I used to hate-read this novel. Every night after an exhausting day—whether school or work—I'd lie down on my bed and read this shitty novel. I'd get rage-baited and scream, looking like a lunatic.
The protagonist was an insufferable hypocrite. The revenge plot was edgy. The worldbuilding had more holes than Swiss cheese.
But I kept reading—well, after a while, more skimming than actually reading.
Two years. Seven hundred and sixty-three chapters. Countless hours I'll never get back.
Why?
Because hating something can be its own addiction.
Every time the protagonist massacred another noble family, every time he delivered some cringe monologue about "purging the rot," I'd feel this smug satisfaction. See? This is trash. I was right to hate it.
I dropped it before the ending after leaving my final hate comment. Couldn't stomach another chapter of the novel.
Life moved on. I forgot about it.
One day, I received an email. The sender was the author of that very novel. He asked if I could help him improve the plot holes in his story.
In the end, I decided to reply.
. . . Was that the cause of this situation?
I was lying in a bed that swallowed me in silk and goose down, staring at fingers that moved when I told them to but looked wrong. Nails trimmed in some way I'd never bothered with.
But this world I was in was not my world, and I was not me. Though one might think I was being philosophical here, I really was not. It was just the best way to describe what was currently going on.
I had become an extra villain in the novel I hated.
An extra that would die in the novel.
Aldric Venn. The spoiled son of a Palatine house. A throwaway villain in a trash novel.
He died. I knew that much. Everyone in the comment section had laughed about it. Finally, that annoying side character gets what he deserves. I'd laughed too. I'd typed something cruel about how the author couldn't write compelling villains if his life depended on it.
But how did Aldric die? When?
I tried to recall and found only fragments. Something about a duel. The protagonist humiliating him. Or was that a different character? There were so many forgettable nobles the protagonist cut through. I'd skimmed most of those chapters. They blurred together.
Was it one month from now? Three? The first arc or the second? I didn't know. I'd never paid attention. I'd been too busy writing comments about how stupid it all was.
I stood up to take in the grandeur of the room—still not used to it even though it had been for a week—and walked toward the private bathroom.
A tall mirror stood before me with a stranger facing back.
The face was mine now, I suppose. Sharp and aristocratic, the kind immortalized in marble busts. A strong Roman nose, a square jaw clean-shaven in the Imperium fashion, and olive skin over high cheekbones. Dark hair fell across his forehead, slightly disheveled.
He was beautiful in the way a sword was beautiful—elegant, cold, and designed to hurt.
But look closer and the cracks showed. A softness around the jaw from too much wine. A slight puffiness beneath eyes that had seen more parties than problems. This was a face that had never been told no, never thought past tomorrow, never needed to.
I raised a hand. The reflection raised his.
So this is Aldric Venn.
The extra who wouldn't survive the story. The stepping stone for the protagonist's rise.
I let out a slow breath and watched the stranger in the mirror do the same.
"Well," I muttered, and his lips moved with mine, "this is going to be a problem."
I turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower. The water was freezing. I didn't adjust it. Instead, I watched it trace the lines of a body that wasn't mine.
At first, I had a suspicion.
That I was dreaming—trapped in some fever-induced nightmare brought on by too many late nights reading garbage fiction.
However, I dismissed that after some thought.
Which left only one conclusion: I was here. Truly here. In the world of a novel I despised, in the body of a character destined to die.
I continued staring at the body I now inhabited—lean but soft in places, untested by anything real. Still, there were scars. A collection of thin lines across the arms and torso, souvenirs from mandatory swordsmanship drills. It was tradition. Ceremony. A way to pretend that nobility still meant something and bore a responsibility.
I turned slightly, catching the reflection of my back. There, along the spine, was a small tattoo—a mark I didn't recognize from the novel. Had I simply skimmed past it, or was this something Aldric had kept hidden?
The first week was not productive. I mainly slept. When I was awake, I lay in bed and stared at the painted fresco on the ceiling. When not in bed, I watched the meadows from the tall window.
Servants brought me whatever I needed.
At first, they were confused as well. Marcus, my praetor, thought I had broken my heart over some Palatine girl in the city.
"Young master hasn't gambled in a week," I overheard one servant whisper to another. "Three estates lost last month, and now he won't even play cards."
"The duels stopped," another said, as if reporting something impossible. "He used to challenge anyone who looked at him wrong. Now he won't leave his room."
"Perhaps he's ill?"
"Perhaps he's dying."
They weren't entirely wrong about that last part.
But their whispers were useful. Every hushed conversation, every shocked glance, painted a clearer picture of the man I was supposed to be.
The servants had laid out my clothes while I bathed. I dressed in the military uniform—dark and tailored, trimmed with perfect precision.
I was halfway through buttoning the coat when the knock came.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," I said, and immediately wondered if that was right. Did Aldric answer his own door? Did he make people wait?
The door opened before I could second guess myself.
The man who entered was old in the way oak trees are old—weathered but solid, roots deep. He wore a simple coat of dark wool, well-made but not ostentatious, and his gray hair was combed back severely from a face lined by decades of patient service. Spectacles sat low on his nose. He adjusted them as he took in the room, then me, then the half-buttoned coat I was still fumbling with.
"Young master." A small sigh escaped him. "Still not yourself, I see."
Marcus. The name surfaced from somewhere—Aldric's memories or my fragmented reading, I couldn't tell which.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You've been 'fine' for a week." He closed the door behind him and clasped his hands at the small of his back. "The staff are beginning to talk. They think you've gone mad." A pause. "Have you?"
"No."
"Then perhaps you might consider rejoining the living. If only to quiet the gossip."
He crossed the room and began straightening things—a chair pushed back from the desk, a curtain not fully drawn, small disorders I hadn't noticed. His movements were unhurried, practiced. He'd done this a thousand times.
"The academy term begins next week," he said, not looking at me.
"Fuck," I muttered.
"I'd nearly forgotten," I tried to recover.
"I assumed as much." He turned, studying me over the rim of his spectacles. "Your father expects you to uphold the family's reputation. I trust you remember what that entails."
I didn't. I had no idea.
"Of course," I said.
Marcus watched me for a moment longer. Something flickered across his face—concern, perhaps, or the beginning of a question he chose not to ask.
"Very good, young master." He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. "Aldric."
It took me a beat too long to respond to my own name.
"Yes?"
"I knew your mother," he said quietly, and something in his voice made my chest tighten. "She would have hated what you've become." He adjusted his spectacles. "I think... perhaps you're finally remembering that too."
"Ah, one more thing." Marcus paused, as if the thought had only just occurred to him—though something told me this man didn't forget anything by accident. "Your father has arranged a dinner this evening. A few families will be in attendance. The Caelins, the Ashford..." He adjusted his spectacles. "And House Orestia."
He left before I could respond.
I stood in the silence, coat still half-buttoned, and realized I was holding my breath.
I looked at the mirror across the room. The stranger looked back, equally clueless.
"You couldn't have left a journal?" I muttered.
He didn't answer.