The world, for me, was a flat, gray screen. Not literally, of course, but the feeling was the same. The glow of my monitor was the only sun I cared for, its artificial light illuminating the cramped space of my apartment and the dust motes dancing in the stale air. Outside, the real sun would rise and set, cars would honk, people would laugh and cry, but none of it felt connected to me. It was all background noise to my own monotonous existence.
My name was Aiden Verne. I was seventeen, technically a college student, but the title felt like a borrowed coat that didn't fit. I attended classes on autopilot, my mind drifting to fantasy worlds while a professor droned on about economic theory. I worked a part-time job at a convenience store, the rhythmic beep of the scanner a countdown to the end of my shift. My life was a loop, a script I was tired of reading.
My only escape, my only sliver of color in a monochrome world, was webnovels. And for the past few months, one story had consumed me: Crimson Destiny.
It was a classic, tropey masterpiece. The hero, Leonidas val Aris, was a commoner with a hidden talent and a heart of gold, destined to rise and save the Aldren Empire. The world was a beautifully crafted tapestry of swords and magic, of elves in ancient forests and dwarves in mountain forges. Mana was the lifeblood of the world, and those who could wield it, the Mana Weavers, stood at the apex of society.
But I wasn't fascinated by the hero. I was morbidly obsessed with the villain.
Damien Vrael. The prodigal son of a powerful Duke, a genius of his generation, handsome, charismatic, and rotten to the core. He was the perfect antagonist. And trailing him like a lost puppy was his sidekick, the character I despised the most: Lucian Greyfall.
Lucian was the epitome of a wasted life. Born into a noble family, gifted with a decent mana affinity, and blessed with looks, he threw it all away to be Damien's lackey. He was arrogant to those below him, pathetically subservient to Damien, and utterly blind to the fact that he was nothing more than a disposable tool. I'd read ahead in the raw, untranslated chapters. I knew his fate. In a crucial moment, when Damien needed a scapegoat to escape a failed assassination plot against the hero, he would sacrifice Lucian without a second thought. Lucian would die alone, confused, and betrayed, his name forever stained in the annals of the story as a villain's foolish dog.
Every time I read about him, a bitter frustration welled up in me. It was like watching someone willingly walk off a cliff. "You idiot," I'd mutter at my screen, the cup of instant noodles growing cold beside me. "He's using you. Open your eyes. Do something, anything, for yourself."
But he never did. He was a character written to be a stepping stone, his only purpose to highlight the villain's ruthlessness and die a pathetic death. In a way, I saw a sliver of myself in him. Not the arrogance or the nobility, but the passivity. The feeling of being a side character in someone else's story, just drifting along a predetermined path. The thought was unsettling.
Tonight was the night. The latest translated chapter was out—the chapter leading up to Lucian's demise. I clicked on it, my heart pounding with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. The text described Lucian, puffed up with borrowed pride, cornering the hero's love interest on Damien's orders. He was spouting arrogant nonsense, completely unaware of the trap being laid around him.
"Don't do it," I whispered, leaning closer to the screen. "Just turn around. Walk away. Your life is worth more than this."
My screen flickered. The words blurred. A sudden wave of vertigo washed over me, so intense I felt my stomach lurch. The air in my room grew heavy, thick, and the low hum of my computer deepened into a resonant, bone-jarring thrum. My vision swam, the familiar gray walls of my apartment seeming to stretch and warp.
What the hell is happening?
I tried to stand up, but my limbs felt like lead. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the encroaching silence. The light from my monitor intensified, bleaching the room in a harsh, white glare. It wasn't just light; it felt physical, a pressure pushing down on me, squeezing the air from my lungs.
I remember a single, fleeting thought as my consciousness began to fray. I wish I could have lived a life that mattered.
Then, darkness. A complete and total void, deeper than sleep, more final than death. It was a silent, endless fall.
And then, just as suddenly, sensation returned with the force of a physical blow. The scent of sandalwood and old parchment. The impossible softness of silk sheets against my skin. The gentle weight of a thick, velvet blanket.
My eyes fluttered open.
The first thing I saw was a canopy of deep crimson fabric, held up by four posts of dark, intricately carved wood. Sunlight, richer and more golden than any I had ever seen, streamed through a tall, arched window, illuminating a room that belonged in a historical drama. A polished oak wardrobe stood against one wall, a silver mirror with an ornate frame on another. A faint, ambient glow emanated from a crystal orb resting on a bedside table, pulsing with a soft, inner light.
This wasn't my apartment. This wasn't a hospital.
My mind, still sluggish and disoriented, grasped for a rational explanation. A dream? An elaborate prank?
I sat up, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My body felt… wrong. It was leaner, yet possessed a wiry strength I didn't recognize. My hands, resting on the blanket, were pale and slender, with long, elegant fingers. Not my hands. My own were calloused from my part-time job and perpetually stained with ink from doodling in my lecture notes.
With a surge of adrenaline-fueled dread, I threw off the covers and stumbled out of the bed. My bare feet met a plush, deep blue rug. My legs felt shaky, unfamiliar. I lurched towards the silver mirror, my reflection slowly coming into focus as I drew closer.
I stopped. My breath hitched in my throat.
The person staring back at me was a stranger. A boy of about seventeen, with sharp, aristocratic features that held a natural, almost ingrained, arrogance. His hair wasn't my plain black mop, but a cascade of pure, shimmering silver that fell just past his ears. And his eyes… his eyes were a startling shade of slate gray, wide with a terror and confusion that was entirely my own.
It was a face I knew intimately. A face I had seen in the fan illustrations and official art for Crimson Destiny. A face I had just been cursing moments—or was it an eternity?—ago.
The face of the doomed fool. The villain's sidekick.
The face of Lucian Greyfall.