The heavy oak doors groaned open at the faintest touch.
Hayato—no, Roy—stood for a moment on the threshold, the golden light from the bedroom spilling around his small, trembling frame.Beyond the doorway stretched a corridor lined with blood-red carpets and walls of dark polished wood. Portraits of grim men and frost-eyed women hung like silent judges, their frames almost lost in the gloomy shadows.
A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold.
He stepped out.
His bare feet sank slightly into the thick rug as he moved, the faint rustle of silk pajamas brushing against his skin. The mansion seemed to breathe around him—quiet but oppressive, as if the very walls were leaning in to listen.
Down the hallway, a pair of servants passed.
Both wore simple, dark uniforms—maids and footmen, he supposed—but it wasn't their attire that caught his attention.
It was the way their faces changed the instant they spotted him.
The younger maid, no older than sixteen, stiffened as if struck. She lowered her gaze so sharply it looked painful, hands clenching the tray she carried. The older man gave a stiff bow—too sharp, too mechanical—and practically dragged the girl away by the elbow.
Hayato watched them go, something cold coiling in his gut.
Fear.
They were afraid of him.
Or perhaps...they hated him.
He wandered deeper into the manor.
Everywhere, the theme repeated itself: grandeur stained by neglect.
The chandeliers were heavy with dust. Tapestries hung crooked on their hooks. A faint mildew smell clung to the back corridors, masked poorly by expensive perfumes.
Servants scurried in and out of hidden doors, careful never to meet his eyes.
Once, crossing a grand staircase that split like a river into two curving arms, he caught sight of a trio of noble children—siblings, perhaps—being led somewhere by a prim governess. They turned, noticed him.
The eldest boy sneered before quickly masking it behind a courtly smile.
The little girl tugged on the governess's sleeve and whispered something, giggling.
The governess, tight-lipped, ushered them away with the brisk efficiency of someone shooing a stray dog.
Hayato's hands curled into fists at his sides before he caught himself.
This wasn't personal.
Not yet.
They were reacting to what Hayato Elyster meant.
Not who he was.
Turning a corner, he found himself in a quieter wing.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the ticking of some unseen grandfather clock, each heavy tick and tock echoing down the hall.
A heavy oak door stood slightly ajar ahead.
Curious, Hayato pushed it open.
Inside: a small, neglected study. Dust motes danced lazily in shafts of sunlight filtering through cracked shutters. The walls were crammed with ancient books, their spines cracked and faded.
He moved instinctively toward the shelves, fingers brushing over leather and cloth bindings. Titles leapt out: Genealogies of the Noble Houses, The Bloodlines of Power, The Fall of House Verren.
One thin volume, tucked away in a corner, caught his eye.
Kaiten Academy: A Chronicle of Heroes.
He slid it free, coughing as a cloud of dust exploded in the air.
Sitting cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, he flipped it open.
The pages were dense with names, dates, victories. Lineages traced like rivers through history.
Near the back, almost forgotten, a brief entry:
Hayato Elyster — Minor noble scion. Early Academy dropout. Known for excessive arrogance, poor control of magic, and involvement in the scandal of Lady Vernalys. Deceased at age 19.
The words blurred in his vision.
Scandal.
Dropout.
Dead.
Roy pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the burning behind them to stop.
He couldn't afford to fall apart.
Not here. Not now.
The book slipped from his hands and landed with a dull thud.
From somewhere deeper in the mansion, a distant bell chimed—the call for breakfast, no doubt.
His stomach twisted—not from hunger, but dread.
Hayato Elyster's life was already written.
A footnote in someone else's legend.
If he wanted to live...
He would have to tear that script apart.
The stone garden behind the Elyster estate was a monument to forgotten pride.
Bare branches clawed at the overcast sky.
The air smelled of damp earth and brittle leaves.
At the center of the cracked flagstone path, a circle of statues stood sentinel—ancient heroes, or perhaps pretenders, cast in marble and frozen mid-victory. Moss crept up their boots and speckled their armor. Their faces, once proud, were worn featureless by years of rain and neglect.
Hayato sat on the rim of an empty fountain at the garden's heart, head bowed, hands dangling between his knees.
His bare toes curled instinctively against the cold stone. His silk pajama pants soaked up the chill like a sponge, but he didn't move.
There was nowhere else he wanted to be.
Memories surged through him—sharp, vivid, unwelcome.
Kaiten Academy: The Swordsman Who Rises Through the Skies.
He hadn't even liked the novel all that much.
A trashy light-fantasy romp he'd skimmed years ago during a long commute.
A typical "genius swordsman defies the odds" story, filled with magic duels, noble rivalries, impossible love stories.
And villains.
Predictable, disposable villains.
He remembered Hayato Elyster's role with painful clarity now.
A proud noble brat.
Someone who bullied the protagonist for being a lowborn commoner.
A stepping-stone for the protagonist's first major victory.
Humiliated publicly after losing a duel.
Spiraling into obscurity and disgrace.
Then killed off in some meaningless side conflict a few chapters later—barely a footnote in the grand narrative.
No redemption.
No sympathy.
Just a convenient corpse to make someone else shine brighter.
Hayato leaned back, staring up at the cloud-choked sky.
"I'm not even a villain worth hating," he whispered to the statues, voice raw.
"Just...forgettable."
The statues said nothing.
The cold wind answered instead, stirring the dead leaves around his feet into nervous spirals.
He dragged his hands over his face, trying to smother the rising panic.
It wasn't fair.
He hadn't chosen this body. He hadn't chosen this fate.
But it didn't matter.
The world—the story—already expected him to fail.
Every servant's averted gaze, every child's sneer, every cold portrait staring down from the mansion walls—they weren't reacting to him.
They were reacting to the name.
Hayato Elyster.
Dead man walking.
A distant crack of thunder rolled across the sky, low and heavy.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles burned white.
If the world had written a script for him, fine.
He would tear it apart, page by page.
He would become something they couldn't predict.Something they couldn't laugh at—or discard.
Hayato stood, legs steady despite the cold biting at them.
The statues loomed above, shadows stretching like claws across the dying garden.
He met their eyeless stares unflinchingly.
"Watch me," he whispered, voice like steel sharpening itself. "Watch me, and remember."
The statues' lifeless gazes still lingered behind Hayato's eyes as he pushed open the heavy door to his bedroom.
Evening had fallen.The golden light that once bathed the chamber had faded into a sickly, muted blue. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, thick and sluggish, as if reluctant to move.
He shut the door quietly behind him, resting his forehead against the cold wood for a moment longer than necessary.
The weight of it all—the memories, the realization, the crushing inevitability—pressed down on his small shoulders like an invisible boulder.
Hayato staggered to the massive bed and collapsed onto the silk sheets, not bothering to pull back the covers.
The silence in the room was complete, the kind that wasn't natural but oppressive—loud with the absence of life.
Somewhere beyond the shuttered windows, a wolf howled, distant and mournful.
Hayato squeezed his eyes shut.
What the hell was he supposed to do?How could a child—alone, powerless, marked by a villain's name—change a fate written by another's hand?
Was there even a point?
The question twisted inside him, sharp and poisonous.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the high, coffered ceiling, tracing the elaborate patterns carved into the dark wood overhead. His thoughts drifted, heavy and chaotic.
Maybe... maybe he was already doomed.
Maybe fighting it would just make the inevitable hurt more.
Maybe—
DING.
The sound sliced through the thick silence like a blade.
Hayato bolted upright, heart slamming into his ribs.
Before his wide, disbelieving eyes, the air shimmered—and something appeared.
A rectangular blue window floated in front of him, translucent and glowing faintly. Lines of text in clean, elegant script unfurled across it:
Status Window: Activated
Name: Hayato Elyster
Race: Human
Bloodline: Demon of Gluttony (Dormant)
Rank: F
Profession: None
Titles: [None]
Mana: 10/10
Magic Power: 5
Strength: 4
Agility: 6
Stamina: 5
Talents:
• Combat Genius of All Types (Superior Rank)
• Sword Genius (High Rank)
• Eyes of Wealth (High Rank)
• Pure-Blooded Noble (Superior Rank)
• Perfect Mind and Brain (Very Superior Rank)
• Magic Genius (High Rank)
• Mastery of All Elements (Very Superior Rank)
• Gifted (High Rank)
• Princely Temperament (Superior Rank)
• Charisma (High Rank)
His mouth went dry.
He blinked, half-expecting the vision to vanish like a fever dream.
But it stayed, steady and patient.
Hayato hesitated only a heartbeat longer before slowly—almost reverently—lifting a hand toward the screen.
The moment his fingertips brushed the glowing surface, the text shifted, opening new tabs: Skills, Inventory, Quests—though many were empty or locked.
But one section burned into his mind harder than anything else.
Bloodline: Demon of Gluttony – Dormant.
His heart skipped a beat.
"Demon...of Gluttony," he whispered aloud, tasting the words on his tongue.
A bloodline.
A curse.
A weapon.
A shiver raked down his spine, not entirely from fear.
This wasn't the same script.
This wasn't something the original Hayato had.
The system—the bloodline—
They were his.
His chance.
Hayato's fingers tightened into fists.
Whatever this "Demon of Gluttony" was, whatever terrible path it might lead him down—it was better than waiting quietly for the story to end without him.
No more background character.
No more second-rate villain.
He would tear apart this world if he had to.
The blue screen pulsed once, as if in silent agreement.