The opulent, gilded silence of the Boy's dormitory suite pressed heavily against Damien's ears. He sat perfectly still on the plush, imported carpet of the floor, his legs crossed, the heavy, leather-bound diary of Rudeus Blackfyre clutched desperately to his chest.
He held it as if it were a fragile, beating heart. It was the only physical tether connecting him to the boy who had suffered in silence, the boy who had wept across the dimensional void for a man he had never met. The scent of old parchment, dried ink, and the faint, bitter tang of dried tears wafted from the pages, grounding Damien in a reality that felt increasingly surreal.
Slowly, carefully, as if handling a priceless relic from a lost civilization, Damien lowered the diary. He placed it gently onto the center of the massive mahogany desk, smoothing his hand over the worn leather cover one last time.
He needed to write. He needed to plot. He needed to map out the next five years of his existence with the surgical, ruthless precision of a military tactician.
But as he reached out to uncap the ornate, silver-tipped fountain pen resting in the crystal inkwell, his hand paused in mid-air. His crimson eyes, the eyes of the boy whose life he had stolen, stared blankly at the blank, yellowed parchment.
A profound, aching melancholy washed over him, completely untethered from the immediate dangers of the Imperial Academy or the looming threat of the Demon God Cult.
A single, overwhelming question echoed in the hollow chambers of his mind.
'What would it be like?' Damien thought, his breath hitching slightly. 'What would it be like if things had been different? If this universe wasn't a twisted, tragic game? If... if you had existed in my life, on my Earth? What would it be like if you were actually my little brother?'
The thought was a dangerous indulgence. It was a descent into a hypothetical fantasy that could offer no tactical advantage, no physical salvation. And yet, the dam had already broken. The emotional walls Damien had spent five years fortifying in the bloody trenches of the Vanguard had been completely pulverized by the raw, unadulterated empathy contained within Rudeus's diary.
He closed his eyes. The gilded walls of the Imperial Academy faded away. The scent of expensive incense was replaced by the smell of roasted peanuts, exhaust fumes, and the sharp, clinical tang of ozone.
Damien surrendered to the hallucination. He allowed his mind to construct a paradise built on the foundation of 'What If'.
***
The Daydream.Earth - Post-Integration Era.The Bizarre Zoo, Los Angeles Reconstruction Zone.
The midday sun beat down warmly on the sprawling, reinforced concrete concourses of the Seattle Bizarre Zoo.
It was a modern marvel of the post-integration world—a massive, heavily shielded facility built to house, study, and display the lower-tier monsters that had spilled out of the initial dungeon breaks. It was a controversial establishment, a stark reminder of the apocalypse that had nearly wiped out humanity, but it was also a symbol of mankind's ultimate triumph. They hadn't just survived the monsters; they had put them behind thick, mana-infused glass for children to point at.
"Brother, look! Over there!"
The bright, excited voice pierced through the ambient chatter of the crowd.
Damien turned his head, a soft, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Standing a few feet away, practically vibrating with pent-up energy, was a young boy. He looked to be around ten years old. He wore a simple, slightly oversized graphic t-shirt featuring a cartoonish drawing of the Titan Nicholas, a pair of scuffed denim jeans, and light-up sneakers.
He had messy, vibrant green hair that stuck up in odd cowlicks, defying all attempts to comb it down. But the most striking feature was his eyes. They were a brilliant, sparkling crimson red. The exact same shade as their late father's.
It was Rudeus. Not a broken, abused nobleman, but a normal, happy kid.
Rudeus was jumping up and down, pointing a sticky, half-eaten lollipop toward a massive, reinforced enclosure.
"Look! It's the Mutated Sabertooth Tiger from the Sector 4 Dungeon files! The one I was reading about in the encyclopedia last night! Look how big its fangs are!" Rudeus cheered, completely devoid of fear, pressing his small hands against the thick, protective glass.
Damien, wearing a faded leather jacket and his civilian clothes, strolled over. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his amber eyes—his original, beautiful amber eyes—locking onto the massive, pacing beast inside the enclosure. The monster was terrifying. It was easily the size of a minivan, covered in matted, purple-striped fur, with bone-plated armor protruding from its spine and fangs that dripped with a highly corrosive, acidic saliva.
A familiar, dark twinge of resentment flared in Damien's chest. The sight of the monster dragged up memories of sirens, of crumbling buildings, of the night the sky tore open and the world ended.
"Mhm. I really see that, Rudy," Damien said, his tone clipped, clearly annoyed despite his best efforts to hide it. He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "Though, I really have to ask... why in the world are you so incredibly interested in looking at monsters like that? You know exactly what those things are capable of. You know they're the exact reason why our parents died."
The excitement instantly drained from Rudeus's small face. The bright crimson eyes dimmed, filling with a sudden, anxious guilt. The boy lowered his pointing finger, suddenly finding the tips of his light-up sneakers intensely fascinating.
"U-umm..." Rudeus stuttered, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper as he tried to reason with his imposing older brother. "I-it's just that... well, they are really interesting to look at from a biological perspective. The way their mana cores adapt to different environments is fascinating. And... and you always told me we shouldn't generalize. We shouldn't blame every single monster in the world for our parents' death. It was a specific dungeon break. I-I mean... I'm sorry, Damien. I just wanted us to have fun. Let's just enjoy this day, alright? I can look at the regular animals if you want."
The sheer, earnest innocence in the boy's voice hit Damien like a physical blow. The way Rudeus immediately folded, the way he tried to placate Damien's anger, stung his conscience.
Damien let out a long, heavy sigh, instantly regretting his harsh tone. He looked down at his poor little brother, whose lower lip was actually beginning to tremble, tears threatening to spill over his eyelashes.
Damien uncrossed his arms. The hardened soldier melted away, replaced entirely by the protective older brother.
"Hey. No. Look at me, Rudy," Damien said softly, crouching down so he was eye-level with the boy. He reached out and gently wiped a smudge of dirt off Rudeus's cheek. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's not your fault. You're right. They are fascinating, in a terrifying sort of way. We came here because you got an A on your science project, and this was your reward."
Damien offered a warm, genuine smile. "Fine. We can look at the monsters. But you have to promise you'll stay right by my side at all times, just as always. Deal?"
Rudeus's face instantly lit up, the guilt vanishing like morning mist under the sun. His crimson eyes gleamed with pure, unfiltered joy as he realized his older brother was letting him do what he loved most.
"Deal! Yehey!" Rudeus cheered, throwing his arms around Damien's neck in a tight, sticky hug.
Damien chuckled, wrapping his arms around the small boy, returning the embrace firmly. He brought a hand up and aggressively ruffled his little brother's messy green hair, earning a fit of giggles.
'Spoiled brat,' Damien thought affectionately, a profound warmth blossoming in his chest. 'If you were not my dear little brother, my absolute favorite person in the world... I'd probably already give you a knuckle sandwich for making me look at these ugly bastards. But for you? I'll stare at a thousand Mutated Tigers.'
They spent the entire remainder of the day exploring every inch of the Bizarre Zoo. Damien shadowed his little brother tirelessly, playing the role of the attentive guardian while Rudeus darted from enclosure to enclosure. The young boy spouted an endless stream of encyclopedic fun facts about every single monster he pointed at, excitedly citing the specific elemental affinities, weakness points, and drop-rates based on the extensive WHA data files he obsessively read in his spare time.
For a few hours, the trauma of their past was completely forgotten, replaced by the simple, profound joy of brotherhood.
Eventually, the sun began to dip below the Seattle skyline. The sky shifted into a bruised canvas of orange, pink, and deep violet. The neon lights of the reconstructed city began to flicker on, casting long, artificial shadows across the concrete paths of the park.
It was already night. The crowds had thinned out significantly.
The two brothers sat together on a wooden park bench overlooking a tranquil, artificial lake. The night air was crisp and cool. They were both quietly enjoying the quintessential capstone to any good day out: eating massively overpriced, slightly melting ice cream cones. Damien had classic vanilla, while Rudeus had chosen an obnoxiously bright blue, bubblegum-flavored concoction.
They sat in comfortable, companionable silence for a long time, watching the reflections of the neon lights dance on the surface of the water.
Then, Rudeus stopped licking his ice cream. He swung his legs back and forth, the light-up heels flashing faintly in the gloom.
"Brother?"
Damien, who had been staring blankly at a passing security drone, looked down. He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"Hmm? What is it, kiddo? Brain freeze?"
Rudeus hesitated. He looked down at his melting ice cream, a sudden, heavy seriousness settling over his young features. It was an expression that made him look far older than his ten years.
"I-it's just that... I've been thinking," Rudeus began, his voice small, tentative, as if navigating a minefield. "If... if the Seattle Break never happened. If Mom, Dad, and Sis Mel were still alive right now... playing at home waiting for us."
Rudeus looked up, his crimson eyes locking onto Damien's amber ones.
"Would you still be so angry all the time? Would you not have such a deep, terrible grudge against both the Hunters and the Monsters?"
Damien's eyes widened to the absolute limit. The question hit him with the force of a sniper round. It bypassed all of his emotional armor and struck the deepest, most vulnerable core of his soul.
He stopped breathing for a second. The ambient noise of the park—the distant hum of traffic, the chirping of artificial crickets—seemed to fade entirely into a deafening vacuum.
He stared at his little brother, completely blindsided by the sheer, penetrating depth of the inquiry. It wasn't the question of a child; it was the question of a philosopher dissecting a broken man.
Damien sighed. It was a long, ragged, shuddering exhale that seemed to deflate his entire body. The ice cream in his hand was entirely forgotten.
He slowly slid off the wooden bench. He didn't sit next to Rudeus. Instead, he knelt down on the cold concrete directly in front of his little brother, bringing himself below the boy's eye level, a posture of absolute vulnerability and submission.
"Brother, you know... sigh..." Damien started, his voice cracking, thick with a sudden accumulation of unshed tears. He rubbed his face with his free hand, trying to formulate a response to an unanswerable question.
"I... I really, really don't have a simple answer to that question, Rudy. Because the truth is... it's an incredibly complicated, messy web of feelings."
Rudeus, still possessing the relentless, probing innocence of a child trying to understand a fundamentally broken world, tilted his head, completely unsatisfied with the evasion.
"Why?" Rudeus asked, taking a slow lick of his blue ice cream, his crimson eyes never leaving Damien's face. "Why can't you answer my question? It seems simple. The monsters killed them. The Hunters were too late. You hate them. But if they were alive, you wouldn't have a reason to hate them. Right? It's not your fault that Mom and Dad died in that crossfire. Even Sis Mel's death in the Twin Dungeon... you were just a rookie. It wasn't your fault."
Damien looked deeply into his brother's crimson red eyes. The exact same color as their late father. The exact same shape as the original Rudeus's eyes in the mirror.
The walls finally came down.
Damien let out another broken sigh. He hung his head for a moment, gathering the courage to confess his darkest, most closely guarded secret to the person he loved most.
"You're right, Rudy. Logically, rationally, you are absolutely right," Damien began, his voice dropping to a raw, agonizing whisper. He looked back up, his amber eyes shimmering with tears. "But the thing is... the ugly, selfish truth of the matter is... I really don't hate them entirely."
Rudeus frowned, confused. "You don't hate the monsters? Or the Hunters?"
"I hate what they did," Damien clarified, his voice shaking. "But the hatred I project outward toward the corrupt Hunter Guilds, toward the WHA, toward the beasts... it's a shield. It's a smokescreen."
Damien swallowed hard, the lump in his throat feeling like a jagged stone.
"Rather... I hate myself."
Rudeus's eyes widened in genuine shock. He stopped swinging his legs. The blue ice cream began to melt over his knuckles, entirely ignored.
"Why?!" Rudeus demanded, his voice pitching higher in distress. "That doesn't make any sense! You didn't do anything wrong! Why would you hate yourself?!"
"Because I don't know where else I should express this suffocating, endless ocean of anger inside my chest!" Damien confessed, the words pouring out of him like blood from a ruptured artery. "That's why I always pour it into my blade. That's why I joined the Vanguard. That's why I dedicate my life to killing corrupt Hunters and slaughtering Monsters. I always pour that boiling anger onto them, loudly blaming them for our parents' deaths, loudly blaming the Crutian Guild for Mel's death. Because it's easier to be angry at a physical target than it is to look in the mirror."
Damien's hands began to tremble.
"Because I was a fool, Rudy. A goddamn, pathetic fool."
Damien let out a dry, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob.
"You see, your older brother is a coward in disguise. He doesn't even know how to properly forgive, nor does he know how to forget. He can't process grief like a normal human being. Rather than seeking therapy, rather than finding peace, I actively chose to become a weapon. I chose to become an absolute asshole, a goddamn merciless killer towards both those Monkey Hunters and the Monsters. I built my entire identity around being the most ruthless bastard in the room so nobody would see how terrified and broken I actually am."
Tears finally spilled over Damien's eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away.
"But the absolute truth, Rudy? The truth I whisper to myself in the dark when I can't sleep?"
Damien's voice dropped an octave, resonating with pure, unfiltered self-loathing.
"I always, always blame myself. Because I was weak."
Damien clenched his free hand into a fist so tight his knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. The phantom sensations of the Twin Dungeon washed over him—the smell of blood, the crushing weight of the rubble, the coldness of Melissa's skin.
"No. It's worse than just being physically weak. Because I was not strong enough, nor was I smart enough, or fast enough, to protect our parents when the ceiling caved in. And... and even worse..."
Damien squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching violently.
"Even Mel."
Damien spoke the name like a prayer and a curse. He clenched his fists until his fingernails bit deeply into his palms, threatening to draw blood.
The truth was an agonizing cancer eating away at his soul. He always, implicitly and totally, blamed himself for his parents' deaths, and subsequently, for Melissa's brutal execution. The compounding failures broke him fundamentally. It shattered his psyche and forged him into the cynical, suicidal man he was today. He didn't know where he could safely pour his anger anymore, nor was he capable of controlling it. The Black Death trait wasn't just a magical power; it was the physical manifestation of his own self-destructive hatred.
He knew, logically, that the dungeon monsters were the physical cause of his parents' death. He knew, factually, that the cowardly, corrupt members of the Crutian Guild were the direct reason for Melissa's death when they abandoned the vanguard.
And yet. And yet.
He felt like a fool. A massive, unforgivable fool for not even being able to get proper, satisfying revenge for both his parents and his girlfriend. Even as he rose through the ranks, even as he gained S-Class agility and lethal skills, he was constantly held back by military protocol, by his status as a soldier, and by his own uncontrollable, blinding anger that made him a blunt instrument rather than a precise scalpel.
"If I..." Damien whispered, his voice cracking, staring at the concrete between his knees. "If I could just turn back time. If I could just have one more chance, with the knowledge and the power I have now... Maybe, just maybe, I could be able to save them. I could save Mom and Dad. I could save Mel."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell between the two brothers.
But, deep down in the rational, tactical part of his brain, Damien knew it was an impossible, romanticized fantasy. He knew the cruel nature of the Star Stream. Even if he were somehow able to turn back time and save them from their original fates, the tyrannical laws of fate and the sadistic entertainment demands of the Constellations wouldn't stand for it. They wouldn't allow a happy ending. Rather, the Administrators would likely just orchestrate a scenario to kill the people he loved even more brutally, far more cruelly, later down the line. Those motherfuckers actively weaponized the Butterfly Effect for ratings.
Damien slowly opened his eyes. He looked up at his little brother, his vision blurred by tears.
He forced a weak, incredibly sad, but genuine smile onto his face. He reached out and gently ruffled Rudeus's green hair one more time.
"There," Damien asked softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you satisfied with that answer, kiddo? It's the most honest thing I've ever said."
Rudeus didn't say a word. He didn't ask another probing question. He possessed the profound, intuitive empathy that the original Rudeus had shown in his diary.
The young boy simply looked at his older brother's tear-streaked face. He slowly nodded his head. He knew, with the deep emotional intelligence of a child, that if he pushed the issue, if he asked any more questions, it would only make his brother infinitely sadder. And it was incredibly painful for Rudeus to see his own older brother—his protector, his idol, the only family he had left in this hypothetical world—look so utterly broken.
He didn't want his brother to be sad anymore. That was why he didn't ask for further clarification.
Instead, Rudeus dropped his half-eaten blue ice cream cone onto the concrete. It splattered, completely ignored.
The little boy slid off the wooden bench, stepped forward, and wrapped his small, thin arms tightly around Damien's neck. He buried his face into the crook of Damien's shoulder, hugging him with all the fierce, desperate strength his ten-year-old body could muster.
Damien caught his breath. He immediately wrapped his own arms around the boy's small frame, burying his face into Rudeus's messy green hair, holding him as if he were a lifeline in a hurricane.
The two of them didn't offer empty words of comfort to each other. They didn't say 'it will be okay'.
Rather, their absolute, unwavering silence was enough. In that quiet embrace by the neon-lit lake, the shared grief and the unbreakable bond of brotherhood were enough to comfort each other's wounded souls.
***
The Awakening.The Imperial Academy.Male Dormitory, East Wing - Suite 404.Present Time.
Damien slowly opened his eyes.
The neon lights of the Los Angeles reconstruction zone vanished, replaced by the dim, flickering light of a single magi-tech crystal lamp illuminating the opulent mahogany desk. The smell of roasted peanuts and exhaust was replaced by the scent of old leather and expensive floor wax.
He was back. He was sitting on the floor of the dorm room, his arms wrapped tightly around the leather diary.
The daydream was over. But the profound emotional shift it had triggered remained, solid and unyielding as bedrock.
Damien wiped the lingering tears from his eyes with the back of his tailored sleeve. He took a deep, steadying breath, the air filling his new, younger lungs.
A small, genuine, and surprisingly peaceful smile touched his lips.
"Maybe it's not so bad to have a little brother," Damien whispered to the quiet room, his voice entirely devoid of its usual cynical edge.
He looked down at the diary. The original Rudeus was gone. His soul had either moved on, dissolved, or merged entirely with Damien's. But his legacy, his suffering, and his profound empathy remained permanently etched into the pages of this book and the very fibers of the body Damien now inhabited.
Damien wasn't just surviving for himself anymore. He wasn't just a suicidal soldier looking for an exit strategy. He was the custodian of Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre's life. He owed it to the boy who had wept for him to give this body the glorious, triumphant, completely un-villainous life it had been brutally denied by the plot.
"Alright. Mourning period is over," Damien stated, his voice hardening back into the crisp, authoritative tone of a Vanguard Captain.
He uncrossed his legs, pushing himself up off the floor. He placed the diary reverently onto the center of the desk, pulling the heavy wooden chair out and sitting down. He reached for the silver-tipped fountain pen and a fresh stack of thick, imperial parchment.
"I need to do this. I need to meticulously execute a plan to escape this damn, suffocating academy. For my own sanity, and for Rudeus's sake. And—"
Damien's crimson eyes narrowed, flashing with a sudden, intense determination.
"I need to hurry. I need to build my strength and secure my resources so I can cross the border and save Rosetta before the Northern Continent tears her soul apart."
Damien clenched his left hand, feeling the dormant, heavy thrum of the Black Death trait resting near his mana core. He couldn't rely on it. It was volatile, unpredictable, and apparently locked behind a conditional trigger he didn't yet understand. If he wanted to survive in a world filled with high-tier magic, assassins, and eventual Demon Gods, he couldn't just rely on a theoretical nuke.
He needed absolute, uncompromising physical conditioning. He needed the lethal, close-quarters combat skills he had possessed in his past life, mapped perfectly onto this new, aristocratic body.
He uncapped the pen. The silver nib hovered over the parchment.
"First priority: Physical reconstruction. This body is pathetic. It lacks stamina, muscle density, and fast-twitch reflex conditioning. If I get into a knife fight right now, I'll be winded in thirty seconds."
He began to write, his handwriting sharp, angular, and highly encrypted—a personal shorthand cipher he had developed in the Vanguard to prevent enemy intelligence from reading his field notes.
"If my memory of the game's lore is accurate, and if it translates to this physical reality, there is a massive, state-of-the-art training gymnasium located in the subterranean levels of the Academy's martial wing. It has gravity chambers, automated mana-golems, and weighted resistance equipment. It's perfect."
Damien frowned, tapping the pen against his chin.
"But... the facility is heavily restricted. It is strictly reserved for third-year students in the Knight Commander track, and it is locked down absolutely tight after evening curfew by magical wards and physical patrols."
He wrote down the obstacles. Curfew. Wards. Patrols.
"I need unrestricted, nocturnal access. I need an inside operator with master keys and the authority to bypass the prefect patrols without raising alarms."
Damien's pen hovered. He smiled, a cold, calculating grin spreading across his face.
"I need the Head Maid's help to get in there at night."
He pressed the pen to the paper, drawing a bold, heavy circle around a name he quickly jotted down in the margins of Rudeus's diary notes.
"She is my absolute first target, then."
He tapped the circled name.
[Amanda]
"Head Maid Amanda of the East Wing Noble Dormitories. A seemingly stern, incredibly efficient, young-aged woman who ensures the aristocrats' beds are made and their boots are polished."
Damien's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with the dangerous meta-knowledge of a player who had uncovered every hidden secret in the game.
"Or, as she is known in the absolute highest, most classified intelligence circles of the Empire..."
Damien wrote a second name next to the first, underlining it twice.
[Deathstalker]
"Deathstalker. One of the absolute highest-ranking executive officers of the 'Night Ravens'."
The Night Ravens. The most lethal, feared, and fanatically loyal assassin organization on the continent, answering exclusively to the Sun of the Empire himself, Emperor Gherman Isodel Van Rosania. They were the Emperor's shadow blade, tasked with eliminating political dissidents, foreign spies, and, most importantly, hunting down high-tier Demonic entities that managed to infiltrate human society.
"She isn't just a maid," Damien murmured to himself, leaning back in his chair, visualizing the complex web of the game's political intrigue. "She is a master assassin. A legendary Demon Hunter. And her current, highly classified long-term assignment is acting as the ultimate, hidden guardian of Princess Veronica. That's why she is stationed in this specific dormitory wing."
Damien smirked as he mentally planned his approach. How do you blackmail or recruit a master assassin without having your throat slit in the middle of the night?
"I know exactly how to convince her. I know exactly which buttons to press."
He twirled the silver pen between his fingers with practiced ease.
"Because, after all... I possess the one piece of intelligence that she and the entire Night Raven network have been desperately, bloodily searching for over the last decade."
Damien remembered her character arc perfectly. Amanda was a fan-favorite NPC, a gruff mentor figure who occasionally offered the protagonist cryptic advice if you chose the right dialogue options. But more importantly, he knew her tragic, canonical demise.
Five years from now, during the explosive, bloody climax of the First Arc at the Grand Spring Gala, Amanda dies. She dies a brutal, horrifying death.
She discovers the truth too late. She discovers the identity of the high-ranking Demon that had successfully infiltrated the Imperial Academy and had been slowly corrupting the student body from within.
She discovers Professor Vane.
Vane, the notoriously strict disciplinarian of Arcane Theory, was not human. He was a Demon General in disguise, and the Final Boss of Arc 1. When Amanda uncovers his identity, Vane slaughters her in the academy catacombs, leaving her broken body for the protagonist to find, triggering the final boss fight.
Damien looked up from the parchment, staring at the flickering crystal lamp. The shadows in the room seemed to dance to the rhythm of his plotting.
"But the ultimate question is..." Damien whispered to the shadows.
"Will it be different this time? Will you choose to survive with my help, Amanda? Will you take my deal and alter your destiny?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Or... will you refuse to listen to the 'Defect', ignore my intelligence, and blindly accept your preordained, gruesome demise at the hands of Professor Vane?"
Damien let out a low, dark laugh that echoed off the mahogany walls.
"Well, I suppose we will find out the answer to that particular question very soon."
He leaned forward, dismissing the hypothetical scenarios. Action was the only currency that mattered in a war of survival.
"I need to continue writing. I need contingencies for my contingencies. Because grand, sweeping plans won't be successful if I just sit here and don't do shit to execute them."
Damien dipped the silver pen back into the crystal inkwell.
He spent the entire remainder of the evening, and long into the quiet, starlit night, hunched over the mahogany desk. He wrote furiously, filling page after page with complex ciphers, detailed architectural maps of the academy, patrol schedules extracted from his residual memories, and a master timeline of political assassinations and monster outbreaks scheduled for the next five years.
He was no longer a depressed, suicidal Vanguard Captain. And he was no longer the pathetic, doomed villain of a romance game.
He was Damien Leone. And he was going to rewrite the fate of this world, one bloody, meticulously planned step at a time.