Silas woke to the sound of someone arguing about aggro range.
"—no, I'm telling you, the guards on the wall have a forty-meter detection radius. I stealthed right past them and they didn't twitch until I got to thirty-five."
"That doesn't make sense. Forty meters is huge for standard guards. These must be elite spawns."
"Check the combat log. I'll do it again."
Silas opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming through the tall windows of his chambers, which meant he had actually slept. This surprised him. He would have expected the night to be filled with terror and existential dread, but apparently the human body had limits on how long it could sustain pure panic. Eventually, exhaustion won.
He was still wearing yesterday's clothes. He was still in the villain's body. And there were still gamers in his castle.
The arguing was coming from somewhere outside his door. Silas rose, stretched muscles that ached from the stress of involuntary murder and transdimensional crisis, and walked to the door. He opened it.
The hallway was occupied.
Two players were crouched near the far end, one of them flickering in and out of visibility as she tested something. Three more were examining the tapestries, discussing the "texture work" and "environmental storytelling." A cluster of players sat in a circle on the floor, eating digital food that probably existed only as data, laughing about something that had happened in a dungeon on their home world.
They all looked up when Silas emerged.
"Good morning, Your Grace!" Lily the priest called out cheerfully. She was among the group eating, her character cross-legged on the stone floor. "Did you sleep well? We were trying to be quiet but Z gets really loud when he's testing mechanics."
"The guards," the flickering rogue said—Z, presumably. "I'm telling you, it's a stealth check. They have a perception stat. We need to figure out the threshold."
Silas stared at them. Twenty-four hours ago, his biggest concern had been whether his microwave dinner would heat evenly. Now he was hosting a raid party in a castle that technically belonged to him, in a body that technically belonged to a murderer.
"Where's Kael?" he asked.
"Downstairs," Rex said. The massive berserker was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he was trying to look cool and mostly succeeding. "Doing the leader thing. Talking to your NPCs. Getting the lay of the land."
"My NPCs," Silas repeated flatly. "You mean my servants. My staff. The actual living people who work in this castle."
Rex shrugged. "Same thing. They've got great AI, by the way. Really responsive. One of the maids ran away screaming when I asked for directions to the kitchen. Very immersive."
Silas closed his eyes. Took a breath. Opened them.
"I need to go downstairs."
"Cool, we'll come with you." Lily bounced to her feet. "Protection detail. It's literally the quest."
"I don't need protection to walk down the stairs in my own castle."
"The quest doesn't specify location," Z said, finally materializing fully. He was a slight figure, even in his digital form, with clever eyes and the restless energy of someone who never stopped thinking. "It just says protect you. Could be a random spawn. Could be an ambush. We're not taking chances."
"It's the first day. The hero isn't even supposed to know about me yet."
"Famous last words." Z grinned. "I've wiped enough raids to know that 'supposed to' means nothing. Come on. Let's move."
They moved.
The procession through the castle was surreal. Silas walked at the center, flanked by Lily and Rex, with Z scouting ahead and the rest of the players spreading out to cover the flanks. They moved with professional efficiency, checking corners, watching windows, communicating in the shorthand of people who had raided together for years.
Servants scattered before them like leaves before a storm.
Silas caught glimpses of faces as they passed: maids pressing themselves against walls, eyes wide; footmen frozen mid-step, unsure whether to flee or fight; a young stable boy who dropped an armload of hay and ran. To them, this must look like madness. Their duke, who had never been seen outside his chambers before noon, walking through the halls surrounded by armored strangers who appeared from nowhere, speaking in tongues and moving like soldiers.
"Your Grace!" A voice cut through the chaos. An older man in steward's robes hurried toward them, face pale with confusion and fear. "Your Grace, what is the meaning of this? Who are these people?"
Silas recognized him from the books. Venris, the castle steward. A loyal servant of House Vicious for forty years. In the original story, he had been one of the few people the Duke trusted, and one of the first to die when the hero's rampage began.
"Venris." Silas held up a hand, signaling the players to stop. They did, falling into formation around him. "These are... guests. Visiting warriors. They'll be staying with us for a while."
"Guests, Your Grace?" Venris's eyes darted to Rex, who loomed like a mountain of spikes and menace. "They appeared from nowhere. The guards say there was a—a light, a rift in the air, and then—"
"The guards saw nothing," Silas said. His voice came out cold, commanding. It was the Duke's voice, not his own. "These warriors are under my personal protection. They will be housed, fed, and given access to whatever resources they require. Is that understood?"
Venris hesitated. For a terrible moment, Silas thought the old man might refuse, might demand answers Silas couldn't give. But forty years of service won out. Venris bowed.
"Yes, Your Grace. I'll make the arrangements immediately."
"Good. And Venris?" Silas softened his voice, just slightly. "The servant from last night. The one in my study. His family. Ensure they're taken care of. A generous pension. And my... regrets."
Venris's eyes widened. The Duke had never expressed regrets about anything in his life.
"Your Grace?"
"Just do it."
Venris bowed again and hurried away. Silas felt Lily's gaze on him, curious and assessing.
"That was nice," she said quietly. "The part about the servant's family. Was that in your programming?"
Silas didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the truth was, he didn't know if it was nice or just self-preservation. The real Duke Silas wouldn't have cared about a dead servant's family. But the real Duke Silas was a monster, and he was dead, and Silas was wearing his skin and trying to figure out what kind of person that made him.
They continued through the castle.
---
The great hall was a cavern of stone and shadow, dominated by a massive fireplace and a long table that could seat fifty. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting the glorious history of House Vicious: battles won, enemies crushed, rebellions crushed. At the far end, on a raised dais, stood the Duke's throne.
It was exactly as gaudy as Silas had imagined. Black wood, silver inlay, upholstered in what he desperately hoped was not actually human skin.
Kael was there, standing before the throne with two other players. They were examining the room with professional interest, noting sight lines and potential defensive positions.
"Raid lead," Z called out as they approached. "Package has left the premises. I mean, the Duke. The Duke has left his chambers. We escorted him."
Kael turned. His digital face was unreadable behind the helmet, but his body language suggested approval. "Good. Any incidents?"
"Just some NPCs freaking out. Standard civilian AI behavior. Oh, and the steward wanted to know who we are. Duke handled it."
Kael's gaze shifted to Silas. "You handled it?"
"They're my servants," Silas said. "They listen to me. For now. Long as I don't do anything too out of character."
"And if you do?"
Silas considered the question. It was a good one. The books had established Duke Silas as a tyrant, but a predictable one. Cruelty had its own consistency. If he started acting kind, or confused, or anything other than monstrous, how long before someone noticed? How long before whispers reached the wrong ears?
"Then I have a different problem," he admitted. "But right now, the hero is the bigger problem. What's the plan?"
Kael nodded, accepting the shift in topic. He gestured to the players beside him. "This is Mira and Toren. They're our scouts. They've been mapping the castle and the surrounding area since we arrived."
The two players stepped forward. Mira was a rogue, like Z, but her character was leaner, more focused. Toren was a ranger, with a bow slung across his back and an eagle perched on his shoulder that was probably a class pet.
"Castle's defensible," Mira said. "Walls are solid, gates are strong. But there are too many entrances. Servants' doors, postern gates, windows on the lower levels. We can't cover them all."
"The village is the real problem," Toren added. "It's right there, at the base of the hill. Maybe three hundred people. If the hero comes with an army, or even just a mob, they'll be through those gates before we can react."
"He won't come with an army," Silas said. "Not at first. In the books, his first attempt was alone. He snuck in at night, killed the Duke in his sleep, and escaped before anyone knew what happened. It was supposed to show how skilled he was, even early on."
The players exchanged glances.
"He assassinates you in your sleep?" Z sounded almost offended. "That's the boss fight? A stealth kill while you're unconscious?"
"It's a book. The author wanted the hero to seem clever."
"Well, that's not happening." Kael's voice was flat, final. "We'll establish a rotating watch. Four players on overnight, covering the Duke's chambers and the approaches. Day shift covers the rest of the castle. If this hero wants to try a stealth approach, he's going to find twenty-five people who've been dealing with rogues in PvP for years."
"And if he brings friends?" Lily asked.
"Then we adjust." Kael turned to Silas. "You said you read the books. Tell us everything. The hero's abilities, his allies, his weaknesses. Every detail you remember."
Silas nodded. This, at least, was something he could do. He'd read "The Chronicle of the Holy Blade" three times. He knew Elian's story better than he knew his own family history.
"Elian starts as a farm boy," he began. "Orphan, raised by the village elder. He's kind, brave, a little naive. The classic hero template. His power comes from a blessing by the God of Light, Solarius. It gives him enhanced strength, speed, and the ability to channel holy energy. As the story progresses, he gains more abilities—healing, protection auras, eventually the power to smite evil with divine fire."
"Standard paladin build," Rex muttered. "Boring."
"At first, yes. But he grows. By the end of the series, he's basically a demigod. He leads armies, defeats demons, and eventually becomes the king of a unified continent. And it all starts with killing me."
"You," Kael said. "The Duke."
"Me. The Duke. In the books, the Duke had Elian's village elder executed for refusing to pay an illegal tax. Elian witnessed it. That was his call to adventure—vengeance against the tyrant who killed the only father he ever knew."
Silas paused. The memory of the dead servant flickered through his mind. The terror in his eyes. The blood.
"Except I didn't do that. The Duke did. The real Duke. Before I... arrived. But Elian doesn't know that. To him, I'm the monster who murdered his family. He won't listen to explanations. He won't care about excuses. He'll come with a sword and a prophecy and the full backing of heaven, and he won't stop until I'm dead."
The hall was silent for a long moment. Even the players seemed to feel the weight of it.
Then Z spoke up.
"So he's a paladin with a grudge, divine buffs, and main character energy. Got it. Any resistances we should know about? Weaknesses? Does he have a crush on anyone we can kidnap?"
Silas blinked. "What?"
"Classic boss fight strategy. If he's got a love interest, we grab her, use her as a hostage. Forces him to make mistakes."
"I'm not kidnapping someone's love interest."
"Why not? You're the villain. That's literally what villains do."
"I'm trying not to be a villain!"
"Bit late for that, isn't it?" Z gestured at the throne, the tapestries, the castle itself. "You're Duke Vicious. You've got the title, the castle, the dead servants—"
"I didn't—" Silas stopped. Swallowed. "That wasn't me. That was the other one. The real Duke."
"Sure, sure. But try explaining that to the villagers. Or the hero. Or the gods." Z shrugged. "Look, I'm not saying you have to be evil. I'm saying you have to be practical. If the game gives you villain mechanics, use them. That's how you win."
"He's not wrong," Kael said quietly. "We're here to protect you. But we can only work with what we have. If the hero has a weakness, we exploit it. If he has people he cares about, we use them as leverage. That's how raiding works. You find the mechanic and you abuse it until the boss dies."
Silas looked around the hall. At the players, treating his existential crisis like a strategy discussion. At the throne, symbol of a power he never asked for. At the tapestries, celebrating atrocities committed by the body he now wore.
Z was right about one thing. It was too late to be innocent.
"Fine," he said. "But no kidnapping. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. And not without talking to me first."
"Deal." Z grinned. "So. Tell us more about this God of Light. Solarius, you said? What's his deal?"
Silas dug through his memories of the books. "He's the head of the pantheon. Arrogant, powerful, convinced of his own righteousness. He's the one who chose Elian, who gave him the prophecy. In the later books, he becomes more involved, more desperate. The other gods start to resent him. There's a whole subplot about divine politics."
"Divine politics," Mira muttered. "Great. So if we piss him off, we get smited."
"Probably. But here's the thing." Silas frowned, thinking. "In the books, Solarius couldn't act directly. The gods have rules. They can bless their champions, grant powers, influence events. But they can't just reach down and crush people themselves. There's a balance. If they break it, the other gods push back."
"So we're dealing with a god who's bound by mechanics," Kael said slowly. "That's manageable. Mechanics can be learned. Exploited."
"You're talking about fighting a god."
"We're gamers. Fighting gods is literally what we do." Kael sounded almost amused. "We've killed gods. We've killed gods who were immune to damage, gods who could only be hurt at specific times, gods who tried to wipe the raid with instant death mechanics. Solarius is just another boss. A really, really high-level boss with a lot of adds and a complicated enrage timer."
The confidence in his voice was almost convincing. Almost.
Silas wanted to believe. He wanted to think that twenty-five people from Earth, armed with nothing but gaming skills and an obsessive need for loot, could somehow protect him from destiny itself. It was absurd. It was impossible. It was also, unfortunately, his only hope.
"Okay," he said. "What do you need from me?"
Kael considered. "Resources. Your castle, your staff, your treasury. We'll need to gear up, prepare defenses, maybe recruit some of your NPCs as helpers if they're capable. And information. Anything else you remember from the books. Every detail could matter."
"I'll write it all down. Everything I remember about Elian, about Solarius, about the prophecy."
"Do that." Kael turned to the other players. "Alright, team. You heard the plan. Mira, Toren, finish your mapping. Z, work on the stealth detection thresholds. Lily, coordinate with the Duke's steward about quarters and supplies. Rex, you're with me—we're checking the armory. Let's move."
The players scattered, each to their assigned tasks. Within minutes, the great hall was empty except for Silas and the echoes of their departure.
He stood alone before the throne of House Vicious, a man in a murderer's body, waiting for a hero to come and kill him.
Somewhere in the castle, a player laughed. Somewhere else, a servant whispered in fear. And in the heavens, if the books were right, a god was already watching, already planning, already preparing to bless his champion for the glorious quest ahead.
Silas looked up at the vaulted ceiling, at the shadows gathering in the rafters.
"Solarius," he murmured. "If you can hear me. I'm sorry about your prophecy. I'm sorry about your hero. But I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be here. I just want to survive."
There was no answer. There never was.
Silas turned and walked out of the great hall, leaving the throne empty behind him.
He had a lot of writing to do.
---
The first day passed in a blur of activity.
Silas retreated to the library—a vast room filled with thousands of volumes, most of them probably never read by the real Duke—and began to write. Everything. The hero's backstory, his training, his allies, his enemies. The gods and their politics. The prophecies and their loopholes. The major events of the series, the battles, the betrayals, the triumphs.
He wrote until his hand cramped, then kept writing. He wrote until the light through the windows faded to gray, then to black. He wrote by candlelight, surrounded by the ghosts of a story that had already been written, trying to find some advantage, some weakness, some hidden detail that might give him an edge.
The players came and went, checking on him, bringing food he didn't eat, reporting progress he barely heard. They'd established a watch rotation. They'd mapped the castle and the village. They'd tested the guards and found them adequate as backup but useless as a primary defense. They'd argued about positioning and strategy and who got which shift.
Through it all, Silas wrote.
And when he finally stopped, when exhaustion made his vision blur and his thoughts fragment, he had forty pages of notes. Forty pages of someone else's story, written in someone else's handwriting, on paper that belonged to a dead man.
He sat back in the chair, staring at the pile.
"System," he whispered. "Are you there?"
The blue window appeared, floating in the air before him.
[AFFIRMATIVE. SYSTEM ONLINE.]
[HOW MAY I ASSIST?]
"Will this work? The players, the defense, all of it. Will it actually work?"
There was a pause. The window flickered.
[PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL INCREASED FROM 0.00% TO 43.7%.]
[FURTHER INCREASES DEPENDENT ON PLAYER PERFORMANCE AND HERO DEVELOPMENT.]
[ADDITIONAL NOTE: THE GOD SOLARIUS HAS BECOME AWARE OF ANOMALOUS ACTIVITY WITHIN THE DUCHY. HIS ATTENTION IS NOW FOCUSED ON THIS REGION.]
[EXPECT ADAPTATIONS.]
The window vanished.
Silas sat in the darkness, surrounded by his notes, and felt the weight of those words.
Solarius was watching.
The god who had chosen Elian, who had given him the prophecy, who had promised him victory over the evil Duke—that god was now paying attention. Not to the hero's quest, not to the grand narrative of destiny. To Silas. To the anomaly.
Expect adaptations.
What did that mean? What could a god do, within the limits of his power, to adjust to this new threat? New blessings for the hero? New obstacles for the players? Direct intervention, despite the rules?
Silas didn't know. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
The easy part was over.
Tomorrow, the real war would begin.
---
[CHAPTER 2 END]