Pain. Blinding, all-consuming pain.
Adrian Cross gasped, his chest seizing as though fire licked at his ribs. He couldn't see, couldn't move—only feel the rush of air and the jarring impact as his body slammed into something unyielding. His mind scrambled to make sense of the chaos, but it was like grasping at smoke. Then, just as quickly as the pain began, it was gone, replaced by a terrifying, hollow stillness.
Was this it? He remembered the screech of tires, the cacophony of horns, and the deafening crunch of metal as the truck veered into his lane. There was no way anyone could have survived that.
'Am I… dead?'
The thought echoed in the void, but before Adrian could dwell on it, a piercing light flooded his vision. He shut his eyes against it, only to feel the distinct sensation of warmth on his face.
Then came the voices.
"Lord Vincent! Wake up!"
The sound was frantic, urgent, and far too close. Adrian's eyes shot open.
Above him loomed the face of a man—middle-aged, with neatly combed silver hair and a face etched with concern. The man was dressed in opulent, dark robes trimmed with silver embroidery. Behind him, gilded walls and high, arched windows framed a luxurious room bathed in morning light.
This was not a hospital.
Adrian blinked, confusion mounting. "What…?" His voice came out hoarse, foreign, and higher-pitched than he expected.
The man exhaled in relief. "Thank the gods. You gave us quite the scare."
Adrian tried to sit up, but the heaviness in his limbs made it a struggle. "Where… am I?"
The man frowned. "You're in the Astor estate, my lord. In your chambers." He hesitated. "You collapsed during last night's banquet—Her Grace was quite displeased."
Astor. The word sent a jolt through Adrian. His heart pounded as fragmented memories—not his own—began to cascade into his mind: towering spires shrouded in shadow, a woman with fiery crimson eyes and an aura that chilled to the bone, and a name whispered with reverence and fear.
Vincent Astor.
It hit him like a sledgehammer. This wasn't his body. This wasn't his life. He wasn't Adrian Cross anymore. Somehow, impossibly, he had become Vincent Astor—the villain's son from Crimson Oath, the fantasy RPG he had co-developed.
His breathing quickened. Panic surged, but he forced himself to think. The game. He knew this world intimately—every corner of its lore, every twist in its plot. And Vincent…
Vincent was doomed.
Born the heir to the Astor family, infamous for their dark magic and ruthless ambition, Vincent was destined to follow his mother, Lady Seraphina—the "Witch of Evernight"—into infamy. His life was a tragic downward spiral, culminating in betrayal and death at the hands of the game's hero.
"No, no, no," Adrian muttered, clenching his fists. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
"Lord Vincent, are you unwell?" The man's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
Adrian—or rather, Vincent—looked up, schooling his features into what he hoped was an expression of calm. "I'm fine," he said, his new voice steadying. "Just… tired."
The man nodded, though his concern lingered. "Understandable, my lord. The Academy begins its term tomorrow. You've been under great pressure to meet Her Grace's expectations."
The Academy. Another jolt of recognition. The Grand Arcanum Academy, where nobles, mages, and aspiring heroes trained. It was the game's central hub for political intrigue, alliances, and rivalries—and the stage for Vincent's fall from grace.
If Adrian was going to rewrite Vincent's story, it would start there.
But first, he needed to gather his bearings. "Leave me," he said, adopting the authoritative tone he imagined a noble would use.
The man—Vincent's steward, Adrian guessed—hesitated before bowing deeply. "As you wish, my lord."
As soon as the door clicked shut, Adrian swung his legs over the side of the bed, nearly falling as the unfamiliar weight of his body tipped him forward. He caught himself on a nearby table, glancing down at his reflection in a polished silver mirror.
A sharp, elegant face stared back at him, framed by tousled black hair and piercing violet eyes. It was a face that exuded arrogance and danger—one he'd seen countless times on screen as Vincent Astor.
"Great," he muttered. "I look like I'm plotting someone's murder even when I'm just standing here."
His mind raced. The Academy was an opportunity—a chance to stay ahead of the plot's events and avoid the choices that led to Vincent's downfall. But it was also a minefield. The hero would be there, along with their companions, each of them future obstacles to Vincent's survival.
Adrian took a deep breath. He couldn't waste time panicking. If he wanted to live, he needed a plan.
-Step one: Survive the Academy without drawing too much attention.
-Step two: Keep his distance from the hero and their group.
-Step three: Find a way to defy Lady Seraphina's plans without becoming her next victim.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
'Alright, Vincent,' Adrian thought to his reflection, determination hardening in his eyes. 'Let's rewrite this story.'
As he straightened, the faint hum of magic prickled at the edge of his awareness—a reminder of the immense power this world held, and the dangerous path ahead.
His second chance at life had begun, and failure was not an option.
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Amaraz here, please give me suggestions on how to improve the story or make the character appear more life like, i can't really do inner monologue well. love yall readers xxxx.