Knock knock knock.
The sound jarred me from my thoughts. I was still standing by the mirror, that predatory smile on my face, when reality reasserted itself.
Right. I wasn't alone in this world. And whoever was behind that door could provide crucial information about my new identity.
I needed to play this carefully. Act natural. Pretend to be whoever this body's original owner was until I could gather enough information to navigate safely.
I crossed the room and opened the door, schooling my expression into something neutral.
An elderly man stood in the hallway, dressed in an immaculate black suit that screamed "professional butler." He had to be in his sixties or seventies, with silver hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and sharp eyes that held decades of experience.
"Young Master Julius," he said with a slight bow, "the Lord of the house requests your presence in his office."
Julius.
The name hit me like a second truck.
No. No no no. Please be a different Julius. Please be literally any other Julius.
But I already knew the truth. The pieces were falling into place with horrifying clarity.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Aristocratic household. A butler addressing me as "Young Master."
I wasn't just in my novel's world.
I was Julius Vaelorian.
The minor villain. Arthur Blackwood's lackey. The disposable antagonist who dies in the most brutal way possible at the protagonist's hands.
"Young Master Julius?"
The butler's voice snapped me back to reality. He was giving me an odd look, probably because I'd been standing there frozen in horror.
"My bad," I said quickly, forcing my voice to sound casual. "Please lead the way."
The butler's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his weathered face. Had I said something wrong? Did Julius normally not speak politely to servants?
Great. I was already out of character.
He turned and began walking, and I followed, my mind racing to recall everything I'd written about Julius Vaelorian.
The hallways we traversed were as opulent as my bedroom. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Paintings of stern-looking ancestors glaring from the walls. Suits of decorative armor standing at attention. Chandeliers dripping with crystal.
This wasn't just wealth. This was old money. Generational power.
House Vaelorian. The name carried weight in my novel's world, even if that weight had diminished over centuries. Once, they'd been dragon riders—nobility who commanded the skies, who ruled vast territories in the western regions of Elysia. They'd been equals to the royal Belmont family itself.
Then the Demon King's army invaded. Most dragons were slaughtered. Without their primary source of power, House Vaelorian collapsed. Over generations, their holdings shrank from kingdoms to duchies to counties. By the time my novel's main story began, they were a shadow of their former glory—still wealthy, still noble, but nowhere near as influential as they'd once been.
And Julius? He was the disappointing youngest son. Arrogant, weak, desperate to prove himself worthy of the family name. The perfect target for manipulation by Arthur Blackwood, the story's first major antagonist.
The perfect disposable villain.
"We are here, Young Master."
The butler's words pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. We stood before an imposing set of double doors, dark wood reinforced with iron bands.
"Thank you," I said, and again that flicker of surprise crossed the butler's face.
He opened the doors, gesturing for me to enter.
The office beyond was exactly what I'd expect from a declining noble house desperately clinging to former glory. More paintings of ancestors. A massive desk carved from a single piece of dark wood. Bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes. And hanging from the ceiling—
I froze, staring upward.
A dragon skull.
Massive, ancient, bleached white with age. The empty eye sockets seemed to stare down at me with eternal judgment. The teeth alone were longer than my forearm. This wasn't decoration. This was a monument. A reminder of what House Vaelorian had lost.
"Julius."
The voice was cold, authoritative, and instantly triggered every trauma response from my previous life.
I tore my gaze from the skull to look at the man behind the desk.
Lord Vaelorian—my father in this world—was exactly as intimidating as I'd imagined when writing him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that commanded attention. Long black hair pulled back severely. Those same light blue eyes I now possessed, but colder. Harder. The eyes of someone who'd been raised to rule and was bitterly disappointed by how his life had turned out.
He didn't look cruel like my father from my previous life. But there was something equally dangerous in his gaze—a cold calculation, a willingness to sacrifice pieces on the board for the greater good of the family.
Including his own son.
"Yes, Father?" I managed, forcing myself to walk forward and sit in the chair across from his desk.
Every instinct screamed at me to run. The word "father" tasted like ash in my mouth. But I couldn't let him see weakness. Not now. Not ever.
Lord Vaelorian studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"In two weeks, you will be enrolling at the Lovina Royal Academy," he said finally. "You will conduct yourself with dignity. You will not disgrace the Vaelorian name. And you will not—" his eyes hardened, "—create another incident like the last time."
My stomach dropped.
The last time.
What had original-Julius done? I'd never written specifics about his life before the Academy in my novel. He was a minor character, barely worth more than a few lines of description.
But clearly, he had a history. One that disappointed this man greatly.
"I understand, Father," I said carefully. "I won't disappoint you."
The lie came easily. I had no loyalty to this house, to this name, or to this man. House Vaelorian's honor meant nothing to me. All that mattered was survival.
Lord Vaelorian's expression suggested he didn't believe me for a second. His gaze was heavy with skepticism and what might have been resignation. As if he'd already written off his youngest son as a lost cause.
He sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Go."
I stood, bowed slightly—more out of self-preservation than respect—and left the office.
The butler was waiting outside. He closed the doors behind me, and I immediately headed back toward my room, my mind churning.
Two weeks until Lovina Royal Academy.
The place where the main story of my novel truly began. Where Alex Clay would arrive as a commoner—a nobody—and begin his journey to becoming the Hero.
And where Julius Vaelorian would meet Arthur Blackwood.
Where he'd become a lackey to an arrogant young master.
Where he'd be ordered to "teach a lesson" to Alex Clay.
Where he'd murder Chiyo Sakuragi, Alex's first friend.
Where he'd be captured and skinned alive by the protagonist in revenge.
Two weeks until the beginning of the events that will lead to my scheduled death.
I reached my room and closed the door behind me, pressing my back against it. My heart was hammering. My hands were shaking.
I can't let that happen. I won't.
But how? How did I change a story I'd written? Could it even be changed? Or was fate in this world fixed, predetermined by the narrative I'd created?
No. No, I couldn't think like that. If I accepted that fate was fixed, I might as well let myself be skinned alive right now.
I had advantages. Knowledge. Wealth. Time—albeit not much.
I needed information. A plan. I needed to understand the exact timeline of events, the specific details I'd written.
I walked to the bed and pressed a small button on the nightstand. Less than a minute later, a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in."
The butler entered, bowing slightly. "How may I be of service, Young Master?"
"I need a journal," I said. "Blank pages, leather-bound if possible. And several pens. Bring them as quickly as you can."
The butler's eyebrows rose fractionally—again that surprise at my behavior—but he bowed. "As you command, Young Master."
He left, and I began pacing. My mind was already organizing information, sorting through memories of what I'd written.
The butler returned within five minutes, carrying a leather-bound journal and a handful of expensive-looking pens.
"Will this suffice, Young Master?"
"Perfect. Thank you. You're dismissed."
He bowed and left, and I immediately sat at the desk, opening the journal to the first page.
My hand hovered over the paper for a moment. Then I began writing.
Timeline of Major Events – The Hero is Born
I wrote for hours. Page after page, I transcribed every detail I could remember about my novel's plot. Not just the major events, but the minor ones. The side quests. The character introductions. The locations of hidden treasures and powerful artifacts. The weaknesses of future enemies. The secrets that wouldn't be revealed until much later in the story.
Everything that might give me an edge.
My hand cramped. My fingers ached. But I didn't stop. This was survival. This journal was my lifeline, my roadmap through the deadly narrative I'd created.
Month 1 at the Academy: Arthur Blackwood targets Alex Clay. Initial confrontations. Chiyo Sakuragi befriends Alex.
Month 2: Julius (me) is recruited by Arthur. Ordered to "handle" the commoner problem.
Month 3: Chiyo Sakuragi's murder. Alex Clay's vengeance. Julius's death.
I stared at that last line, my jaw clenching.
Three months. I had three months from the start of the Academy until my scheduled execution.
Unless I changed things.
I flipped to a new page and began writing alternative scenarios. Ways to avoid Arthur. Ways to stay away from Alex. Ways to survive.
Option 1: Avoid Arthur Blackwood entirely. Refuse his recruitment. Problem: He's persistent and vindictive. Refusing him might make me a target instead.
Option 2: Befriend Alex Clay before Arthur can target him. Problem: Why would the protagonist trust a noble? Especially one with my reputation?
Option 3: Warn Chiyo Sakuragi. Save her before Julius was supposed to kill her. Problem: How do I explain knowing she's in danger?
Option 4: Become strong enough that Arthur can't manipulate me. That no one can threaten me.
I paused at that last option, something stirring in my chest.
Power.
That's what I'd always fantasized about. Real power. Not just physical strength, but the kind of power that made you untouchable. That made others fear to move against you.
I knew this world's power system intimately. I'd created it.
Magic, martial arts, rare artifacts, ancient techniques. There were paths to power scattered throughout Elysia. I'd hidden them in my world-building—secret dungeons, forgotten libraries, legendary weapons.
And I knew where they all were.
I began writing again, this time listing locations and items.
The Grimoire of Forgotten Arts – Hidden in the Academy's restricted library section. Contains basic spells that can form the foundation for advanced magic.
The Ruins of Kaelis – Three days' journey south. Ancient training ground with a mana well that can accelerate cultivation.
The Merchant Tobias – Will arrive at the Academy in Month 2. Sells a ring that doubles mana capacity. Alex was supposed to buy it.
The list grew longer. Each entry represented a choice, a possibility, a chance to change my fate.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I set down the pen. My hand was bright red, cramping badly. But the journal was full. Dozens of pages of information, insights, contingencies.
My survival guide.
I stood, walked to the balcony door, and stepped outside. The night air was cool against my skin. Above, the moon hung huge and luminous, painting everything in silver light.
I stretched my hand toward it, as if I could grasp that distant power and pull it down to Earth.
"I now live in a world of my own creation," I whispered. "And for the first time, I wonder—am I an author? Or just another character?"
The moon offered no answers.
But deep down, I already knew the truth.
I was both.
And if this story was going to continue, I needed to rewrite my own ending.
Starting now.