Alexander could scarcely believe his own memories. How could he? And yet, everything felt undeniably real, even if his mind refused to embrace the truth.
Now, he knew whose body this was.
This wasn't just anyone: Azarel Valcis was the son of one of the most influential noble families in the land.
But that wasn't the part that truly unsettled Alexander. No, what froze him to the core was recognizing this name—this world. It was the world of the novel he adored, The Song of the Dark Fate.
And that name… Azarel Valcis. A cold chill coursed through his spine as he recalled the character from the book.
Azarel was just a secondary figure, barely more than a decorative background piece in the story. He was an arrogant, aloof noble, proud of his lineage but so quickly discarded that he felt like an afterthought. Alexander vividly remembered the moment the protagonist sacrificed him without a shred of remorse in the early chapters of the first volume.
Azarel had been an obstacle in the hero's path—a mere pawn eliminated without hesitation. Alexander had always thought of him as a forgettable character, destined to vanish within the opening chapters. But today, in this world, he was Azarel.
The predicament Azarel faced in the novel was nothing short of hopeless. Living under the shadow of his older brother—a nobleman who was more talented, more beloved, and far more powerful—Azarel was deemed a useless titleholder, barely deserving of his family name. His bitterness, laced with envy, often manifested in cruelty toward those he deemed inferior.
In the original story, his arrogance led to his downfall. A desperate desire to prove his worth pushed him into the arms of the wrong people. Ultimately, it ended in betrayal and his ignoble demise, sacrificed without ceremony by the main protagonist in the pursuit of a greater goal.
A wave of panic surged through Alexander. He knew Azarel's fate. If the story followed its original course, he was doomed. This body, this new life, would be snuffed out as quickly as it had been thrust upon him.
Azarel struggled to steady his breathing.
If he wanted any chance of surviving in this world, he had to change the narrative. He needed to grasp the rules of this new game and, above all, stay as far away as possible from the protagonist. That dark hero, charismatic and powerful as he might be, was ruthless. And if there was one thing Alexander knew for certain, it was this: he did not want to end up as a sacrificial pawn.
But how does one escape a fate so cruel?
Alexander—no, Azarel—sat up slowly, casting a wary glance toward the woman seated across from him.
Her too.
She was from the novel. Her name eluded him for the moment, but he remembered her role: an enigmatic, manipulative figure who worked for the shady group the original Azarel had foolishly allied with.
In the book, Azarel had made countless mistakes that sealed his tragic end. If Alexander wanted to survive, he had to think and act differently.
With a resolve he didn't know he possessed, he straightened in his chair, his mind racing. This wasn't just a dream. This was a second chance. An opportunity to rewrite the story.
To rewrite his story.
"Feeling unwell, little pup?" the woman asked with a faintly mocking smile.
Azarel—or rather, Alexander in Azarel's body—abruptly stood, the sound of clattering silverware echoing off the table. His heart thundered in his chest.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice shaky but controlled. "I'm not feeling well."
The woman across from him regarded him with piercing eyes, her head tilting slightly, an expression of faint amusement dancing on her lips.
"Take your time," she said smoothly. "We all have our moments of weakness."
Her words carried an odd resonance, but Alexander didn't dwell on them. He quickly exited the room, desperate to find some calm.
Once in the hallway, away from the woman's intimidating presence, he leaned heavily against the wall, inhaling deeply. His head spun. Everything felt so surreal, so suffocating.
"I have to think... fast."
The novel. He knew the story, the events that would unfold. He knew Azarel's character didn't have much time before his downfall. If he wanted to change his fate, he had to veer off the path laid out by the book. He couldn't repeat Azarel's mistakes.
If his memory served him right, the story of The Song of the Dark Fate began during a period of intense political turmoil, and House Valcis, while influential, was already in decline. Azarel's elder brother, Levos Valcis, was destined to inherit everything—titles, lands, and strategic alliances that would ensure the family's survival.
But Azarel, in his desperate bid to prove himself, made a series of catastrophic decisions. Those choices led to his social exile and, ultimately, his tragic death at the protagonist's hands.
Alexander had to avoid that fate at all costs.
He recalled a crucial detail from the plot. In the upcoming chapters, the hero would arrive in the city to solidify his political power. Simultaneously, a mysterious faction known as The Shadows would begin weaving their schemes in secret, manipulating nobles and political forces to serve their dark agenda.
This was the same faction the original Azarel had joined, foolishly believing it to be a shortcut to glory and power.
"If I remember correctly," Alexander muttered as he strolled through the empty corridor, "Cainz arrives in three months. That gives me some time to prepare."
By this point in the novel, Azarel had already started catching the attention of The Shadows.
"Okay, rule number one: avoid the protagonist at all costs."
But that wouldn't be enough. He needed to buy time, find a way to forge his own path in this world. The thought of being just a background character didn't sit well with him. If this world followed the logic of a novel, perhaps he could subvert those very rules.
As he wandered the opulent halls of the manor, his mind raced with plans. His first obstacle would be his own family. In the book, the Valcis family had always regarded Azarel with contempt, constantly comparing him to his older brother. That toxic dynamic had driven him straight into the arms of the wrong people.
"Not this time," he muttered under his breath.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind him. Alexander turned to see the butler who had greeted him earlier walking toward him with a calm demeanor.
"Young master, is everything alright? You left dinner so abruptly…"
Alexander did his best to smile, though his mind was still in overdrive. He couldn't afford to appear weak.
"Yes, I'm fine. I think I just... need some rest."
The butler, whose kindness seemed genuine, nodded.
"Very well, young master. If you need anything, I'm at your service."
As Alexander watched him retreat, a thought struck him. The butler seemed trustworthy. While he hadn't appeared in the novel, the fact that he remained by the side of an incompetent young noble suggested a degree of loyalty. Still, nothing could be taken for granted.
Alexander returned to his room, locking the door behind him.
Standing before the grand mirror, he stared at his reflection once again.
He stood there for a long time, studying the face that wasn't his own. This foreign body, these aristocratic features, the perfectly groomed dark hair—it should have terrified him. But something inside him snapped.
At first, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. Then a fuller laugh burst forth—uncontrolled, wild, and echoing through the luxurious chamber. He doubled over, shoulders shaking with the sheer absurdity of it all.
It was ridiculous, wasn't it? Completely absurd. But it was also intoxicatingly exhilarating.
"So this is it, huh?"
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, catching his breath as his smile stretched wider and wider. Straightening himself, his gaze locked once more on the reflection of Azarel Valcis in the mirror. A despised noble. A secondary character, doomed to a meaningless death.
And so what? Did it really matter?
After all, isn't this exactly what I've always wanted?
He remembered the long days of his past life—sitting at a desk, staring at a screen, devouring fantasy novels and dreaming of being part of those worlds where anything was possible. But never had he imagined being in the shoes of a secondary character, destined to die. It was dangerous, despairing, but… exhilarating. Something stirred inside him.
He was no longer Alexander, the mundane office worker with a dull, repetitive life. This world, this bizarre twist of fate, was like a dream come true, albeit a warped one. Here, anything could happen. Here, he was free from the monotony of a world where one day bled into the next.
Here, he faced the unknown—dangers he could scarcely imagine. And that danger? Wasn't it exactly what he had always sought? That thrill. That rush of adrenaline. A life where every moment mattered and every choice could alter his destiny.
Alexander's smile twisted into something darker, almost unhinged.
Fear? Oh, it was still there, buried deep within, the faint remnants of the man he used to be. But a far stronger emotion surged to the surface—an irresistible desire to have fun.
No, he wasn't the hero, that was true. But who said he had to be? Who said the protagonist had to remain at the center of the story? Why should he follow the preordained path of a secondary character? No. That wasn't good enough for him.
"I don't need to be the hero," he murmured, his voice low and rough, his sinister grin fixed on his face. "But who says I can't be something even greater? The hero is just a pawn, a tool for the storytellers to keep everything on track. But me? I'm outside the story now. I'm no longer Alexander, and I'm no longer Azarel. I'm the one who will rewrite the rules."
Azarel Valcis. A contemptible figure destined for sacrifice? Maybe in the original version. But now, this world was his. And he planned to revel in it. He didn't care about the rules. He didn't care about destiny.
He was free.
"I'm going to have fun. Oh yes, I'll have fun…" A spark of madness flickered in his eyes. "Whatever this world throws at me, I'll always come out on top. They have no idea what's coming for them."
The old Alexander, with his ordinary dreams and stifled hopes, was gone.
He was Azarel Valcis—the new Azarel Valcis.
Taking a few steps back from the mirror, his twisted grin remained unwavering. Everything had become clear to him now. He wouldn't just survive. He would shine. He would crush anyone who dared stand in his way, hero or not. Fate? The script? He no longer believed in such things.
Another laugh spilled from his lips—wild and carefree.
This world, these rules, this destiny thrust upon him… He didn't care.
He would play by his own rules.