The Villainous Young Master [ LitRPG, Fantasy ]

[Villainry]

Patreon ❖ RoyalRoad​

Reborn into a past he once failed, he's returned with a burning desire for vengeance and a thirst for power.

Armed with the knowledge of his past life, he'll stop at nothing to reclaim his rightful place. With cunning as sharp as a blade, he'll manipulate the threads of fate, bending the world to his will.

He'll exploit every advantage, every weakness, to rise to the pinnacle of power. And in the shadows of his ascent, he'll protect those he cherishes, shielding them from the darkness that threatens to consume them all.

A new era dawns, and with it, a reign of fear and awe.

 

[Villainry]

The throbbing in his head felt like a goblin was trying to tunnel its way out of his skull. He groaned, forcing his heavy eyelids open to a blur of muted colors and textures.

Silken canopy drapes, the deep gleam of mahogany carved with impossible detail, and the cloying sweetness of expensive incense – none of it familiar.

This wasn't his spartan room in the Royal Archives.

"What the..." he mumbled, the word catching in his dry throat. He pushed himself up, the world tilting alarmingly for a moment, the plush mattress sinking beneath him like a quicksand of feathers.

Cool, smooth sheets pooled around his waist as he sat on the edge of the impossibly soft bed. Moonlight, like liquid silver, spilled through an arched window, painting the room in shades of shadow and light.

Trembling slightly, his hands fumbled for a switch.

Click!

The warm glow of an antique lamp banished the shadows.

The intricate patterns on the tapestry, the glint of gold leaf on the picture frames, the subtle sheen of polished wood – details emerged from the darkness, stirring a vague familiarity within him.

He frowned, trying to place the feeling. Where had he...? And then it hit him, a memory from his youth, long buried under years of dust and denial.

This room, this opulence... it was like something out of his early days, after the exile, the years spent in the harsh wilderness of the Veridian Province.

"Am I dreaming?" he muttered, the thought echoing in the sudden silence. "A lucid dream, maybe?" A wave of dizziness washed over him, memories swirling and clashing like opposing currents.

He saw flashes of his childhood days, living a carefree life as a good-for-nothing young master. The fragmented memory ending with his sixteenth birthday, the lavish celebrations in the capital, the suffocating grandeur of his family's estate... and then the abrupt fall from grace, the exile, stripped of everything he knew.

He gripped the sheets, his knuckles turning white. Confusion overwhelmed him, his mind racing to make sense of the impossible situation. Pinching himself hard, a sharp jolt of pain confirmed he was indeed awake.

But how...? Had he somehow returned to the past? The idea was absurd, impossible, yet... here he was.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. His lungs expanded without the familiar twinge of strain, his breathing was remarkably easy.

He flexed his fingers, then his wrists, rotating his shoulders in a smooth, fluid motion. The aches that usually plagued his joints, the stiffness that greeted him each morning, were gone. He felt... lighter, more agile, a stark contrast to the weariness that usually clung to him like a second skin.

If this was the past, then... He concentrated, focusing his will, attempting to summon the familiar blue glow of his status window, the interface that had been a constant companion for years.

Nothing.

He waited. Still nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the confusion, a shard of ice in his gut. What in the abyss was happening?

Ding!

A sharp, metallic sound pierced the silence, a sound he hadn't heard in... well, ever.

It was followed by a chilling message that appeared in his vision, stark and red against the backdrop of the opulent room.


WARNING: BUG DETECTED...


Tristan's breath hitched. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against his suddenly fragile bones. Bug detected? The words slammed into him like a physical blow.

Bug detected. The phrase echoed in his mind, almost a death knell. He knew what that meant. He'd seen it happen, witnessed the devastating consequences firsthand.

'A bug can only be used once.' That was the golden rule drilled into every person from the moment they logged in.

All systems had them – glitches, exploits, loopholes in the fabric of reality itself due to System Integration. And some players, driven by greed or ambition, sought to exploit those bugs for their own gain.

Like the infamous Ghost of Galado, who'd discovered a bug that allowed him to duplicate items in the marketplace. He'd amassed a fortune before the system admins caught on and patched the exploit, leaving a trail of angry mob in his wake.

Or the tragic case of Seraphina the Swift, who'd found a way to manipulate the time flow within a dungeon, only to become trapped in an endless loop until the System Evolution.

The world's system had bugs too, though they were rare, well-hidden, and swiftly eradicated. But the consequences of triggering one... those were often irreversible.

Sometimes a person might gain a temporary advantage, a boost in stats, or a rare item. But there was always a price to pay. A backlash, a karmic debt that would come due, often with devastating consequences.


BUG FIXING ROUTINE INITIATED...

Bug Details: Datetime Insynchronization.
Future Datetime Detected.


A cold sweat broke out on Tristan's forehead. Future Datetime? He stared at the message, his mind reeling. "Did I really...reborn?" he whispered, the words catching in his throat.


CORRECTING USER DATA...


The screen flickered, lines of code scrolling past too quickly for him to decipher. Tristan crossed his fingers and waited, his breath caught in his chest.


INITIALIZE TERMINATION PROCESS


The words appeared, stark and final. A wave of despair washed over him, his stomach plummeting to his feet. Termination... that meant death.

What Death? he thought incredulously. I just got here! After all this time, after everything... I'm dying again? Before I even have a chance to figure out what's going on?' He slumped back against the pillows, his earlier panic replaced by a numb acceptance.

Then, a new screen flashed, interrupting the termination process:


FAILED: INSUFFICIENT SYSTEM AUTHORITY; COULD NOT TERMINATE USER.


Huh? Why can't the system just delete me? For a moment he couldn't believe his luck.

Earth's a mess because a hundred beings rose to stop the System Integration five hundred years ago. The apocalypse that should start with a System Integration was delayed for a thousand years ... creating a world where the presence of monsters became known, while the technological progression of the world stopped as well as the increasing numbers of dungeons appearing. The System was fragmented into multiple parts to better govern the region until the ley lines connected together in five hundred years.


ALERT

THE AGENT ./SYSTEM SX13c54h/ REPORTED AN ERROR 401 AND IS ACTIVELY TRYING TO TERMINATE ./PERSONAL SYSTEM 1HCpXwx2EK9oYluWbacgeCnFcLf/

DO YOU WANT TO GRANT IT ACCESS?

YES / NO


Tristan stared at the message, his mind struggling to comprehend the technical jargon. Stupefaction quickly gave way to a surge of desperate hope. Hell no!!

This... this was a chance! He didn't understand the details, but he knew one thing: he wasn't ready to die. Not again.

With a surge of adrenaline, he slammed his hand against the NO option, the force of it jarring his aching head. He watched, his heart pounding, as the system responded.

The screen blinked, and then the same alert flashed again, the insistent red text demanding a response. And again. And again. It repeated in a maddening loop, tens of times, each cycle chipping away at his resolve.

After a hundred Nos, the system finally changed the alert.


ERROR CATCHING ROUTINE STARTED.

CORRECTING DATETIME DATA.

DO YOU WANT TO GRANT THE AGENT ./SYSTEM SX13c54h/ ACCESS TO CHANGE DATETIME DATA? YES / NO


He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then hit NO again. He had some inkling what this agent was trying to do, but he wasn't about to grant it any more power.

Was this some kind of security protocol? Or was the system simply malfunctioning, caught in a repetitive loop? Whatever the reason, the constant barrage of alerts was fraying his nerves. He couldn't take much more of this.

With a growl of frustration, Tristan slammed his hand against the YES option. If this was some kind of trap, so be it. He was tired of fighting against the inevitable.


DATETIME CHANGE FINISHED;
BUG FIXING ROUTINE TERMINATED;
RESUMING OPERATION;


The screens vanished, leaving Tristan in the dimly lit room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was alive.

The tension that had been wound tight within him snapped, releasing a wave of exhilaration.

Tristan threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound echoing through the opulent room. He'd done it! He'd actually survived!

He laughed until tears streamed down his face, the sheer absurdity of his situation hitting him with full force. He was alive, he was in the past, and he had a whole new life ahead of him.

Just as he was about to lose himself in another fit of laughter, a gentle knock sounded at the door, followed by a soft voice. "Young master, is everything alright?"

Tristan's laughter died down abruptly, his face flushing with embarrassment. He quickly wiped away the tears and composed himself, trying to appear as normal as possible. "Yes, everything's fine. Just a bit of... excitement."

He couldn't help but chuckle to himself, imagining what the maid must be thinking. 'A bit of excitement'? More like a full-blown mental breakdown. But he couldn't blame her. After all, he was laughing hysterically at nothing.

"The young master has much to celebrate! Your engagement to the most beautiful lady is wonderful news for the city," the maid chirped, her voice brimming with admiration.

Hearing the words, he was again stunned. Engagement? The word hit him like a bucket of cold water. His heart pounded, and an icy dread gripped him.

He racked his brain, trying to piece together the fragmented images of his past life, but it was like grasping at smoke.

As it was before he had his [ Edietic Memory ] skill, the period was a blurry mess, a jumble of emotions and half-formed recollections. Before he could sort out his memory, a new system window flashed before his eyes, diverting his attention.


Name: Tristan Von Astar
Level: 0

Class: ---
Race: [G] Human

Titles: Chrononaut

Abnormal Status: Locked System Functions - Stats, Skills. Awaiting User Awakening.

Authority: 1572

Nexus Coins: 0

 

[0Astor0]

Cool, hoping that we get more lore next chap

 

[Villainry]

Name: Tristan Von Astar
Level: 0

Class: ---
Race: [G] Human

Titles: Chrononaut

Abnormal Status: Locked System Functions - Stats, Skills. Awaiting User Awakening.

Authority: 1572

Nexus Coins: 0


He looked at the status window, a frown creasing his forehead. System Functions Locked... It seemed his entire system had been reset, wiped clean, and set to some kind of pre-awakening status.

All his hard-earned levels, his skills, his stats, his upgrades – all gone, vanished like smoke.

The only thing that remained was his Authority. 1572. A respectable number, even by his previous standards. He supposed it made sense, in a way.

Authority was fundamentally tied to the very essence of a person's existence, the closest thing they had to a soul in the system. Perhaps that was why it had carried over, a remnant of his past life clinging to him in this new reality.

It was the measure of your power, your influence, your very right to exist. The higher your Authority, the greater your potential, and the more you can achieve.

It affected everything from the skills you could learn to the levels you could reach, even the very fabric of reality you could interact with. It determined your place in the hierarchy, and your standing in the world.

And he, even in this reset state, still possessed a significant amount of it.

Losing all his titles was not that heartbreaking as he lived quite mediocre in his past life. As he checked the new title, a new screen window popped up.


Chrononaut - Time Traveller. Increases Dao of Time Affinity +1%. Dao of Space Affinity +1%.


"Time and Space?" Tristan whispered, his eyes wide with astonishment. Two Dao affinities? At level zero? He couldn't believe it.

He'd heard legends about such titles, but he'd never thought he'd actually see one, let alone possess it himself. He felt a surge of excitement, a thrill of anticipation.

Titles were far more important than just sounding cool. While most titles granted nothing more than bragging rights, there were others that granted a fixed number of stat points, like strength or dexterity, providing a small but permanent boost.

The most difficult titles to acquire even gave multiplier bonuses to stats. Those bonuses would only grow stronger as a person leveled up and accumulated more stats.

Titles related to Luck and Fate were exceedingly rare, coveted by anyone who sought to bend fortune to their will. But Tristan had only ever heard whispers of the legendary titles, the ones that increased a person's overall affinity with the Dao, the fundamental forces that governed reality.

And here he was, at level zero, with a title that granted him not one, but two Dao affinities. Time and Space. The possibilities were staggering.

"Good, with this I have hope to gain a much better start," Tristan had already started to plan what he was going to do.

The Awakening refers to a person gaining the System Interface. While there are many ways to gain a system, the common method used by the aristocratic family is using the Artifact left by their Ancestor.

The beings who fought the System Integration gained enormous benefits, with many of them establishing clans and sects or going into seclusion.

His ancestor was one of them, where he gained the Awakening Crystal which should help others gain access to the system.

He knew he couldn't face his enemies head-on, not yet. First, he needed to build his own power base and settle some scores within his family. He'd already lost his position as heir, and even with a successful Awakening ceremony, his chances of regaining it were slim. More likely, he'd be sent away on family errands, or continue his glorified exile in all but name.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his past life, he settled into the chair at his ornate desk. He picked up a heavy, embossed notepad, the silver pen gleaming in the dim light.

He paused, the pen hovering above the page. A slight frown creased his brow as if a vital piece of information was eluding him. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm on the desk, his eyes momentarily closing as he tried to grasp the fleeting thought.

But the whirlwind of plans and strategies quickly pushed it aside.

This wasn't just about revenge, or even about saving his family. This time, he would forge his own path, build his own power, and live the life he deserved. But he knew better than anyone how treacherous this world could be, how easily even the best-laid plans could crumble.

He would protect those he cared about, and he would live. His jaw tightened, a hint of steel entering his gaze.

Methodically, he began to write. Name after name filled the first few pages. A list of those who had wronged him, those he wanted to protect, events he needed to prevent, secrets he needed to uncover. It wasn't that he feared forgetting; it was more about creating a roadmap, a checklist to keep him grounded, to prevent him from rushing headlong into danger.

If someone were to come across this notebook, they would be baffled by the sheer number of scribbles it contained. A chaotic jumble of symbols, diagrams, and seemingly random words filled its pages, a testament to Tristan's knowledge of a forgotten language, a language that wouldn't be rediscovered for centuries.

As the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon, Tristan paused his writing, his pen hovering over the pages. He rose from his desk and moved to the window, his gaze drawn to the breathtaking vista. The sky was ablaze with hues of gold and crimson, casting a warm glow over the mansion.

A soft knock disturbed his drifting thoughts. "Young Master? It's time to wake up..." a soft voice drifted from the doorway. It was the maid again, her tone gentle and hesitant.

"Don't disturb me for now," He had a lot to figure out – the cause of his unexpected journey through time, and the memories of the past. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of peace, basking in the beauty of the sunrise.

An hour later, a sharp knock shattered the quiet, followed by a man's voice. "Young Master, are you awake?"

"Enter," Tristan called out, his voice a little rough. Moving toward the center table, he poured himself a glass of water, savoring the cool, refreshing liquid as it slid down his throat.

The door creaked open, and a middle-aged man with a lean, wiry frame stepped into the room. His face was etched with lines of age and weathered by countless sunrises and sunsets. His hair was peppered with silver, and his eyes, though dulled by time, still held a keen intelligence.

A simple tunic and trousers, practical attire for a man who spent most of his time outdoors. Kael, one of the last trusted advisors of his father who stayed by his side.

And, as Tristan's memories abruptly surfaced, he realized with a jolt that Kael was also one of his uncle's spies, planted here to keep him under surveillance.

Looking at the humbling attitude put forward by the man, a surge of rage coursed through him, a near-uncontrollable urge to tear the man apart. But he fought it back, his face hardening. He could feel the heat drain from his expression, replaced by a chilling calm.

"How is your health, Young Master?" Kael inquired, his voice a low rasp.

"Terrible," Tristan replied flatly, his face devoid of emotion.

Kael's eyebrows twitched in surprise.

Tristan's mind was a whirlwind. He couldn't simply slip back into his childhood persona; years of hardship had reshaped him, and any attempt to feign his former self would raise suspicion.

Instead, a new plan began to form. He would play the part of the arrogant, spoiled Young Master, a role that would grant him the freedom and cover he needed to navigate this treacherous situation.

He would use their underestimated perception to his advantage. It was a risky gambit, but it was his best chance.

Kael cleared his throat, clasping his hands and bowing low. "Young Master, my apologies, but we can't delay any longer." His tone was serious, urgent.

Tristan had no idea what the issue was, but he suspected it was another one of his uncle's schemes. "If I don't want to rush, then I won't," he declared, his voice dripping with disdain. "Who dares to make me?" He was surprised by how easily he slipped into the role, the words flowing effortlessly from his lips.

"I understand, Young Master," Kael said, his voice laced with a hint of desperation, "but it will greatly offend the Ellsworth family if we're late to the engagement."

Tristan's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. That's what he had forgotten.

The engagement. Is it mine? He was confused about where this engagement came from in this remote wilderness province.

"Just send them my congratulations," he said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. "I'm not feeling well." He didn't have time to play in his uncle's schemes and disturbing it might be quite good.

It was probably a rude response, but he didn't care. The family name would smooth things over with a generous gift, as they always did even if it is his engagement.

"But, Young Master," Kael sputtered, his face pale, "how will we explain that to your Young Lady Regina Ellsworth?"

The name hit Tristan like a bucket of ice water. He'd just taken a sip, and it promptly went down the wrong way, resulting in a spluttering, coughing fit. He grabbed a napkin, dabbing at his chin, his eyes wide with something akin to panic.

Regina Ellsworth? Regina…Ellsworth? His mind scrambled, trying to place the name. Wasn't she… wasn't she one of the… the Scions? What in the blazes was a Scion doing being engaged to him?

Oh, bloody hell. He knew why he kept forgetting about this ridiculous engagement.

 

[Villainry]

"If the collar is uncomfortable, please do let me know, Young Master." The maid's fingers brushed against his skin as she adjusted the stiff fabric.

Tristan gave a fleeting nod, his gaze fixed on the rich, vibrant navy blue of the engagement robes. He rubbed the material between his fingers, the smooth texture a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

A team of maids fussed around him, adjusting his clothes, and straightening his sleeves.

Looking at the silver mirror that reached from floor to ceiling, sixteen-year-old stared back.

Sharp jaw. Sharper blue eyes. Black hair spilling over his shoulders.

Tristan swallowed hard. He clenched the robe's sleeve, grounding himself in the fabric, but the past still clawed at the edges of his mind. He had been old. No—ancient. He remembered the heaviness in his bones, the slow ache of every movement. The suffocating loneliness. The way even the sun had seemed dimmer after so many centuries.

And yet, here he was.

Whole. Young.

His gaze flicked to Keal, hunched in the corner, surrounded by parchment—just as he had always been. Just as he remembered him.

"Maybe I shouldn't get married," Tristan muttered under his breath, a flicker of rebellion sparking in his eyes. "Now that I think about it, one woman isn't enough for me."

A lie.

A distraction.

Because if he let himself think too much, he might just shatter.

Still, his thoughts drifted back to the Young Lady of the Ellsworth family, his betrothed. He could almost see her face, her cool, appraising gaze, her lips curved into a polite, distant smile.

He remembered the day he'd met her in his previous life, the elaborate marriage arranged by his uncle, the subtle pressure to secure an alliance with this small, insignificant province to tie him up locally. Never to return to Skyreach, the Capital City of Earth after System Integration.

Kael had been quite insistent, emphasizing the benefits of such a match, the strengthening of his influence. Tristan had dutifully listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, until he saw the beautiful Regina.

Then he was all ready to marry the most beautiful girl in Cinderbrook City. That decision had marked the beginning of his unfortunate life.

Returning to the present his mind was preoccupied with how to solve this existential problem that was more than just politics.

The problem was that Young Lady Regina Ellsworth was a Scion. A descendant of an ancient bloodline, blessed with extraordinary abilities and a destiny that defied mortal comprehension.

While geniuses often die young, Scions are the favored children of destiny, living long lives.

They're like characters from a story. The heroes who always win, who get the girl or boy, the power, the glory. Imagine them effortlessly dodging danger, emerging unscathed from battles.

Scions could be forces for good or agents of chaos, their choices shaping the world around them. They were the movers and shakers, the heroes and villains, and everyone else was merely a spectator.

To cross a Scion is to invite disaster, Tristan reminded himself, a shiver running down his spine. They are untouchable, invincible. The only way to survive is to stay out of their way. And never cross them. Never.

He recalled stories of those who had dared to challenge Scions, their attempts ending in ruin.

One Scion had toppled the centuries-old government in a single night, another had become the leader of the New Dawn Movement. And then there was the Crimson Hand, a global superpower brought to its knees not by armies, but by the subtle manipulations of a single Scion.

Even nuclear arsenals, the ultimate deterrent, were rendered useless against their… something. Luck? Destiny? Tristan didn't know. He only knew the chilling truth: Fate seemed to bend at their whim.

Initially, these individuals were merely seen as geniuses. However, as time passed, the world would discover their true capabilities and extraordinary powers. Organizations would then compete to recruit them into their ranks.

And now I had to deal with two of them because Regina's childhood friend, a young man named Rhys Stark, who was rumored to be infatuated with her was, unfortunately, also a Scion.

Two Scions, Tristan groaned inwardly. This engagement is turning into a disaster. He already remembered the chaos Rhys would unleash, the havoc he would wreak in his desperate attempt to claim Regina Ellsworth for himself.

"You can choose other girls to serve on any other day, Young Master," Keal's voice cut through his thoughts. "Please stop joking." Keal's tone was calm, almost dismissive as if Tristan's concerns were nothing more than childish whims.

Tristan's jaw tightened. Keal's advice wasn't just unhelpful—it was utterly worthless, the kind of misguided counsel that practically guaranteed Tristan would end up a feckless wastrel. But he knew better than to argue with Keal.

It was almost baffling how Keal managed to maintain any semblance of power given the sheer ineptitude of his guidance. Yet, despite the simmering irritation, Tristan knew it was pointless to voice his disagreement for now.

Whether due to Keal's position, their past relationship, or some other unspoken dynamic, challenging him directly would only lead to further complications. So, he held his tongue.

As the maids withdrew, Keal materialized beside Tristan, his presence announced only by the faintest rustle of fabric and handed Tristan a stack of papers. "Young Master, Lady Amy Ellsworth has sent over the dowry agreement as well as some extra... requests."

Amy Ellsworth, cousin of his future fiancee.

Tristan wasn't surprised that the marriage was transactional. It was how things worked in their world. But he couldn't help but feel a surge of anger at the audacity of this Amy Ellsworth.

Half of his problems with the lady scion started due to this girl.

He remembered the last time he'd been presented with the secret agreement. He hadn't even bothered to read it, snapping at the girl for daring to make demands before the marriage had even taken place.

But this time, curiosity got the better of him. He glanced at the first page, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

That... that's an absurd amount of money! Tristan's breath hitched. The sum listed was obscene. His past exile had been a gilded cage, his family doling out funds with an iron fist. A bitter suspicion gnawed at him – had Keal been skimming from his parent's estate, fabricating expenses and lining his own pockets?

He flipped to the next page. There, in elegant script, was a single, chilling sentence:

'Cripple her.'

The fury that had been rising within Tristan vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity. A slow smirk spread across his lips. So, that's how it is. Quite the cunning girl, using a borrowed knife to destroy her own cousin.

"It seems that Amy Ellsworth can't wait to snatch the position of the Young Lady of Ellsworth."

❖ ❖ ❖​

The grand hall buzzed with tension. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, illuminating the opulent space where members of the Ellsworth family and their esteemed guests had gathered.

Strange, Tristan thought, a flicker of suspicion arising within him. These are all people close to the City Lord, his inner circle. None of the city's true nobility is present. He mentally chided himself for not noticing this detail before. Why had he been so blind to these nuances in his past life?

All eyes were fixed on a young man standing defiantly in the center, his voice ringing with righteous anger.

"Is this how the City Lord of Cinderbrook conducts himself?" the young commoner roared, his handsome face contorted with fury, his fists clenched tightly.

"You bully the weak to appease the strong, without a shred of shame for condemning your own daughter to a life of misery!" His voice echoed through the hall, piercing the air of complacency. "Did you even bother to consider Lady Regina's feelings? I stand here today to demand justice on her behalf! And mark my words, City Lord, I, Rhys Stark, will not forget this humiliation!"

Tristan observed the scene from the sidelines, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. He took a small sip, his expression carefully neutral, a mask of indifference. He aimed to project an air of detachment, of a man observing the world from a distant, elevated plane.

At least, that's how he wanted everyone in the hall to see.

Of course, what nobody knew was that Tristan's so-called indifference was purely due to the war inside his mind. It wasn't that he didn't care about the unfolding drama; he simply couldn't bring himself to engage. His mind was a battlefield, grappling with subtle suggestions, and whispers of influence that attempted to dictate his actions.

He recognized the insidious tendrils of World Fate, attempting to manipulate him like a puppet. It was a subtle pressure, but with his powerful soul and the weight of fifteen hundred authority, he fought the insidious pull.

The attempts by the World Fate were one of the reasons why Scions, those favored by Destiny, were so formidable. Their enemies often succumbed to these silent suggestions, making foolish mistakes, their minds clouded, and their actions driven by an unseen force.

Tristan recalled pieces of knowledge from the Karmic Monastery, details of how a Scion's destiny could overwhelm the very will of others.

"Such audacity!" an elderly man sputtered, his face flushed with indignation. "How dare a mere commoner speak to the City Lord in such a manner? You must be weary of life!"

Tristan watched, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. He recognized the pattern, the classic narrative. He, the arrogant Young Master, was destined to be humbled by this Child of Destiny.

The name 'Rhys Stark' itself screamed protagonist, a cookie-cutter hero plucked straight from a bard's tale.

And what better way for this Rhys to rise to prominence than by crushing a seemingly powerful figure like Tristan?

"Who are you to speak, old man?" Rhys retorted, his voice cutting through the hall. He turned his burning gaze towards Tristan, who remained seemingly unfazed, sipping his wine. "And you," Rhys spat, his voice dripping with contempt, "hiding behind your goblet like a coward. You think you're above it all, don't you? Too good to even acknowledge the injustice happening right under your nose?"

He stalked closer, his every step radiating defiance. "Or maybe," he sneered, "you're just afraid? Afraid to confront me, afraid to defend your precious honor?" He stopped directly in front of Tristan, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. "Prove me wrong, Tristan Von Astar," Rhys challenged, his voice echoing through the hall. "Step forward and fight me. Show everyone what you're truly made of."

 

[Villainry]

Tristan observed the man before him, so consumed by rage he resembled a frenzied ape more than a human. The chap's desperate attempts to provoke a fight were almost pathetic.

Such base tactics...does he truly believe this will work?

A blur—pain exploded at the back of Tristan's head. Darkness swallowed him whole as the World Fate's attack reached its peak.

When his vision cleared, he stood somewhere else entirely. An island stretched before him, its shores battered by ceaseless waves. Jagged cliffs loomed in the distance, weathered and eroded by endless storms. The sky above churned with dark clouds, their shapes twisting like phantom hands clawing at the land.

He exhaled. My soul realm.

Looking down, he caught sight of his own body—gaunt, withered, draped in rags. His fingers trembled, his skin like brittle parchment, thin and fragile. A dry chuckle bubbled from his throat.

"How unsightly," he muttered.

With a thought, power surged through him. The air warped, space trembled, and with a single step, he shed the husk of his decay. In its place, his sixteen-year-old self stood, muscles firm, posture straight. A body unburdened by the erosion of fate.

He strode forward, gaze sweeping across the battered land. A reflection of my soul, shaped by the World Fate's relentless assault. He clicked his tongue. Unacceptable!

Lifting his fist, he drove it into the island's heart. The ground cracked. Ethereal symbols flared to life, golden runes slithering across the surface, forming intricate patterns. Energy pulsed outward, coalescing into a translucent dome that stretched to encapsulate the entire island. A barrier—his Authority made manifest, a safeguard against the gnawing whispers of fate.

The moment it settled, the world around him dissolved.

Tristan blinked, finding himself once more in reality. Not a second had passed. His opponent was still seething, still baiting him. But Tristan only rolled his shoulders, exhaling.

A wave of calm settled over him. The whispers had ceased. His will was his own.

He met the man's glare, but his expression remained impassive. Even if I wanted to humor this idiot, it would be pointless. His system was still dormant. And to pick a fight with a scion?

I may not be wise, but I'm not suicidal.

"You're not worthy," Tristan declared, his gaze sweeping past the man to the others gathered in the hall. The only way was to deflect…

Rhys practically vibrated with frustration. His knuckles whitened as his fists clenched tighter, ignored by the very person he sought to provoke.

"Guards! Seize this beast and throw him into the city jail! He will await judgment there!" At this moment, an Elder also stood up and yelled at Rhys to earn himself some favor points from Tristan.

The hall erupted in a cacophony of voices. Another prominent figure, eager to curry favor with Tristan, jumped to his feet. "Agreed! City Lord, I propose we restrain Rhys and cast him out into the wilderness!"

"Indeed! This will provide Young Master Tristan with a justifiable explanation for his actions!"

One by one, the other joined the chorus, condemning Rhys for his audacity and disrespect. Their expressions were masks of righteousness, each vying to earn Tristan's approval.

He remained standing, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he took a sip of his wine. How curious... he mused. I haven't uttered a single word in condemnation, yet this Child of Destiny, finds himself in such dire straits.

He watched as Rhys, his face pale with panic, glanced desperately towards the lady beside him.

Tristan followed that glance. Young Lady Regina Ellsworth.

She stood poised, unmoving, the soft candlelight casting shadows along the curve of her cheek. Her lips, normally full and expressive, were pressed into a firm, unreadable line. Hazel eyes—brilliant and sharp—held no warmth.

At sixteen, Regina was the embodiment of budding nobility. There was an elegance in the way her auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders, a quiet strength in the way she held herself. She had the delicate beauty of youth—a button nose, smooth fair skin—but there was something else beneath it, something cold. A woman unshaken, untouched by the chaos unraveling before her.

A shame, really. If things were different, she would make a formidable wife. Beautiful, composed, perceptive—qualities that would serve any man well.

But Regina remained silent.

Rhys trembled beside her, his last hope dwindling as even Regina refused to speak in his defense.

Then—just for a fraction of a second—her expression shifted.

A subtle understanding glimmered in her eyes, a look that Rhys no doubt mistook for salvation. Tristan, however, wasn't as easily deceived.

Interesting. Was she angry at him? Or merely severing ties?

Before he could delve deeper, a muted but firm voice resonated in his mind. "Young Master," his personal Blood Warrior reported, "There was a strange fluctuation from the ring in Rhys's hand just now."

Finally, something worth my attention. He may not possess his own system yet, but he had a family warrior guarding from the shadows.

It was the perfect time to look at what secrets this Scion might have for his unwavering attitude. While he was familiar with Rhys, the secret of Scions is not common knowledge so he could use this chance when Rhys was at his lowest to deduce something.

His gaze sharpened as the Blood Warrior shared his vision.

There it was. A subtle but undeniable pulse seeped from that modest copper ring, spreading through Rhys's hand and reaching the head.

And Rhys—Rhys, who had moments ago bristled with tension—stilled. His breathing evened, the storm in his eyes dulled, replaced by an eerie tranquility. A shift so unnatural it sent a ripple through Tristan's composed façade.

His lips parted slightly before curling into a smirk.

There, almost invisible against his pale skin, was a simple copper ring. It was diminutive, easily overlooked, but to the trained eye of his Blood Warrior, it was a beacon.

His mind worked through the possibilities with ruthless efficiency. A hidden artifact? A relic from a forgotten ancestor? Or—better yet—the classic mysterious master grandpa?

Scions. They always had something—some divine stroke of fortune, some edge others could only dream of. A Golden Finger to tip fate in their favor.

Tristan pitched his voice just loud enough to reach the City Lord's ears, each syllable dripping with casual arrogance. "Lady Regina," he drawled, letting the title stretch, mocking, "is this the grand entertainment your father has arranged for me today? A rather... unrefined spectacle, wouldn't you say?"

He didn't bother to hide his disdain, offering no respect to the City Lord or his family. After all, there was no chance he would ever marry Regina.

Having a Scion as his wife? Absurd. He had no need for such a troublesome alliance.

Across the room, City Lord Jack Ellsworth stiffened. His fingers twitched against the jeweled hilt of his ceremonial dagger, the only sign of his barely contained fury.

Despite his fifty years, Ellsworth looked like a man in his prime—the kind who made others underestimate just how long he had played this game. His thick, jet-black hair, untouched by silver, framed a face that bore none of time's usual cruelties. A regal straight nose and a strong jawline. A man accustomed to command.

Yet right now, his unreadable gray eyes betrayed something else—something dangerously close to panic.

And Tristan enjoyed watching it happen.

Interesting.

Her usual mask wavered before she caught herself, straightening, chin tilting higher in defiance. But not before he saw it. Not before he knew.

So. She hadn't expected him to be quite this bold.

Good.

Let her wonder just how far he was willing to go.

It wasn't entirely unexpected. Questioning the Level 51 human, who had essentially offered his beautiful daughter to him, was quite daring.

As they had expected him to play along.

To flash that arrogant smirk, roll up his sleeves, and meet Rhys blow for blow in some meaningless display of bravado. A pissing contest dressed up as noble posturing. That's what they wanted—a spectacle, a game where men proved their "worthiness" through petty squabbles and thinly veiled insults.

It was exactly what he had done in his past life. Not this time.

"Tristan, do you only know how to bully others with your status?" Rhys roared once more, glaring at him. The raging fire in his eyes was spewing as if the engagement was orchestrated by Tristan to deal with him.

Tristan still maintained his calm as he kept looking down while drinking his wine. His expression hadn't changed at all, showing neither glee nor fury. In his heart, however, he found the entire spectacle to be quite funny.

After all, this shit show had nothing to do with him. Based on his memories, he didn't even know about the existence of a nobody like this Rhys before he showed himself and went against him today.

As for the City Lord of Cinderbrook giving his daughter to him? That wasn't because Tristan desired her; it was because the City Lord wanted to rope him in while he still could, to get on his good side. It was a common tactic in this dog-eat-dog world where the strong preyed upon the weak. Who wouldn't want a terrifying backer like Tristan?

As for this Rhys? He must be a professional mud-slinger, seeing how he had no real talent and only spewed crap from his mouth. Why should Tristan be the one to clear up this mess?

"WHAT IMPUDENCE?! How dare you call the Young Master's name with such disrespect?" A chilling voice cut through the tense atmosphere, followed by a wave of oppressive force that seemed to suck the air from the room. Finally someone took the bait…

It was Chris Ellsworth, the Young Master of the Ellsworth family, brother Regina from different mother, his face a mask of icy fury.

He strode forward, his every step radiating authority. Runes, intricate and glowing, flickered around his hands, and his aura surged like a tempest, leaving no doubt of his intent to punish Rhys for his perceived insolence.

[ [F] Human - Level 11 ]

"Young Master Tristan," Chris said, his voice dripping with barely contained rage, "I apologize for this trash's actions. This Rhys clearly lacks any understanding of proper etiquette." Gloom settled over Chris's face, mirroring the dark mood that had descended upon the hall. The Ellsworths, known for their pride and impeccable manners, had never suffered such a public humiliation.

The others now buzzed with excitement. This unexpected turn of events had transformed the engagement ceremony into a thrilling spectacle. Whispers filled the air, fueled by curiosity and schadenfreude.

"Father, please allow me to deal with this Rhys, and offer Young Master Tristan our apologies!" Chris declared, his voice ringing with determination. He didn't wait for a response. With a surge of power, he launched himself at Rhys, his hands ablaze with magical runes.

A deafening explosion rocked the hall as the runes converged, transforming into a blinding flash of lightning that snaked through the air like a furious dragon.

Spectral rays of light danced around the combatants, creating a dazzling display that captivated the onlookers.

However, the more discerning elders, including the City Lord, remained impassive. To them, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Rhys's defeat was inevitable.

"Good! Let's fight it out then!" Rhys roared, his voice filled with an almost reckless enthusiasm.

 

[Villainry]

"This Rhys really doesn't understand the immensity of the Heavens! Isn't he just overestimating himself and looking for death?"

"Chris is near Level 10, while this Rhys is merely a commoner, and that's without taking into account the Ellsworth Secret Skill…"

"The outcome is already set in stone…"

But Rhys showed no fear, no hesitation. Instead, he met Chris's attack head-on, his own palm erupting in a fiery inferno.

Then, the clash. Flames surged, thunder crackled, and the searing heat collided with the blinding lightning, culminating in a resounding boom that reverberated through the hall.

The dust settled, revealing a scene that shocked everyone. Chris stood frozen, his body trembling from the impact. Rhys, on the other hand, remained unmoved, a confident smirk playing on his lips. He looked like a young god of fire, his aura blazing with newfound power.

"What?!"

"No way…"

"That's impossible!"

"He's just a commoner!"

"Rhys...he awakened his System Interface!!" A wave of realization washed over the crowd.

"But how—"

Rhys's strength exceeded their expectations — it shocked a lot of the observers.

In that palm exchange, it could be seen that the two had rivaled each other without much difference.

"Rhys's level is only at Level 1, yet he's able to block the Chris blow, who's 10 levels above him?"

All the spectators were stunned by the outcome. Tristan, however, remained impassive, his gaze sweeping over the astonished faces around him.

He noted the surprise, the disbelief, the dawning realization that Rhys was not the insignificant nobody they had assumed him to be.

Except for him, Regina, and the City Lord Jack Ellsworth, everyone appeared genuinely shocked when Rhys's hands erupted in flames.

Tristan's eyebrows shot up, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the City Lord's face, who had only started to show signs of distress when he saw his son on equal footing with Rhys. A slow, dangerous smile curled his lip. So, the City Lord was aware of Rhys's... awakening.

Regina, on the other hand, remained remarkably calm.

His eyes, now glinting with suspicion, flickered between the City Lord and Regina. Was this a play for power? A calculated move to undermine me, to expose my ignorance? He casually tapped a finger against his armrest, a rhythmic beat that mirrored the quickening of his pulse. Or was this Regina's game all along? A subtle maneuver to manipulate the situation to her advantage?

Tristan returned her smile, a playful glint in his eyes. "The Young Lady's paramour is quite the character," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement.

"Paramour?" Regina echoed, her eyebrows arching delicately. "Young Master Tristan, I believe you misunderstand. Rhys is merely a childhood friend. Though I didn't consider he could be this powerful."

Tristan chuckled, not bothered by her response. Denying any romantic involvement with Rhys while simultaneously praising his abilities...was she trying to provoke him? Or was she simply playing her cards close to her chest?

He was not surprised by Rhys's ability to generate his fame; it was his expected result. Proving others wrong and slapping their faces was the norm for his kind, after all.

He took another sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on the ongoing battle. Without a hurried tone, he spoke to Regina Ellsworth. "You seem to have quite the trust in this Rhys's ability? Did you want your fiance to fight with your lover?"

Regina Ellsworth turned her head at Tristan's words, her carefully maintained composure faltering for the briefest moment. A tremor ran through her, betraying her inner turmoil. Though she remained silent, her subtle movements spoke volumes.

Tristan, his deep gaze fixed on her, smiled knowingly. "The way you try to act calm... isn't it a facade to make me think you have nothing to do with this Rhys?" he asked, his voice a blend of amusement and accusation. "Are you afraid I will deal with him? How cunning you are, Lady Regina."

With a few well-aimed words, he had exposed her carefully crafted act. He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind, desperately trying to maintain the facade of indifference.

Regina remained silent, but her eyes betrayed her. They flickered with a mixture of apprehension and defiance, a silent challenge that tried to spark his interest even further.

But he had no desire to entangle with this lady Scion.

As the battle continued, Tristan knew that Rhys was keeping his focus on him as he tried to talk to his woman.

Tristan, meanwhile, glanced down at his empty wine cup. "It seems I'm in need of a refill," He remarked casually, his eyes meeting Regina's.

Regina turned to look at him and silently signaled to a nearby waiter with a flick of her wrist.

For Tristan, this whole situation was a tired cliché, a predictable past he had witnessed before. Only the person getting beaten up is the City Lord's son.

Now that he was in the middle of the situation, his memories cleared up about the situation.

He knew that Rhys's sudden outburst was likely triggered by the rumor that the City Lord had personally delivered his daughter to Tristan's mansion the previous night.

What Rhys didn't know, however, was that this entire spectacle was orchestrated by Amy Ellsworth behind the scenes.

And from the history of the Scion, Rhys, someone who had risen from a backwater place, crossed through hundreds of hurdles, was able to awaken his Interface, was the Protagonist with his own fortuitous encounter.

Regina Ellsworth, with her prodigious talent, stunning beauty, and the esteemed title of most beautiful Lady of Cinderbrook, was at her first hurdle toward her journey. She was intelligent and resourceful, and she knew that a direct confrontation between Rhys and Tristan would be disastrous.

Therefore, she had chosen a different tactic, feigning indifference to distance herself from Rhys and avoid incurring Tristan's wrath.

If she wasn't the heroine of this story, then who was?

Unfortunately for her, Tristan saw through her charade.

He already had his past memories to help him handle the situation. What's more, now that Tristan knew he was the hurdle these Scions needed to overcome, he had no intention of entangling himself with them any longer.

"I underestimated you!" Chris spat out, his voice cold. His posture, however, betrayed his desire to continue the fight. After all, failing to defeat Rhys in front of this audience, especially his father watching, would be a significant blow to his pride.

But before Chris could make another move, Tristan appeared beside them, a casual wave of his hand halting the young Ellsworth's advance.

"How dull," Tristan remarked, his voice laced with boredom.

Rhys froze, his face contorted in a mixture of shock and indignation.

"However," Tristan continued, his gaze settling on Rhys, "since this matter is related to me, I won't trouble Young Master Chris any further."

Tristan observed Chris's reaction with a hint of amusement. The young Ellsworth was clearly conflicted, torn between his desire for revenge and his awareness of Tristan's superior power.

Tristan added while his gaze landed upon Rhys's face.

"Your fearlessness…is it out of ignorance or a false sense of fairness?" he asked Rhys, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.

In the next moment, a majestic force descended upon the hall, as if the heavens themselves had opened. A terrifying pressure swept through the room, the air quivering and crackling with energy. Tristan felt the presence of his Blood Warrior behind him, amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.

[ [E] Human - Level 10 ]

Everyone in the hall felt a primal terror rising within them, a fear profound that even some of the older people lost their balance.

"Is this the Young Master's bodyguard?" Jack Ellsworth whispered, his face grim.

Bang! Rhys, the main target of this overwhelming force, paled dramatically. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, his hands barely able to keep his head from hitting the floor. He was utterly crushed.

With a Herculean effort, Rhys lifted his head, his eyes meeting Tristan's.

Posturing, are we? I can do that too! Tristan thought, a sneer curling his lips. He had seen through Rhys's little scheme. If the fight with Chris had continued, Rhys would have undoubtedly emerged victorious, delivering a resounding slap to the faces of everyone present.

Then, he would have challenged Tristan, likely proposing some kind of wager on a future battle. With the mysterious power of his ring, Rhys probably believed he had a guaranteed victory.

It was a clever plan, a classic underdog story. But Tristan was no longer the naive fool who would fall for such predictable tropes.

He was a time traveller, unburdened by the need to adhere to conventional narratives. He had no qualms about using his knowledge and power to crush those who dared to challenge him.

All the onlookers watched this in shock.

The ones who received the greatest jolt were none other than members of the City Lord who knew a thing or two about Tristan and Regina Ellsworth who realized the strength behind him.

Rhys, though visibly shaken by the oppressive force bearing down on him, managed to grit out, "What's wrong, Young Master Tristan? Afraid to fight me yourself? Hiding behind your slave's power? Is that the extent of your courage?"

The entire hall turned dead silent.