'Third Point of view'
Blood pooled beneath Leon Drayven's knees, seeping through the scorched marble of the capital's grand plaza. The sky above him, once a proud scarlet dusk, now cracked with blinding arcs of holy light. Thunder rolled—not from clouds, but from the angry roars of the crowd.
He couldn't hear it anymore. His ears rang. His body trembled, held upright only by two paladins gripping his arms like he was already a corpse.
"Leon Drayven, Duke of Veylor, also known as the Crimson Demon," the High Priest intoned. "You are guilty of treason, war crimes, and conspiracy against the Holy Empire. Do you have any last words?"
Leon chuckled, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "Yeah... I regret not killing more of you."
Gasps echoed. But the real betrayal—the one that silenced the crowd—wasn't his words.
It was who stood in front of him.
The Saintess, Elise. His former fiancée. Her once gentle silver eyes were now hard, unforgiving.
And beside her, blade drawn and face set with false sorrow, stood the Hero—Rael.
Leon spat at their feet. "You could've killed me in battle, Rael. At least have the spine to finish it yourself."
Rael's lips curled upward. "You weren't worth it. You never were."
Elise raised her glowing staff. "For the salvation of this world, may the gods purge your darkness."
The spell seared into his flesh before it even struck. Leon screamed, not from pain—he welcomed pain—but from the knowledge that this was his end. His story was over.
The villain dies. The heroes win. The people cheer.
But in that final moment, as his soul slipped free, he felt a voice—cold, mechanical, and furious—echo inside him.
[SYSTEM ERROR. Host has died prematurely.]
[Activating Timeline Regression Protocol.]
[Rebooting... Countdown: 3... 2... 1...]
---
Leon jolted upright.
His lungs burned. His heart pounded. His hands—clean, unbloodied—clutched fine silk sheets.
He was... alive?
He blinked.
He was in his bed.
The obsidian drapes. The mirror carved with draconic runes. The portrait of his late mother hanging by the fireplace. This was Veylor Manor. His chambers.
But this place had been razed to the ground in the war... over five years ago.
"No," he whispered. "No, this isn't possible."
[Host recognized: Leon Drayven. Synchronizing memories... complete.]
That voice again. Inside his head. A system?
[Warning: You have deviated from your designated role. Return to canonical villainous behavior within 168 hours or face soul annihilation.]
Leon's blood ran cold.
"Designated role? What the hell are you?"
[I am the Narrative Equilibrium System. You are the antagonist of the Hero's journey. Deviations will be corrected by force.]
Leon staggered out of bed. He stared into the mirror.
Younger. Fresher. No battle scars. Not yet hardened by war. This was him, five years ago—just months before Elise's betrayal. Before Rael stole the kingdom's favor. Before the fall.
He wasn't dreaming. He'd been sent back. Reborn—no, reset.
"But I refuse," he growled. "I won't die again. I won't play your villain."
[Final warning. Comply with narrative role.]
Leon's eyes burned crimson, his old magic stirring deep inside his veins. He felt stronger, more focused. The weight of five years of pain and experience was now fused with his younger body.
He would not follow their script.
He'd rewrite it.
---
Three days later, the usual messengers arrived at Veylor Manor.
Just as before, the Empire demanded Leon appear at court to answer charges of tax defiance and "suspicion of black magic." An obvious ploy to force him into submission.
In the original timeline, he'd gone and been humiliated, setting the stage for his fall. This time?
He tore the summons in half and sent a reply:
"Come yourself, if you dare."
---
Later that week, Leon stood on a hill overlooking the northern borders of his duchy. The wind whipped at his black coat as his new general, Kael—one of the few loyal to him in both timelines—approached with a report.
"They sent an assassination squad instead of diplomats," Kael said grimly. "All wiped out before they could cross the river. No survivors."
Leon smiled, eyes sharp. "Good. Let them know I'm not the same man they betrayed."
Kael hesitated. "But what now, Your Grace? You're risking open war with the crown."
Leon turned to him. "Then let them bring war. I have five years of pain to return to them."
He turned to the east, where the capital gleamed like a crown of thorns on the horizon.
"Elise... Rael... you made me a villain."
He clenched his fist, flames dancing across his knuckles.
"This time, I'll show you what one really looks like."
---
Far across the empire, in the sanctified halls of the Church of the Eternal Flame, Elise jolted awake from her meditation, sweat trickling down her spine.
Something was wrong. The gods whispered of imbalance. Of returning darkness. A soul that should've died had defied its fate.
The prophecy was unraveling.
And at its heart—was Leon Drayven.
---
That evening, in the deepest chamber of Veylor Manor, Leon stood before a mirror. But this was no ordinary glass.
It was a soul-binder. A forbidden relic he hadn't dared to use before.
But now?
He traced the glyphs, and the mirror shimmered—revealing another face.
A young woman with crimson eyes.
The very girl the world believed he murdered in secret.
"Hello, sister," Leon said softly.
Her eyes widened. "Leon... you're alive?"
A shadow stirred behind her—an assassin.
Leon's blood froze.
"Sylra! Behind—!"
A blade plunged through her chest on the other side of the mirror. Blood splattered the glass.
Leon roared.
The mirror went black…