I told myself I wouldn't open the game again.
I failed.
Three days after the psychiatrist appointment, with a prescription I hadn't filled sitting untouched on my desk, I booted up Fate of the Silver Throne once more. The title screen felt different now—heavier, as if it recognized me.
I selected Continue.
The Hero stood at the center of the screen, sword gleaming, surrounded by allies whose names were already legendary within the game's lore. Their talents were absurd. S-rank this, SS-rank that. Chosen ones. Prodigies. Monsters wearing human skin.
And somewhere, always somewhere, the Villain existed as a shadow on the edge of the narrative.
The more I played, the more the game changed.
Events triggered that my coworker had never mentioned. Optional scenes unlocked without prompts. Dialogue choices appeared that weren't listed in any guide online. It was as if the game itself was peeling back layers—showing me not what the Hero did, but what he discovered.
Records.
Rumors.
Fragments of truth.
I learned that the Villain—I—had awakened with the lowest possible talent during the awakening ceremony at thirteen. An F-rank among monsters. A disgrace to a ducal house renowned for strength and legacy.
The nobles laughed.
The servants pitied.
My sisters—no, his sisters—reacted differently.
The older sister distanced herself, disappointment sharp and cutting, yet never abandoning him entirely. The younger clung to him, stubbornly insisting he was amazing no matter what the crystal said.
And the Villainess?
She had stood beside him.
Publicly.
Proudly.
Even when it hurt her standing.
I clenched my teeth as I played.
The game made sure I saw what came next.
Political isolation. Whispers in court. The Hero rising while the Villain stagnated. Every failure, every misstep magnified by comparison. The resentment that bloomed like rot in his chest.
Then came my death.
It wasn't glorious.
It wasn't heroic.
The Villain died during a border conflict—ambushed by demons he had no business facing. Too weak. Too slow. Too desperate to prove something to a world that had already decided his worth.
The Hero arrived too late.
I watched my own character die in the mud, coughing blood, eyes wide with disbelief.
And the game didn't end there.
That was the worst part.
The Villainess changed after my death.
At first, it was subtle. Her dialogue sharpened. Her eyes grew colder. She stopped offering compromises in political routes and began choosing decisive, ruthless solutions instead.
Then the labels changed.
"Ambitious Noblewoman" became
"Fallen Duchess"
"Political Ally" became
"The Villainess"
She aligned herself with forbidden factions. Made pacts she once despised. Her brilliance, once restrained by morality and expectation, burned freely—destructively.
The game didn't portray her as insane.
It portrayed her as focused.
The Hero uncovered records of secret executions. Silent purges of nobles who had laughed at the broken engagement. Economic collapses traced back to her decisions. Demon activity rising in regions she controlled.
And at the center of it all—
A name whispered like a curse.
The Demon King.
Created, the game implied, not by madness… but by vengeance.
I stopped breathing when the final revelation appeared.
A hidden codex entry unlocked after dozens of hours:
"The Villainess did not fall because she was evil."
"She fell because there was no one left to stop her."
I didn't realize I was crying until tears hit the keyboard.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to a woman who didn't exist. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't understand."
The final boss battle was inevitable.
The Hero stood before the Demon King—an existence born from hatred, loss, and retribution. During the fight, flashes of memory assaulted the screen.
Her memories.
Standing alone in a grand hall.
Hearing laughter as her engagement was shattered.
Receiving news of my death.
Burying something precious deep inside herself and never letting it resurface again.
The Hero won.
The Demon King fell.
And the Villainess—
She stood atop a ruined throne, impaled by divine light, smiling faintly as she turned to ash.
The credits rolled.
I stared at the screen, numb.
Then a final message appeared.
ENDING UNLOCKED:
The World Corrects Itself
"Some mistakes cannot be undone."
Something inside my chest snapped.
Pain exploded through my skull. I clutched my head, gasping as memories that weren't dreams flooded me completely—years of resentment, weakness, cruelty, regret.
I collapsed.
The last thing I saw was the screen going black.
I died.
Not dramatically. No light, no tunnel, no voice welcoming me.
Just silence.
Then heat.
Then water.
I gasped violently, lungs burning as I sucked in air that wasn't air—it was steam.
My body jerked upright, sloshing water over the sides of a massive marble bathtub. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would shatter my ribs.
"What—?" My voice cracked.
It wasn't Ethan's voice.
It was younger. Rougher. Unfamiliar in a way that made my stomach drop.
I looked down.
My hands were smaller. Pale. Soft, with faint calluses that hadn't existed before. My body—this body—was submerged in warm water infused with herbs that released a sharp, medicinal scent.
A noble's bath.
No.
My bath.
I raised a trembling hand to my face and felt unfamiliar contours. Chubby cheeks. A soft jawline. Wet strands of black hair clinging to my forehead.
Black hair.
Red eyes.
I stumbled out of the tub, nearly slipping on the polished floor, and staggered toward a full-length mirror mounted on the wall.
The boy staring back at me was fourteen.
Overweight. Weak-looking. Awkward.
And unmistakably—
The Villain.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no—"
Memories slammed into place with brutal clarity.
The awakening ceremony had already happened.
I remembered standing before the crystal at thirteen. The cold weight of expectation. The silence as the light barely flickered.
F-rank. Lowest.
I remembered the humiliation. The pity. The disappointment carved into my father's stoic face.
I remembered the engagement still intact—for now.
I remembered how I had already begun acting like a bastard.
And I remembered what I would do next.
The bathwater rippled as my hands clenched.
"I'm not crazy," I said hoarsely. "I wasn't crazy."
This wasn't schizophrenia.
This wasn't a dream.
I had died.
And I had come back.
Outside the bathroom, distant voices echoed—servants, familiar and real. The world moved on, unaware that something impossible had just occurred.
Somewhere far beyond mortal perception, something stirred.
And deep within me, something else cracked—old restraints snapping like chains under unbearable pressure.
I sank back against the tub, breath unsteady.
"I won't do it again," I whispered into the steam-filled room. "I won't break her. I won't die like that. I won't let her become that monster."
This time—
I would ruin fate itself before I ruined her.
And the world would have to deal with the consequences.