common sense, guilt, entangling sympathy, and eyes that refused to be deceived.
With a trembling heart and head full of questions, he moved from battlefield to battlefield. From palace to war trench. From bitter sword training to cold negotiations at the table. From losing beloved friends to burying his own sibling. And every step—every drop of blood and tear—brought him closer to one unavoidable name.
Darion.
Sá Konungsson Skugga af Norðri
Sá Hundr Vígs
Sá Skrímsl Mann-Andlits
The northerners gave him those titles. But to poor Kanata, Darion was simply "the enemy who shaped me."
Kanata's journey was not a shining tale of victory. It was a blood-soaked fairy tale—washed by the deaths of those who tried to survive in a rotten world. He was not 'the chosen' by fate. But he… chose to endure, because that was the only form of courage he possessed while searching for a way home.
And when Kanata's rage finally peaked, bringing him to stand before the Archduke… when their two gazes met in the ruined hall, with Kanata's eyes blazing with the fire of justice and Darion laughing amid his own blood—the story reached its definitive end.
Or so it was written in the novel that carried my life this far.
I never valued my own academic credentials—I'm only a high-school graduate—but strangely, in this world, I find myself missing those boring history lessons. Because the history of the world I now inhabit is an ocean of lies hiding the truth.
I even sacrificed my sleep to listen to Elroy's long morning lecture on the basics—even though it was explained at length and clearly. Just in case, I had to read fifty more books for hours from noon till evening because my memories are hazy on many points. And this is only the second day after my transmigration…
Haha… what kind of suffering is this?
"Kaivalya… no longer the Era of the Grand Covenant," I muttered inwardly, feeling Darion's cold jolt of confirmation—as though he enjoyed the fact that the name of peace had been tarnished.
The current era is the Fourth Era: The Age of Rebellions. Or at least that's what Darion called it in the novel. I actually agree—because in this era, many young people do insane things.
In *The Greatest Hero*, this era is known more diplomatically as The Age of Grand Covenant—an era of peace established after the defeat of the Demon King and the Calbriant tragedy. An era that was supposed to be achieved by founding Kaiv Academy in the Central Continent as a guarantee of unity.
But in my eyes, all I see is a failed academy. I mean come on… Darion is one of the students who will attend there. Clearly, almost every student in that place is a ticking time bomb.
I know from the novel that the academy was built on an oath that all races would study together. Humans, Elves, Dwarves—everyone. Except demons—they are predators. The goal was to balance power, to ensure everything remained even.
Yet, as Darion whispered with mockery, "Unity is just sweet words written in blood. Kaivalya remains divided by differing ideologies."
I remember fragments about the Tower Mages—an elitist group that refuses to fully submit to the Academy, though some agreed to serve as professors/directors. They are guardians of what is called the Arcanum Alphabet—the arrangement created by the First Mage in the Arkhavana Era. For some reason, my blurred memory of that time feels like looking at a fossil too sacred to touch.
They—the Tower Mages—believe magic should be studied from its roots, not from a politically simplified curriculum. They guard ancient secrets—secrets from primordial Sigils even older than the Arcanum itself—something now sought by the Retainers, intelligence operatives smuggling forbidden knowledge.
Sigils… Sigils are the key. Teleportation Scrolls are one thing created from spellcraft… whose creator hides under various names in the black market—only Retainers know their identity. But thinking about it, the Retainers' true purpose is still unclear… just like my own memories.
Beneath the layers of the Academy and the imperial/royal factions I may face, there are shadows of far darker groups.
I still remember several names I must avoid or be wary of in the next six years.
Meltheist. Worshippers of The Lord Abyss. They are called Apostates. In the novel, they are the reason Kanata had to face bloodshed. Darion didn't care about them—he only saw them as tools to satisfy his ambition, or perhaps the ambition of the Demon King himself who would rise again. The Lord Abyss, who would resurrect himself, becoming a new threat. What I remember most about them is the part where Darion joined them in the shadows, only to betray and disrupt "a little" of their plans—simply because he was bored…
Angelolatry. The holy arm of the Temple, filled with those called Celesta—those blessed by the gods of light. They exterminate demons but also hunt Witches and dark-magic users like the Apostates. Their existence reminds me of Saintess Ammy who died in the Reverend Cataclysm Era—the tragic demon war era when the hero Calbriant was branded 'Traitor'.
Empyreal. They… they are the hidden face of power. Invisible judges. They are the neutral party tasked with tidying up history so that taboo knowledge from the First and Second Eras remains unknown to the common people. As far as I remember, they were wary of Kanata—but I don't recall why. What's certain is that the Empyreal ensure dangerously powerful knowledge never reaches public hands.
If I try to dig into the First Mage or the true fate of Calbriant, the Empyreal will come. That thought is a constant warning.
But there is one faction that always confused me even when reading the novel: The Moltey.
They're like a joke—led by K, who—if my memory is correct—is a manifestation of an Outer God. They are a structureless group, moving according to random clues. Their purpose from the beginning was unclear—extremely unclear—so much so that even I was baffled…
My current plan is to play the scripted role of Darion while searching for a way to avoid the tragic ending and create a fake death. Even if a butterfly effect occurs—whatever. I just need to ensure the story still heads in that direction.
I only hope that in the next six years, I can remember more about *The Greatest Hero* before that hero—Kanata—comes to carve our final fate.
"And for now, let's set magic aside. I need to focus on my plan," I muttered to myself while creating a small flame on my fingertip. Small magic like this isn't forbidden—of course not—because basic magic is truly easy unless you can't control it. Objects can be structured in the mind but require casting—creating a magic circle from nothing in the air, or in short, writing in the air—with incantations to make manifestation far more practical for creating the desired magical structure: dense structure, fluid structure, and so on.
The size of the magic circle also matters—it depends on control. If it's large, it leans toward AoE type; if small, it leans toward melee or single-point focus.
"Magic is really complicated, huh. At least basic magic is easier."
"You seem to be studying well, Young Master."
"Gyaa! Damn it—what the hell are you?!"
'M-my heart… since when was he here? I didn't even hear the door open…'
"Qui… that old man really is always like that."
'…You were startled too?'
"No." Kyouya didn't believe that spontaneous statement.
Wait—if this person is Qui… ah, I have a very bad feeling… It's just my imagination, right? Right?
To be continued.