Chapter 1: The Glitch in the Divine Narrative
The sensation of death was surprisingly quiet. It wasn't a roar of fire or a cold vacuum, but the sound of a fountain pen scratching across dry parchment. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. And then, the snap of a nib.
Alaric's eyes flew open.
He wasn't lying on the cold pavement of his previous life. Instead, he was slumped over a desk of polished obsidian, his face resting on a map of a kingdom he recognized with terrifying clarity: the Grand Duchy of Ravenstone.
"The Sovereign's Script," he whispered, his voice cracking.
It was a web novel he had finished reading just hours before his death. A sprawling epic where the "Sovereign"—an unseen, god-like author—steered the fates of heroes and villains with absolute cruelty. He wasn't just in a book; he was in the body of Alaric von Ravenstone. In the first three volumes, Alaric was the "Academic Foil," a talentless, arrogant Duke's son whose sole purpose was to be humiliated by the protagonist, Kyle, to show that "hard work beats bloodline."
He stood up, his legs trembling. He caught his reflection in a floor-to-ceiling silver mirror. He was breathtakingly handsome—sharp, aristocratic features, eyes the color of a winter storm, and hair as black as a crow's wing. But beneath the beauty was a hollow core. In the "Script," Alaric had a mana-poverty constitution. He was a decorative vase, meant to be shattered.
Suddenly, a searing heat ignited behind his retinas.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZING... ]
[ SCANNING WORLD DIRECTORY... ]
[ WARNING: HOST SOUL DOES NOT MATCH SCRIPTED DATA ]
[ SOVEREIGN'S AUTHORITY DETECTED: ATTEMPTING TO RECTIFY... ]
Alaric gasped as a phantom pressure crushed his chest. It felt as if invisible hands were trying to mold his soul back into the shape of the "weak villain" he was supposed to be. But the pressure didn't hold. It slipped off him like water off marble.
[ ERROR: HOST IS IMMUNE TO FATE. ]
[ FATE ANOMALY DETECTED. ]
[ COMPENSATING WITH UNIQUE INTERFACE... ]
A screen, glowing with an ethereal, violet hue, stabilized in front of him. Unlike the gold-and-white windows of the "Hero" Kyle, this one felt colder, more absolute.
[ STATUS INTERFACE ]
Name: Alaric von Ravenstone
Title: The Defiant Heir
Strength: 10 | Agility: 12 | Vitality: 08
Luck: NULL (Outside the Script)
Charm: 99
Unique Skill: Universal Apex Mastery (Active)
"Universal Apex Mastery?" Alaric breathed.
He looked around the room, his eyes landing on a training sword mounted on the wall. It was an heirloom, purely ceremonial because the original Alaric couldn't swing a blade for more than five minutes without fainting.
He walked over and gripped the hilt.
[ Skill Detected: Basic Swordsmanship ]
[ Analyzing Movement... Analyzing Center of Gravity... ]
[ Proficiency: 0.01% -> 100% (MAX) ]
[ Skill Evolved: God-Slaying Blade Intent (Rank: Transcendent) ]
The world changed.
The weight of the sword in his hand suddenly felt like an extension of his own bone. Thousands of hours of muscle memory—parries, lunges, decapitation strikes, and advanced footwork—poured into his mind in a single, agonizing second. His muscles didn't grow larger, but they tightened, their fibers restructuring into the perfect engine for a master swordsman.
He gave the sword a casual flick. A crescent of invisible pressure sliced through the air, neatly decapitating a stone bust of the first Duke across the room. The cut was so clean the head didn't even fall; it simply slid an inch to the left.
"So this is what it feels like," Alaric murmured, his eyes glowing with a faint violet light. "To be a bug in the system."
A heavy knock thudded against the double doors of the study.
"Young Master?"
The voice belonged to Sebastian, the Head Butler. In the novel, Sebastian was a spy for the Royal Family, tasked with keeping Alaric "incompetent" by lacing his tea with mana-suppressing herbs. Tonight was the night the dosage was supposed to be increased, leading to Alaric's permanent physical decline.
"Enter," Alaric said, placing the training sword back on its rack.
Sebastian entered, carrying a silver tray. He was a man of perfect posture and a fake, frozen smile. "I noticed your lights were still on. You have the Academy entrance exams tomorrow. You must maintain your... fragile strength."
The butler poured a cup of dark, fragrant tea.
In the original script, Alaric would drink it, complain about the taste, and throw the cup at the wall—acting the part of the spoiled brat. The "Sovereign" wanted him hated.
Instead, Alaric took the cup. He didn't drink. He looked Sebastian directly in the eyes.
[ Skill Detected: Poison Resistance / Detection ]
[ Proficiency: MAX ]
[ Skill Evolved: Divine Immunity ]
"This tea, Sebastian," Alaric said, his voice dropping an octave. "It has a very peculiar aroma. Wither-root? Or perhaps a concentrated extract of Blue Nightshade?"
Sebastian's hand flinched. Only for a millisecond, but to Alaric's max-proficiency eyes, it was as obvious as a shout. "I... I don't know what you mean, My Lord. It is your usual blend."
"Is it?" Alaric stepped forward. The sheer weight of his 99 Charm and his new Blade Intent created a suffocating aura. The room felt like it was losing oxygen. "Then you won't mind finishing the pot for me. It would be a waste of such an... expensive effort."
"My Lord, I am but a servant, I couldn't—"
"Drink."
The command wasn't just a word; it was a physical force. Sebastian's knees buckled. The "Script" was screaming at Alaric to stop, to act like a fool, to let the butler win so the Hero could eventually "save" the Duke's house from its own corruption.
Alaric felt the world around him flicker, the walls momentarily turning into rows of typed text. He felt the "Sovereign's" gaze—a cold, celestial eye looking down in confusion.
You see me, don't you? Alaric thought, looking up at the ceiling. You wrote a tragedy. But I've hijacked the pen.
He leaned in close to the trembling butler's ear. "Tell the Crown Prince that the Duke's son is no longer sick. In fact..." Alaric gripped the butler's shoulder, his fingers like iron talons. "I've never felt more powerful in my life."
He tossed the cup aside, the tea splashing onto the expensive rug, sizzling as it ate through the fibers.
"Tomorrow, at the Academy," Alaric said, looking at his status window one more time. "The Hero is expecting a clown. I think I'll give him a nightmare instead."