I did not cry.
That was the first thing I realized as I sat alone in a room that wasn't mine, surrounded by luxury that felt unreal. Marble floors, high ceilings, sunlight pouring in through tall windows—everything screamed wealth, power, and history. Yet my hands were steady. My breathing calm.
If anything, my thoughts were too clear.
Daniel Mangrave's face kept surfacing in my mind.
The tragedy of Daniel.
That was how readers would remember him. A regressor who failed twice. A man who clawed his way from nothing, trained under a transcendent master, lost him to vampires, and carried that grief like a curse. He had grown strong—strong enough to challenge the Demon Lord himself.
And still, he lost.
I remembered the last lines of the novel too clearly.
Daniel Mangrave fell to his knees. His body refused to move. His eyes, once burning with resolve, were now filled with tears and regret.
He wasn't crying because he was weak. He was crying because he understood—too late—that strength alone was never enough.
"Idiot," I muttered under my breath.
Not with disdain. With familiarity.
Daniel had tried to shoulder everything alone. Every death, every failure, every impossible choice. The world expected him to be a hero, and he accepted that role without question. And when the Vampire Lord fell, when victory was within reach, the Demon Lord struck from the shadows.
That wasn't fate. That was inevitability.
If you carry everything alone, you collapse alone.
And then there was Julien Morvain—the original one.
The boy whose body I now occupied.
His tragedy was quieter, uglier.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even a proper villain. Just a grieving noble child who lost his family in a vampire attack and reached desperately for power. The demons didn't force him. They whispered.
"You want revenge, don't you?"
And Julien listened.
I remembered his end clearly too. Jealous of Daniel's overwhelming talent. Enraged by his own mediocrity. Manipulated, discarded, and finally killed without dignity.
Died like a dog, the comments had said.
Cruel, but not inaccurate.
Both of them failed.
One because he was too strong. The other because he was too weak.
And somehow, I had landed in the space between them.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Julien?" my mother's voice came through the door. "Are you feeling well?"
I opened it.
She stood there with a familiar worried expression—different face, different life, yet the same warmth I remembered from my own mother. For a moment, my chest tightened.
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Just… tired."
She smiled in relief. "Your grandfather is waiting in the garden. He wants to see you."
Grandfather.
I hadn't been prepared for him.
Helior Morvain stood beneath the sunlight like a monument carved from history itself. His back was straight despite his age, his presence heavy enough to make servants instinctively step aside. But when his gaze landed on me, it softened.
That was the moment regret struck.
Not sharp. Not overwhelming.
Just… quiet.
His eyes were familiar. Too familiar.
They reminded me of my father.
"Julien," Helior said, his voice calm and bright, like a steady flame. "Come. Walk with me."
As we moved through the garden, I realized why this hurt more than I expected. This family mirrored my own in subtle ways. The concern. The unspoken expectations. The warmth hidden behind discipline.
I had lost my family once.
And now, I was standing in front of another one—one destined to be destroyed if nothing changed.
That was when I understood why I had loved Revenge of the Genius Martial Artist in the first place.
Not because of power-ups. Not because of battles.
But because the world felt alive.
Every faction had logic. Vampires weren't evil for the sake of it—they were narcissistic, predatory, convinced of their superiority. Humans clung to monarchy not out of tradition, but necessity. Elves sought balance. Dwarves valued progress. Even demons tempted rather than commanded.
And the characters—flawed, human, painfully real.
Daniel wasn't perfect. Julien wasn't evil by nature. Even the villains believed they were right.
That was why the ending disappointed me.
Not because it was tragic—but because it felt unfinished.
Helior stopped walking and looked at me. "You've changed," he said suddenly.
I froze.
"Is that bad?" I asked carefully.
He smiled. "No. It's… reassuring."
That single sentence weighed heavier than any prophecy.
I looked at the sky, blue and endless above the Morvain estate, and exhaled slowly.
I didn't want to save the world. I didn't want to rewrite fate.
I just didn't want to watch another tragedy unfold while knowing how it ended.
And this time—
I wasn't just a reader.