Death came with applause.
Kael Viremont stood on the execution platform, wrists bound by cold iron chains that bit into his skin. The wooden planks beneath his feet were stained dark—whether from age, blood, or both, he could not tell. A low murmur spread through the plaza like a restless tide, thousands of voices blending into a single sound of anticipation.
They were waiting for him to die.
Kael lifted his head and looked out at the crowd. Nobles sat beneath shaded canopies, sipping wine as if watching a stage play. Commoners packed the streets beyond the barriers, craning their necks for a better view. Priests stood solemnly near the gallows, hands folded in prayer, though their eyes shone with excitement.
This scene felt… familiar.Too familiar.
"So this is it," Kael murmured under his breath.
He knew this moment.
Not because he had lived it before—but because he had read it.
In the novel Song of the Chosen Flame, this was Chapter Forty-Seven. The moment the minor antagonist, Kael Viremont, was publicly executed to highlight the hero's righteousness and cleanse the capital of corruption.
A disposable villain.
A stepping stone.
A name readers barely remembered.
And now, he was standing in that very role.
"Kael Viremont," the judge announced, his voice amplified by magic and echoing across the plaza. "You have been found guilty of conspiracy against the crown, embezzlement of noble funds, and attempted regicide. Do you have any final words?"
Kael almost laughed.
Attempted regicide? He hadn't even met the king properly.
The charges were nonsense—fabricated, exaggerated, stitched together by political enemies who needed a scapegoat. In the novel, none of that mattered. Truth had never been relevant.
His gaze drifted downward.
At the foot of the platform stood a young man clad in white and gold armor. Sunlight reflected off the holy sigils engraved into his sword, casting a faint glow that made him look almost divine.
Golden hair. Calm eyes. Upright posture.
Leon Ashford.
The Chosen Hero.
In the story, Leon would deliver the final blow. The crowd would erupt in cheers. The church would praise his resolve. And Kael Viremont would cease to exist—his death used to polish another man's legend.
Kael exhaled slowly.
"So this is how I die," he whispered. "For someone else's character development."
Leon looked up, brow furrowing slightly. "Did you say something?"
Kael met his eyes.
For a brief moment, the world felt strangely quiet.
"No," Kael replied calmly. "Just thinking."
The executioner stepped forward, raising his blade.
The crowd held its breath.
Time seemed to slow.
Kael felt no fear—only a deep, hollow irritation.
What a ridiculous ending.
The blade descended.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
The world shattered.
Kael gasped.
Air flooded his lungs as if he had been drowning for years. His body jerked upright, heart pounding violently against his ribs. Sweat drenched his back, and his hands trembled as he clutched the bedsheets beneath him.
"Hah… hah…"
He looked around wildly.
This wasn't the execution plaza.
The room was dimly lit by a softly glowing crystal lamp. Heavy curtains blocked the morning light. Dark wooden furniture lined the walls, carved with elegant but severe designs. Everything felt expensive—and oppressive.
Kael froze.
He recognized this room.
Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and staggered toward the mirror mounted on the far wall. His reflection stared back at him.
A pale young man, no older than seventeen. Ash-blond hair that fell messily over sharp eyes. A faint scar on his chin.
Kael Viremont.
Alive.
Unbound.
Unexecuted.
His breath caught.
"…I'm alive?"
Memories surged into his mind, not like dreams but like lived experiences—childhood lessons in noble etiquette, whispered ridicule from other heirs, his father's cold disappointment, the future humiliation and death awaiting him.
This was real.
He pressed a hand against the mirror, fingers digging into the glass.
"I transmigrated," he whispered.
Not into the body of the hero.
Not into the final villain.
But into a minor antagonist destined to die early.
Kael let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Of all roles…"
In the novel, this body's owner was arrogant, impulsive, and desperate for validation. He antagonized the hero at every opportunity, tried to sabotage the academy entrance exams, and was exposed before the story even truly began.
A fool.
A tool.
A corpse by Chapter Forty-Seven.
Kael straightened, his reflection staring back with unfamiliar sharpness.
"But I'm not him."
He clenched his fists.
He didn't want glory.
He didn't want revenge.
He wanted to live.
"Alright," Kael said quietly. "Let's start by not dying."
A knock sounded at the door.
"My lord?" a soft voice called.
Kael inhaled once, steadying himself. "Enter."
A young maid stepped inside, head bowed respectfully. "Breakfast is ready. Lord Viremont requests your presence in the dining hall."
His father.
Darius Viremont.
Kael's chest tightened.
In the novel, this was where things began to go wrong. The original Kael would complain, demand money, and humiliate a visiting knight—all actions that planted the seeds of his downfall.
Kael nodded. "I'll be there shortly."
The maid left.
Kael stared at the door after it closed.
First rule of survival, he reminded himself. Don't follow the script.
The dining hall was quiet, filled with the scent of roasted bread and bitter herbal tea.
Lord Darius sat at the head of the table, posture rigid, gray hair tied neatly behind his head. His sharp eyes flicked toward Kael as he entered.
"You're late," Darius said.
"I apologize," Kael replied, bowing his head slightly before taking his seat.
Darius paused.
That alone was unusual.
"Hm," he grunted. "Eat."
Kael did so silently, choosing his words carefully.
This conversation mattered.
"Father," Kael said after a moment, "I wish to request permission to leave the capital."
Darius raised an eyebrow. "For what reason?"
"Training," Kael answered honestly. "And distance."
Silence stretched between them.
"You've never shown interest in improving yourself," Darius said flatly.
Kael met his gaze. "That was my mistake."
The words were simple, but they carried weight.
Something subtle shifted in Darius's expression.
"…Where?" he asked. "The northern border," Kael said. "There's less politics. Fewer eyes."
Darius studied him for a long time before finally leaning back.
"Very well," he said. "You leave in three days."
Kael stood and bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Father."
As he left the hall, Kael felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Hope.Three years until his execution.
There is still plenty of time.
Enough to change everything.