"If I were Lucien Vale, I would have killed the Crown Prince three volumes ago."
I tossed the tablet onto the messy pile of instant ramen cups and notebooks on my desk. The screen flickered, showing the latest update of The Empire's Fall. In the comment section, readers were cheering for the protagonist to finally execute the "vile snake" Lucien.
But to me, Lucien wasn't a snake. He was an idiot with a gold-plated life and a brain made of sawdust.
"Arrogance is a tool, not a personality trait," I muttered, rubbing my stinging eyes.
I'm a writer. Or I was supposed to be. Ten years of writing "intellectual" thrillers had earned me a total of forty-two followers and a bank account that screamed in agony every time I bought a coffee. I spent more time reviewing popular trash like this webnovel than I did writing my own masterpieces.
"If I had that power, that wealth, that lineage..." I leaned back, the cheap plastic of my chair groaning. "I wouldn't die in a public square while the heroine spits on my corpse. I'd own the square. I'd own the heroine. I'd own the damn crown."
My vision blurred. The dim light of the monitor seemed to stretch, bleeding into the darkness of my cramped apartment. I reached for my cold coffee, but my hand felt heavy—impossibly heavy.
The last thing I saw was the illustration of Lucien Vale's execution. He looked beautiful even as the axe fell.
What a waste, I thought.
Then, the world went silent.
"Lord Lucien?"
The voice was soft, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
I didn't open my eyes. My first thought was: The neighbors are finally complaining about the noise. My second thought was: Why is my bed vibrating?
No, it wasn't vibrating. It was just... soft. Like sinking into a cloud made of silk and goose feathers. I hadn't felt anything this comfortable in my entire life.
"Lord Lucien, please. The sun is high. Your father requested your presence for the morning briefing."
I forced my eyes open.
I wasn't in my apartment. I wasn't looking at a stained ceiling and a flickering lightbulb.
I was staring at a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. The walls were draped in deep emerald velvet, and the furniture looked like it belonged in a museum.
"Where am I?" I tried to say, but it came out as a low, silk-smooth rasp.
"My Lord?" A young man in a crisp black-and-white uniform was kneeling by the bed. He looked like he was one loud noise away from a heart attack. "Are you unwell? Should I call for the High Priest?"
I sat up, the heavy silk sheets sliding off my chest. I looked at my hands. They were long, pale, and lacked the calluses from years of typing. On my right pinky sat a signet ring featuring a coiled viper around a sapphire.
My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs.
I knew that ring. I'd seen it in the official character art.
I lunged out of bed, ignoring the startled gasp of the servant. I found a full-length mirror framed in gold.
The man staring back wasn't a starving writer in his thirties.
He was young. Late teens, maybe early twenties. He had hair the color of midnight and eyes like shards of ice—sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly cold. It was a face built for looking down on people.
It was Lucien Vale.
No. This is a dream. A very detailed, very expensive dream.
I pinched my arm. It stung. I slapped my face. The sting turned into a sharp heat.
"My Lord! What are you doing?" The servant rushed forward, then stopped three feet away, paralyzed by fear.
"Get out," I said.
"But, the Marquis—"
"I said get out!"
The servant bolted. The door slammed shut with a heavy, expensive thud.
I gripped the edge of the marble vanity. Memories that weren't mine began to claw at my brain. The smell of expensive wine. The feeling of a whip in my hand. The sound of a girl crying while Lucien laughed.
The memories were disgusting. Lucien was a monster, a petty bully who used his status to crush anyone who didn't bow low enough.
"I'm going to die," I whispered to the empty room. "The hero enters the academy in three months. The execution happens in a year."
I looked at the mirror again.
"I have to leave. I'll take the gold, change my name, and hide in the Southern Kingdoms."
[System Initialized.]
A blue, semi-transparent window flickered into existence right in front of my face. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over a fur rug.
[Host Identity Confirmed: Lucien Vale.]
[Sin System Activated.]
"A system?" I blinked. "Are you kidding me? This is actually happening?"
[Current Status:]
[Sin Energy: 0]
[Reputation: Scum of the Empire]
[Fate: Death by Decapitation (Scheduled)]
"I know the fate! Can we skip to the part where you give me a cheat and save my life?" I hissed, looking around to make sure no one was watching me talk to thin air.
[The Sin System allows the Host to survive by harnessing the negative emotions of others.]
[Generate Sins: Pride, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Wrath, Sloth.]
[Sin Energy can be used to purchase skills, luck modifiers, and physical enhancements.]
A flicker of hope ignited in my chest. If I had a system, I could fight back. I didn't have to be a victim of the 'plot.'
"So I just have to be a good person and earn points?" I asked.
[Warning: The Host is the Villain.]
[Excessive virtuous behavior will trigger 'Holy Retribution' punishment.]
[Mission: Maintain the Villain's Persona. If the world ceases to fear you, you will cease to exist.]
The hope died.
"So I have to be a prick to stay alive? If I'm a prick, the hero kills me. If I'm nice, the system kills me?"
[Incorrect. You must be a successful villain. A dead villain is a failure.]
A knock at the door interrupted my internal crisis.
"Lord Lucien," a different voice called out. This one was firmer, older. "The young lady from the Hawthorne family has arrived. She is in the drawing room. She is... crying again."
I stiffened. I remembered this.
Clara Hawthorne. Her father owed the Vale family a massive debt. In the novel, Lucien called her here to tell her he'd forgive the debt if she became his "footstool." He made her bark like a dog in front of the servants. It was the first major 'evil' act that turned the Hero against Lucien.
[New Mission Available.]
[Objective: Provoke a Sinful Response from Clara Hawthorne.]
[Recommended Sin: Pride (Crush her spirit).]
[Reward: 50 Sin Energy.]
I looked at the screen, then at my reflection.
If I did what the book said, I was a dead man. If I didn't, the system would "punish" me.
But there was a third way.
A writer knows how to twist a scene. A villain doesn't have to be a loud-mouthed bully. A real villain is a puppet master.
"Lord Lucien?" the voice outside prompted.
I straightened my silk robe and smoothed my hair. The ice-cold eyes in the mirror didn't look so terrifying anymore once I added a small, calculated smirk.
"Tell Lady Clara I will be there shortly," I called out. "And have the kitchen prepare the most expensive tea we have. Only the best for a Hawthorne."
The silence outside the door was palpable. The servant was likely wondering if I'd finally lost my mind.
[Sin Energy +5 (Confusion/Anxiety detected).]
I chuckled. It was a low, dangerous sound.
"50 points for Pride?" I whispered to the screen. "Watch me."
I walked toward the door, my steps heavy and confident. I wasn't the writer anymore. I wasn't the loser in the cramped apartment.
I was Lucien Vale. And I was going to rewrite this story until the Hero was the one begging for his life.
"Let the game begin."