When I opened my eyes, I was drowning in silk.
Not water. Not blood. Silk.
Soft, perfumed sheets clung to my body like vines, and the sunlight bleeding through the gold-draped curtains painted everything a little too dreamlike to be real. The ceiling was carved with ivy patterns, faintly glowing in a way that couldn't possibly exist back home. And the air—fresh and sharp like mountain wind—burned my lungs as I inhaled too quickly.
I tried sitting up, but my body didn't obey. Everything felt… smaller.
My hands were slim and pale, bones delicate, fingers twitching like I wasn't used to them. I pulled the covers aside and looked at my arms. No scars. No callouses. No burns from fireballs, no marks from shattered glass or broken ribs.
None of the badges I earned through pain.
I wasn't in my body anymore.
It didn't even take me ten seconds to confirm that. I stood, stumbled to a gilded mirror by the window, and stared at the boy staring back.
Dirty blonde hair, soft but unkempt, like the wind had combed through it. Golden eyes, like liquid sunlight, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe twelve or thirteen years old, no more. Elegant jawline, skin smooth as porcelain. I looked like some noble's pampered son.
Which made no sense.
Because the last thing I remembered was dying.
Not just dying, but burning.
The fire had scorched through the skyscraper faster than I could react. The girl was pinned beneath a concrete beam, crying for help. I'd heard her, jumped in, torn through the wreckage even though my power was running low. One more verse. One more line. Just one more poem to bend the world around my will.
But my voice had faltered. The words, once so full of strength, had left me.
And I died.
Trying to be a hero, as usual.
So why the hell was I here?
Before I could make sense of it, the door opened.
A woman entered.
No. A force of nature entered.
She wore a flowing black gown that shimmered as she walked, her heels silent on the marble floor. Her long crimson hair flowed behind her like a fire, and her expression was carved from pride and menace. Her presence filled the entire room. Not just because of her beauty, but because everything about her screamed: dangerous.
The villainess.
I didn't need anyone to tell me. I knew it instantly. I recognized the aura. She was the type of woman who stood above corpses and kingdoms alike. The kind the world feared, not because she was heartless, but because she dared to love herself more than anything.
Her eyes fell on me, sharp and unreadable.
"You're awake," she said, her voice silkier than the sheets I'd woken up in. "That's good."
I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to figure out if I was a prisoner or a guest.
She crossed the room, stopped in front of me, then knelt.
"I am Lady Ravianne Everdusk," she said. "And you, my dear nephew, are safe."
Nephew?
Hold on.
Nephew?
She cupped my face, almost reverently. "You look just like her," she whispered.
Her? I tried to ask, but no words came out. My throat was dry, too dry. I coughed once, nodded.
"I will explain everything," she promised. "In time."
Then she rose, snapped her fingers, and servants appeared as if from thin air.
Hot tea, warm bread, healing tonics. All for me.
I sat in stunned silence as they attended me, like I was someone worth serving. They called me "Young Master." They bowed like I was royalty. None of it made sense.
And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, something clicked.
A game.
This world… it wasn't foreign.
I'd played it.
Not once, but five times. Every expansion, every sequel. The world of Chronicles of Aetherlight. A high fantasy world ruled by nobles, mages, fallen gods, and ancient beasts.
I remembered the factions. The lore. The betrayal arcs. The war that split the continent. The villainess whose ending always ended in her destruction.
Lady Ravianne Everdusk.
She was a major character. And in every single route, she died.
No one could save her.
Except maybe, me.
But that wasn't even the craziest part.
Because in all my playthroughs, Ravianne never had a nephew.
Which meant… I was never supposed to exist in this world.
I wasn't just reincarnated.
I was injected into the story.
A variable.
An anomaly.
My mind raced through possibilities. Was this a glitch in fate? A second chance? A trap?
I didn't know.
But I did know this: my old power was gone. The poetry-based ability I once wielded with pride—chanting verses to turn the tide of battle, whispering stanzas to bend flame and wind—that gift no longer answered me.
I tried summoning it earlier.
Not even a flicker.
My gift, once known across Earth as Lexicon Resonance, was gone. I was no longer Hero #7.
I was just a child, in a stranger's body, trapped in a familiar world with no script to follow.
But I wasn't afraid.
I didn't need powers to survive.
Not anymore.
Because this time, I wasn't going to be the hero.
I was going to be the anomaly the world never saw coming.
And whether this story was written for me or not, I was going to carve my name into it.
Even if I had to break it.