REBORN AS THE VILLAIN’S SON WHO WAS MEANT TO DIE

Aren woke up convinced he was late for something. That was the first thought that occured to him. Not panic. Not fear. Just the irritating certainty that he had overslept and would regret it soon. Then he tried getting up. Pain answered. Not sharp pain. Not the type that made you scream. It was much worse. It was heavy. Deep. The type that settles into muscle and bone and makes even breathing feel like work. Aren opened his eyes. Stone. That was the first thing he noticed. A ceiling of gray stone stretched above him, too high and too clean and absolutely unfamiliar. Thin silver lines ran across it, cracked in places, like old wounds no one bothered to repair. He blinked. Once. Twice. The ceiling didn’t change. “This isn’t right,” he muttered. His voice sounded odd. Younger. Thinner. Like it hadn’t finished forming yet. That got his attention. Aren pushed himself up and immediately regretted it. His body swayed. His stomach turned. He grabbed the side of the bed before he could fall back on it. The bed itself felt strange too. Too firm. Too wide. Not the sagging mattress he remembered. The fabric beneath his fingers was thick, expensive, and cold. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t his. Small fingers. Pale knuckles. Skin stretched thin enough that faint blue veins showed beneath it. There were bruises there too, half-healed, like someone who trained too hard or slept too little. Aren stared. Then he laughed once, quietly. That was the wrong reaction, he knew. People were supposed to scream at moments like this. Or panic. Or faint. Instead, his brain simply refused to catch up. He slid his legs off the bed. The floor was stone. The cold shot straight up through his feet and into his spine, sharp enough to finally make the situation real. A mirror stood against the far wall. He avoided it at first. That was instinct. Some small part of him already knew what he would see and didn’t want confirmation. Eventually, he walked over anyway. A boy stared back at him. Twelve years old, maybe. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Too thin. Too quiet-looking. His face wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t healthy either. There were shadows beneath his eyes that didn’t belong on a child. Aren raised a hand. The boy did the same. “No,” Aren said. The word came out flat. Not denial. Just fact. Memories surfaced slowly, not crashing in like people described in novels, but leaking through the cracks. Another life. A smaller room. A glowing phone screen at night. Reading long web novels until sleep came accidentally instead of by choice. One story in particular refused to stay buried. A fantasy epic. Noble houses. Bloodlines. Fate. Heroes chosen by prophecy and villains shaped by tragedy. He remembered being irritated by the opening chapters. Because the world was cruel for no reason. Because the author killed a kid before the plot even started. Aren’s chest tightened. He looked at the reflection again. The name came to him without effort. Aren Viremont. His stomach dropped. “No. No, that’s not funny.” House Viremont. One of the empire’s most feared noble families. Ruled by Duke Kael Viremont. The future Black Duke. The villain. Aren Viremont had been the duke’s youngest son. Weak. Unawakened. Disposable. In the novel, he didn’t even make it to chapter fifteen. He died during the academy entrance trial. A monster stampede. Too slow. Too fragile. Crushed at the edge of the crowd while the real characters fought for glory. The story had moved on immediately afterward. Aren sat down hard on the bed. “So I’m not even important enough to be tragic,” he whispered. The silence didn’t argue. A knock came at the door. Aren flinched so hard his shoulders jerked. “Young Master Aren,” a man’s voice said politely. “It is time.” Time for what? The answer rose before he finished thinking. Assessment. Monthly bloodline evaluation. The ritual failure he remembered reading about. “Yes,” Aren replied, after a second too long. The door opened. A middle-aged servant stepped inside. His clothes were neat. His posture respectful. His eyes never quite reached Aren’s face. That stung more than expected. They walked through corridors lined with banners and armor. Everything smelled faintly of metal and polish. Wealth. History. Pressure. The hall was already occupied. Lucien Viremont stood tall near the front, posture rigid and perfect. The heir. Marcel leaned against a pillar, smiling pleasantly, eyes sharp. The second son. Theo sat quietly with a book, glancing up when Aren entered. The third brother. The only one who didn’t look annoyed by Aren’s existence. At the front stood Duke Kael Viremont. He was exactly how Aren remembered him from the novel. Tall. Severe. A presence that seemed to drain warmth from the room. Kael’s gaze passed over Aren without pause. Not anger. Not disappointment. Nothing. A crystal orb was brought forward. Lucien went first. The orb glowed red. “Bloodline awakened. Eighty percent purity.” Marcel followed. Seventy-two. Theo placed his hand on the crystal. “Fifty-nine percent.” Polite approval murmured. Then it was Aren’s turn. He already knew what would happen. He still hoped, stupidly, that it wouldn’t. The crystal remained dark. The silence stretched. “No response,” the examiner said eventually. “Mana capacity extremely low.” Someone whispered behind him. “Still nothing.” The Duke spoke once. “Dismissed.” That was all. No lecture. No disappointment. Not even anger. Just confirmation. Aren turned to leave, and for a moment the room blurred. He blinked. The sensation passed. Probably dizziness, he told himself. Outside, servants moved through the hallways, indifferent. Guards chatted quietly near the gates. Life continued with impressive cruelty. That night, Aren lay awake staring at the ceiling. Three years. That was how long he had until the academy entrance trial. Three years until the scene he remembered so clearly. He pressed his palms into the mattress. “I don’t want to die like that,” he said quietly. The words felt small. Not heroic. Just honest. Somewhere beyond the Viremont estate, the world continued turning exactly as it always had. But for the first time, the boy who was supposed to disappear before the story began had opened his eyes and refused to accept the ending written for him.