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I didn't like Swords of Destiny.
It wasn't that the book was poorly written. In fact, most people would probably call it a masterpiece—sweeping battles, epic quests, a charismatic protagonist destined to save the world from darkness. But that was precisely the problem. It was too predictable. Too clean. Too… easy.
No one likes an invincible hero. Cale Draymore, the protagonist, was handed everything on a silver platter: a magic sword, godlike powers, loyal companions, and enough charm to melt the heart of even the coldest noblewoman. The author didn't bother with things like tension or stakes—Cale's victory was inevitable from the first page.
I rolled my eyes every time another obstacle magically resolved itself because of some ancient prophecy or forgotten bloodline. By the end, I was skimming chapters just to finish it and get it over with.
I should have been more careful.
If I had known finishing that damned book would be the last thing I'd ever do, I might have tossed it out the window and watched something on Netflix instead. But no. I had to prove to myself that I could slog through it. And the universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to reward my suffering by reincarnating me into the very story I hated.
The kicker? I didn't even get to be Cale. Or one of his heroic companions. Or even one of the quirky side characters who survive long enough to crack a joke or two before fading into the background.
No, I got to be Liam Arden. An arrogant, cowardly noble who shows up in Chapter Four to antagonize Cale and dies shortly afterward in a bandit ambush. A glorified footnote. A speed bump on Cale's road to greatness.
In other words: I was screwed.
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The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the ceiling. Ornate, high, and decorated with gold filigree, it screamed wealth and excess. I'd never seen anything like it in my old life, where my apartment ceiling was water-stained and occasionally home to a spider or two.
The second thing I noticed was the pain. A splitting headache hammered behind my eyes, like I'd spent the night drinking an entire distillery. Groaning, I sat up—and froze.
This wasn't my room. The bed I was lying in was massive, draped in silk and velvet, and the furniture around me was carved from wood so expensive it probably had its own security detail. Even the air smelled different—crisp, clean, and faintly perfumed.
"What the hell…"
My voice came out wrong. Higher, smoother, with an accent that felt completely foreign. I stumbled out of bed and nearly tripped over a rug that looked more expensive than my entire college tuition. Catching myself on the edge of a nearby mirror, I finally saw him.
Or, rather, me.
The boy in the mirror was young—no older than sixteen—with tousled blond hair, sharp features, and a haughty expression that seemed permanently etched into his face. His clothes were fine, tailored perfectly to his lean frame, and his blue eyes glinted with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
And then it hit me.
The name. The face. The ceiling.
I was Liam Arden.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
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In Swords of Destiny, Liam Arden was the kind of character everyone hated. Spoiled, entitled, and cowardly, he was the son of a corrupt noble family that spent more time scheming than governing. When Cale first arrives in the capital, Liam tries to humiliate him during a banquet, only to get thoroughly put in his place.
It would have been funny if it ended there. But no. A few chapters later, Liam, desperate to prove himself, leads a hunting party into the nearby woods and gets ambushed by bandits. He dies, and no one mourns him. His death is meant to show the contrast between Cale's heroism and Liam's incompetence.
Which meant I was on a very tight schedule.
I scrambled to the desk in the corner of the room and began rifling through the drawers, my mind racing. Paper, ink, a dagger that was more decorative than practical—nothing useful. My hands were trembling, and I had to force myself to take a deep breath.
"Okay. Think. You're not Liam. You're you. You've read this story before. You know what's coming."
The hunting trip was only a few days away, if I remembered correctly. That meant I had time. Not much, but enough to do something. I couldn't fight, and I definitely couldn't rely on anyone else to save me. The Arden family might have wealth and power, but their enemies outnumbered their allies, and they wouldn't lift a finger to help a useless son like Liam.
That left one option: I had to rewrite the story. My story.
But first, I needed information.
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I spent the next few hours exploring the estate, keeping my head down and my mouth shut. The servants avoided me, bowing and scurrying away like I was some kind of monster. It was unsettling, but not entirely unexpected—Liam Arden wasn't exactly known for his kindness.
The estate was enormous, a sprawling mansion surrounded by lush gardens and high walls. Guards patrolled the perimeter, armed with swords and spears, and the occasional glimpse of magic crackled in the air. It was a stark reminder that this world wasn't just medieval—it was dangerous.
And I was woefully unprepared for it.
By the time I returned to my room, I had a rough idea of the situation. The hunting trip was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and it was already set in motion. Trying to cancel it would only raise suspicions, and skipping it wasn't an option. The bandit ambush wasn't just a random encounter—it was orchestrated by one of the Arden family's rivals, and avoiding it would only delay the inevitable.
Which meant I needed a plan.
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That night, as I stared up at the gilded ceiling, I thought about all the ways this could go wrong. The bandits, the protagonist, the nobles who would see my death as a convenient way to weaken the Arden family.
But as I pieced the fragments of the story together in my mind, a single thread began to emerge. A way to survive, even if it wasn't guaranteed.
"I don't have to win," I muttered to myself. "I just have to not lose."
For Liam Arden, that was already an improvement.
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