Chapter 2: I’m royaly, completely, utterly, undeniably fu*ked.
A young man lay on his back on a bed so expensive it probably cost more than his entire staff’s annual salaries. The mattress felt like clouds woven from silk and regret.
Everything in the room screamed luxury, but it was the cold kind, the kind that reminded you that you were only here because of whose blood you shared. The kind that whispered: You don’t belong here, but here you are anyway.
Caelus Vespera stared at the ornamented ceiling. His blue eyes had no shine left in them. He’d used it all up in the past few years.
The ceiling was beautiful, honestly. Hand-painted constellations. Gold leaf. The kind of craftsmanship that took artisans months to complete.
The Vesperas didn’t do anything halfway. When they built something, they built it to last. When they ruined someone, they ruined them completely.
He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
And in such a revered family, he awakened the most pathetic affinity.
Water.
The word echoed in his mind like a curse.
What the hell was he supposed to do with water? Hydrate his enemies?
He’d spent years trying to be worthy of the Vespera name, training until his hands bled, donating everything he had to the Church, begging for scraps of affection from people who would never give them.
And for what?
So a random commoner could awaken a Sacred Light Affinity and steal everything he’d worked for.
Sacred.
The word made him want to laugh. Or scream. He wasn’t sure which.
Sacred affinities were more effective against the corrupted, the monsters that had started spilling out of fissures in reality, the abominations that made the world a living nightmare.
Towers had risen. Labyrinths had appeared. Humanity was fighting for survival, and the Church had decided that the guy with the shiny new Sacred Affinity was more valuable than the bastard son of a Duke who could only summon water.
No, no. That’s not how it works.
He grimaced, rolling onto his side. The silk sheets rustled beneath him.
That’s exactly how it works. You’re not useful anymore. So they threw you away.
The thought should have hurt more than it did. But he’d been hurting for so long now that the pain had become background noise. A constant hum beneath everything else.
The Church...
They’d supported his advances toward the Saintess at first. Encouraged them, even. She was the symbol of everything pure and good, and he was the son of one of the most powerful families in existence. It made sense. It was strategic.
Then his Affinity manifested.
And suddenly the Church became reluctant.
"We appreciate your previous donations," they’d said. "But the Saintess has become busy recently."
Busy.
What a polite way to say we don’t want you anymore.
His father had been worse. The Duke of Vespera was a man who measured everything in terms of value. When Caelus was valuable, he existed. When he wasn’t...
His father had walked past him in the hallway once. No stop. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just... nothing. As if Caelus was air. As if he’d never existed at all.
That hurt more than any insult could have.
His siblings were the same. His brothers looked through him. His sisters pretended he didn’t exist. He’d gone from being a member of the family to being a ghost in his own home.
And his mother...
No. Don’t think about her. That way lies madness.
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. Marble, probably. The Vesperas didn’t do carpets.
He stood, walking toward the mirror across the room. Each step was surreal. He’d been doing this for years now, walking, moving, existing, but somehow it still felt wrong. Like he was wearing someone else’s skin.
The mirror reflected a stranger.
Black hair fell across a sharp jawline, catching the moonlight streaming through the window. Piercing blue eyes stared back at him with an intensity that didn’t match the hollow feeling in his chest. Elegant noble features, the kind that artists would paint and poets would write about.
Handsome, they said.
Wasted, they had whispered.
He touched the glass. The reflection copied him.
Who are you?
The question echoed in his mind. He knew the answer, of course. He was Caelus Vespera. Third son of the Great Vespera Duchy. Bastard son, if anyone was being honest.
But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it?
There was something else. Something lurking beneath the surface of his memories. A shadow that didn’t belong.
He blinked.
The reflection didn’t.
Wait.
He blinked again.
The reflection still stared at him.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He stumbled backward, his back hitting the bedpost. The impact sent a solid jolt of pain through his spine.
What the hell was that?
He shook his head. Just his imagination. Just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. He’d been through too much today. The ball, the slap, the challenge—
The challenge.
The memory hit him like a physical blow.
Tomorrow.
He was going to die tomorrow.
The Hero, Lucian Ashborne, the commoner with the Sacred Light Affinity, the man who’d stolen everything Caelus had ever wanted, had challenged him to a formal duel. Publicly. Before a thousand witnesses.
And Caelus had accepted.
Of course you accepted. You’re a moron.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. The pressure was grounding. Real. He focused on it.
Let’s walk through this. Slowly.
He’d gone to the ball out of spite. Mandatory for all candidates attending the Primordial Academy. Nobles and talented commoners alike. The Saintess would be there, of course. She was always there. Smiling. Perfect.
He’d approached her. Asked for compensation. For the public humiliation. For the years of devotion she’d thrown back in his face. For everything.
And she’d leaned in, her voice soft and cruel, and said:
"You really thought someone like you belonged beside me?"
Then she’d added the final blow:
"Your mother would have been so ashamed."
He’d slapped her.
In front of a thousand people.
What the fu*k is wrong with you?
His hands were shaking. He lowered them, staring at his reflection.
The Saintess had been right about one thing: his mother would have been ashamed. Not of the slap, she would have understood that. But of everything else. The desperation. The neediness. The way he’d thrown himself at people who would never love him back.
I’m a mess.
He laughed. It came out wrong. Bitter and broken.
No, I’m worse than a mess. I’m a punching bag. I’m the guy who exists so the Hero can look good while beating him down.
And then—
The memories flooded back.
---
A girl with brown hair. A smile that never wavered.
"Brother! Let’s read the new Chapter together!"
The wheelchair. His hands gripping the armrests. The cool afternoon breeze against his face.
Children laughing in the distance.
The red light. People gathering at the crossing.
His sisters hands on the wheelchair. Trembling.
"Why are you crying?"
The words barely left his mouth before she...
Before she...
A truck. Headlights. Pain.
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
Sara.
His little sister.
The one person who’d stayed. Through everything. She’d visited every day. She’d studied beside him. She’d complained about teachers and told him about her day and sat in silence when he couldn’t speak.
She’d stayed.
And then she’d pushed him into traffic.
The betrayal hit him like a searing physical blow that’s impossible to ignore. His chest tightened. His hands gripped the vanity so hard his knuckles went white.
Why?
The question screamed in his mind.
Why would you do that? After everything—
But even as he thought it, he couldn’t get the answer.
Why?
Maybe she hated me.
No.
Maybe someone threatened her.
He closed his eyes.
Despite the pain, he couldn’t stop speculating.
She’d done it to free herself probably. To finally, finally walk away from the burden he’d become.
He hoped it was like that.
"I’m sorry," she’d whispered.
He knew she deserved better always.
And he hoped she’d live happily after.
Another memory flashed.
A blank document. Fingers tapping on a keyboard.
"Extra to Villain."
Chapter 47.
Caelus Vespera dies tomorrow.
---
The memories crashed over him like a wave. He stumbled, catching himself on the vanity. His reflection stared back at him—pale, wide-eyed, horrified.
No.
No, no, no, no, no—
This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be real. He was Caelus. He’d always been Caelus. He’d been born into this world, raised in this world, suffered in this world—
But you remember that other life. The hospital. The accident. The—
The novel.
He pressed his palms to his temples. His fingers were shaking.
"I wrote this," he whispered. "I wrote this."
You wrote this.
"Extra to Villain."
"Chapter 47. The duel. The Hero."
"Caelus Vespera dies tomorrow."
You wrote it.
He looked at his reflection again. The beautiful face. The broken eyes.
"I’m the author of my own destruction."
A laugh escaped him, hysterical and unhinged.
"After surviving one truck... I transmigrated, only to die tomorrow?"
He was pacing now, his bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor. His mind was a hurricane of thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last.
You’re Caelus. But you’re also Lark. You’re both. You’re neither.
Who the hell are you?
He stopped in front of the window. The moon hung low in the sky, painting the world silver. Below him, the city stretched out like a sleeping beast, unaware of the chaos erupting inside his mind.
"I died," he whispered. "I died by a truck. And then I... woke up. Here. As him. As the guy I wrote."
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
"Why? Why would anyone do this? Why would I do this?"
The glass was cool against his skin. Real. Solid. Proof that this wasn’t a dream.
You don’t get to ask why. You just have to deal with it.
He pulled back, staring at his reflection in the window. Caelus stared back. Beautiful. Broken. Doomed.
"I know exactly what happens tomorrow," he said, his voice flat. "The arena. The crowd. The Saintess watching with that perfect smile. Lucian’s sword through my chest."
"I wrote it."
"I wrote every detail."
I wrote him dying. Pathetic. Alone. Forgotten.
He laughed again. It was a terrible sound.
"This is payback," he muttered.
For every cliché I ever used. For every character I killed without thinking. This is the universe shoving: ’Here’s your masterpiece. Now live in it.’
He was being dramatic. He knew that. But honestly? He’d earned the right to be dramatic. Most people didn’t wake up to discover they were fictional. Most people didn’t have to confront the fact that they’d written their own death scene.
So what are you going to do about it?
The question cut through the noise.
Are you just going to lie down and die?
He closed his eyes.
In his old life, he’d been pathetic. He’d given up when things got hard. He’d let the world beat him down until there was nothing left but bitterness and regret.
But that wasn’t who he was anymore.
That wasn’t Lark.
Lark had spent years paralyzed in a hospital bed. Years with nothing but his thoughts and his sister’s smile. Years learning to live again, even when it seemed impossible.
And he’d written this world. He’d created these characters. He’d decided their fates.
So maybe...
Maybe you can decide differently.
He opened his eyes.
"Okay," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Okay."
You need a plan.
"What’s the plan?"
Lucian is stronger than you. He has a Sacred Affinity. You have... water.
"Great. Fantastic. I’m doomed."
But you wrote this story. You know how it works. You know his weaknesses. You know the loopholes.
You know where the plot can break.
A knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
"My lord."
A servant’s voice, muffled through the door.
"The Hero has requested the duel be moved to tomorrow morning. The arena has already been prepared."
Caelus closed his eyes.
"Tomorrow morning," he repeated. "Not even a full day."
Twenty-four hours.
Less than twenty-four hours to find a way to survive.
"Understood," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Thank you for informing me."
The servant’s footsteps faded.
He stood alone in the moonlight, staring at his reflection. Caelus Vespera. The cannon fodder. The tragic villain. The man who was supposed to die tomorrow.
Not this time.
"I’ve already died once," he muttered. "I’m not going to do it again."
Not as him.
Not as Caelus.
Not like this.
He turned away from the window. His bare feet were cold against the marble floor. His hands were still shaking. His heart was still pounding.
But he was standing.
And tomorrow—
Tomorrow, he would either be dead or he’d have changed everything.
Either way, he wasn’t just going to accept it.
"I’m fuked," he admitted. "Royally, completely, utterly, undeniably fuked."
"...Not this time."
The words felt like a promise.
And promises, he knew, were dangerous things.
But he’d already broken his life once. What was one more broken promise?