A cursed genius who ruined the woman he loved relives his life through a game where he plays the hero—only to die again, awaken early, and defy the world itself to save the villainess he once destroyed.
My name was Ethan Cross.
At least, that's what my ID said. That was the name on my degree, the name my coworkers used when they needed someone to stay late, the name my landlord called when rent was due. A normal name for a normal, unremarkable man living an unremarkable life on Earth.
And yet, every time I closed my eyes, I was someone else.
The dreams had started subtly—fleeting images that dissolved the moment I woke up. A grand hall drowned in crimson banners. A pair of cold red eyes staring back at me from a mirror that wasn't a mirror at all. Laughter—my laughter—sharp and cruel, echoing in a place that felt too vast to be imaginary.
At first, I brushed it off.
Stress, I told myself. Too many late nights. Too much caffeine. Too many regrets I hadn't dealt with.
But dreams didn't usually come with memories.
I would wake up with my heart pounding, breath ragged, the taste of iron lingering on my tongue. Sometimes my hands would tremble, as if they remembered the weight of a sword I had never held. Sometimes I felt an emotion so heavy it pressed against my ribs—guilt so thick it was almost physical.
Worst of all were the faces.
A nobleman's sneer. Courtiers whispering behind gloved hands. And her.
Always her.
Silver hair like moonlight caught in silk. Eyes the color of a winter sky, distant and unyielding. She stood beside me in those dreams, never looking at me, always standing half a step away—as if the space between us were an abyss neither of us could cross.
I didn't know her name at first.
I only knew that when I woke up, my chest hurt.
"Get a grip, Ethan," I muttered one morning, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Dark circles under my eyes. Unshaven jaw. A body that had long since forgotten what real exercise felt like. I looked like exactly what I was—a man drifting through life, held together by routine and distraction.
Schizophrenia ran in my mother's side of the family.
That thought had lodged itself in my mind weeks ago and refused to leave.
Vivid dreams. False memories. Emotional bleed-through. Delusions of identity. It fit too well. Almost too well.
So when the dreams got worse, I didn't panic.
I rationalized.
The turning point came with the game.
I wasn't even the one who bought it. A coworker had shoved it into my hands during lunch, eyes bright with the kind of excitement I hadn't felt in years.
"You like fantasy stuff, right? This one's huge. Choices matter. Tons of political routes. You'll love it."
The title screen alone made my stomach tighten.
Fate of the Silver Throne
I almost laughed at myself when my fingers hesitated over the mouse. Superstition. That was all it was.
I clicked Start.
The game opened with a cinematic—an empire under a crimson sky, towers of marble and obsidian, banners snapping in the wind. A narrator spoke of destiny, of heroes chosen by the world, of villains who fell so others could rise.
Then the protagonist appeared.
The Hero.
Chosen by fate. Blessed with overwhelming talent. Born to rise.
And somewhere in the background, half-hidden by shadow and scorn, was another figure.
The Villain.
I didn't recognize him at first. Why would I? He was arrogant, overweight, his posture slouched, his expression twisted by insecurity and spite. His hair was black, his eyes an unsettling shade of red. He wore noble clothes that didn't quite fit, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
He was pathetic.
I sneered along with the NPCs. Rolled my eyes at his dialogue. Picked choices that ignored him, dismissed him, defeated him without effort.
Until the engagement scene.
The moment it started, my hands went cold.
The game shifted to a grand ceremonial hall. Nobles lined the sides, whispering eagerly. At the center stood the Villain and the Villainess—his fiancée.
Her character model was stunning. Elegant. Composed. Distant in a way that made her feel untouchable. She stood proudly, chin lifted, eyes steady.
The Villain began to speak.
His dialogue box appeared, and before I could stop myself, I read every word with growing dread.
Public denunciation.
Mockery disguised as honesty.
Accusations delivered with a sneer.
He spoke of her coldness. Her ambition. Her lack of worth as a partner. He laughed—laughed—as the nobles reacted, some shocked, some amused.
Then came the choice.
[Break the Engagement Publicly]
[End It Privately]
I stared at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears.
"Who the hell would pick the first option?" I whispered.
And yet, the game didn't wait.
A cutscene triggered.
The Villain raised his voice so all could hear.
"I refuse to be bound to a woman like this."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Her eyes widened—not in anger, but in disbelief. Then they hardened, freezing over as if a wall had slammed down inside her. She didn't cry. She didn't shout.
She bowed.
Perfectly.
And walked away alone.
Something inside me broke.
I slammed the laptop shut, breath coming fast, my chest tight as if I were the one standing in that hall. Images flooded my mind—too vivid, too sharp.
Her hands trembling as she gripped her skirts.
Whispers following her like knives.
My own voice—that voice—echoing with cruel satisfaction.
"No," I muttered, backing away from the desk. "This isn't normal."
That night, the dreams stopped being dreams.
I didn't watch anymore.
I remembered.
I remembered being weak. Being talentless. Standing beside geniuses while knowing I was lesser. I remembered the weight of expectation crushing me, the resentment rotting me from the inside out.
I remembered hating her—not because she deserved it, but because she was everything I wasn't.
And I remembered ruining her because I could.
I woke up screaming.
For the first time in my life, I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist.
As I waited in the sterile office days later, my hands clenched and unclenched on my knees. The doctor spoke calmly, asking about sleep, stress, family history.
When he asked about the dreams, I laughed.
"They feel real," I said. "Too real. Like memories that don't belong to me."
He nodded, scribbling notes.
"That's not uncommon," he said gently. "The mind can fabricate extremely vivid internal narratives, especially under prolonged stress. We'll run some tests."
Tests couldn't explain why, when I closed my eyes, I could still see her walking away.
Tests couldn't explain why guilt sat in my chest like a blade.
Tests couldn't explain why, deep down, I knew—
—that Villain was me.
And that somewhere, in a world that might not exist anymore, I had already destroyed the woman I was supposed to protect.
If this was madness, then it was the cruelest kind.
Because no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise…
I didn't want the dreams to stop.
I wanted a chance to fix them.