Chapter 1 — The Dirt That Remembers Blood
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The rope chafed Arin Velas's neck, its fibers stiff and crusted with the blood of those who'd hanged before him. He could feel every scratch, every grim memory woven into its coils. His breath came shallow, each inhale tasting of ash, sweat, and the bitter sting of betrayal.
The crowd was waiting. No, they were watching—with a hunger that disgusted him.
Beyond the wooden platform, the capital square stretched wide, filled with faces that had once cheered his victories. Children raised on stories of his heroics. Farmers whose villages he'd defended. Nobles who had smiled at banquets and toasted to his name. Now they gathered like wolves around a corpse, laughing, jeering, throwing stones that never quite reached him but still cut deeper than blades.
The noose tightened.
Above him, the sky was bruised with storm clouds, the sun smothered behind a veil of gray. A fitting sky, he thought. Grim. Silent. Indifferent.
A bell tolled. Once. Twice. Three times.
The executioner stepped forward—a hulking man in a black hood, face hidden behind iron mesh. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The city herald would do the honors.
From the steps of the platform, the herald unrolled a scroll, his voice high and sharp, as if reading a festive announcement rather than a man's death sentence.
"By order of the Crown, Arin Velas, once honored as 'The Argent Blade,' is hereby condemned for the crimes of high treason, mass murder, and consorting with infernal forces. Let this execution mark the triumph of justice over corruption!"
A roar of approval swept through the crowd. Arin didn't flinch. He stared straight ahead—at him.
Standing just behind the platform, separated by a ring of royal guards, was the hero of the realm—Sir Calen Drest.
Golden-haired, silver-armored, and draped in a cloak of deep indigo, Calen looked every bit the shining knight the world believed him to be. He was handsome in a textbook way, tall and clean-cut, with a smile that never faltered, not even now.
Especially not now.
As the herald stepped back, Calen stepped forward, raising a gauntleted hand to silence the crowd. And they did. They adored him.
"It is with sorrow," Calen said, voice steady, practiced, "that I witness the fall of a man I once called brother."
Lies.
"I fought beside Arin Velas for five years. I watched him protect the innocent, slay monsters, and risk his life for the kingdom. But somewhere along the way, darkness found him. Corrupted him."
More lies.
"I grieve for what he was. But I stand firm against what he became."
The applause was thunderous. Arin wanted to spit—but his mouth was dry.
He remembered that night. The charred city. The blood on the cobblestones. The demon's corpse, still smoking from its own implosion. And the knife in his back—figurative, then literal—driven in by the man now basking in admiration.
They had framed him perfectly. A forged spellbook. An illusion spell pinned to his name. Testimonies bent by magic and gold. Even his allies had believed it. Or wanted to.
"You are allowed final words," the herald said.
Arin's voice was low, cracked, barely more than breath. "To all who watch…remember this."
The silence was total.
"I saved your lives. All of you. I bled for this kingdom. I killed for it. And in return…you gave me a rope."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, uncertain. Discomforting.
Arin turned his eyes to Calen.
"I hope the devil you sold me to is worth it."
Calen's smile twitched. Just slightly.
The executioner pulled the lever.
The trapdoor opened.
Arin fell.
And then—nothing.
No pain. No breath. No weight. Just...dark.
A void that was somehow deeper than death. Silence so perfect it roared.
Then—
[System initializing…]
A voice—not a voice, more like a presence—slithered into his mind.
[Welcome, Arin Velas.]
[Designation: Dead.]
[Cause of death: Execution by hanging.]
[System classification: Villain.]
[New objective assigned.]
[Objective: Become the world's greatest villain.]
[Rewards granted based on metrics: Chaos, Fear, Power.]
[Penalty for failure: Eternal nullification.]
[System Note: You are not a hero anymore.]
"What...is this?" Arin whispered.
[Rebirth in progress…]
Heat surged through his chest. It wasn't pain—not exactly—but it tore at the edges of his soul like molten hooks. He screamed, though there was no throat to scream with.
And then—
Light.
Sharp. Cold. Real.
Arin gasped awake, choking on stale air, lungs spasming. He flailed, falling off a creaky mattress and hitting a dirt floor hard. Dust filled his mouth. He coughed, heaved, trembled.
He was alive.
He sat up slowly. The room was familiar—stone walls, wooden beams, a single crooked window letting in pale sunlight.
This was…
"My old quarters," he muttered.
In the back wing of Ironvale Orphanage.
He staggered to the cracked mirror nailed to the wall, heart pounding. The face staring back wasn't the man who'd died with a rope around his neck.
It was younger—no beard, no scars, hair shaggy and dark. Eyes bright with confusion and buried fury.
"This…can't be real."
[Welcome to your new timeline.]
[Current age: 16 years.]
[Time until original downfall: 10 years.]
[Quest Received: First Steps to Villainy]
[Objective: Commit a selfish act within 24 hours.]
[Reward: Skill – "False Heart (F)" – Allows you to fake sincerity with 85% success.]
Arin blinked.
It was real.
The system wasn't some hallucination. He had truly been brought back—given a second chance. A cruel, twisted second chance.
He could barely breathe. His stomach turned. The room stank of mildew and unwashed linens. A rat scurried across the floor near his boot. It felt too real to be a dream.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why bring me back only to...what? Turn me into some monster?"
[Answer: You were betrayed. Your hatred qualifies you.]
[Villain Profile: Vengeance-Driven Anti-Hero.]
[Primary Traits: Strategic, Cold, Morally Gray.]
[Projected path: Catastrophic.]
Arin's lips curled into a bitter smile.
"Catastrophic, huh?"
He looked at his reflection again—this time not with confusion, but clarity.
Calen Drest. The fake hero. The golden boy. The liar.
His allies who stood silent. The nobles who turned away. The king who signed his death.
This world had already made him a villain.
Now it would learn what kind of villain he chose to become.
He opened the creaky wooden chest beside the bed. Inside: an old dagger, a faded cloak, and a locket—his sister's, long lost.
He took the dagger and held it up.
[Optional Bonus Objective: Intimidate a fellow orphan to claim better quarters.]
[Reward: +5 Fear Points.]
He didn't move.
Not yet.
Let the system think it had him on a leash.
He would play along. He would gather power, do what was needed. He would become the nightmare they all feared.
And once he had the strength—
He'd burn the system itself.
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