Rise of the Silver Sword Emperor.
A series I never bothered to read.
Patience for novels wasn't my thing.
But it was for my sister.
She was the type who thrived on anime, webnovels, and endless layers of fictional worlds.
She'd ramble about her latest obsession—her voice a constant hum in the background while I sat on the couch, or cooked food in the kitchen.
I listened just enough to nod at the right times.
For me, the written word was just... paper and ink.
I preferred reality tv, mysteries, thrillers and documentaries about serial killers, lost cities or history's monsters.
Herstories? They never interested me.
Including the one I was in.
Rise of the Silver Sword Emperor.
She was obsessed with it for months. It consumed her.
She'd talk about the "insane worldbuilding," the "literally unstoppable" protagonist (her words, not mine), and how she cried real tears when she found out the series spanned twelve books.
Twelve books. Twelve arcs of betrayal, despair, genocide, world-ending beasts, psychotic royals, and endless wars.
And she thought that was worth celebrating.
Me? I thought her obsession was... disturbing.
Saving the world? Sounds like a full-time job with no retirement, no peace, and only death waiting at the end.
And now?
Now, I'm trapped inside it.
As the villain.
Three days ago, I killed my younger brother.
Or something wearing his face.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. Those emotions vanished as quickly as they came, like a switch clicking inside of me when I lay in the ruins of a shattered floor.
The old man—he found me in the wreckage.
He lifted me out like a broken trophy, carried me through winding tunnels, and offered me to a hall full of monsters.
They cheered.
I stood there, hollow, as they crowned me Count of Trojeor.
Young Heir of the Octovus Clan.
Cassius Marcius Trejeor.
A blood sucking monster.
Three days later, the old man was gone.
In his place, a young man—my new butler—tended to the estate in silence.
I didn't speak to him. I didn't need to.
I heard and sensed everything through the walls with my sharpened senses.
Official letters were sent out: the former Count had "retired" to the Isles of Yor, taking his remaining family with him. A lie. The truth was simpler. There was no family. No retreat to far-off shores. Only ash.
And me.
I stood in my new study, staring at the massive portrait above the cold hearth.
Five faces.
Two parents. Three siblings.
Their eyes—wrong. Their skin—too tight across their bones, as if even the painter knew something unnatural about them.
Mannequins dressed in human skin.
I searched for sorrow.
For guilt.
For panic.
For something - anything I had before.
But there was nothing left.
Just the heavy silence of a heart that no longer beat.
A soft knock broke the silence behind me.
"Enter."
A shuffle of footsteps and the scrape of wheels on wood. I turned to see a servant, oddly familiar. Her face reminded me of my high school classmate - just an ordinary girl with a knack for math and gossip.
"Count Trejor," she whispered, bowing low. "I have brought your evening meal."
She swiftly set the table by my study's window, then bowed again after completing her task.
"You may retire," I said, waving my hand lazily, mimicking the mannerisms of rich young masters from the dramas my sister used to watch.
I glanced at the plates of fresh meat, oddly arranged on the table.
Strange choice for a meal, but I felt no revulsion. In fact, my body craved it.
I ignored the food and turned back to the eerie painting. No emotions stirred inside me, yet something in the image gnawed at me.
I faintly remembered something my sister had once said: 'Vampires, in Indrim, give up the emotions that keep them human. Love, happiness, fear, sadness—they're entirely removed. What remains are the emotions that align with the seven sins. That's why vampires can't fall in love. Sigh, what I would do to Kro-'
I wiped the memory from my mind.
Despite not feeling those emotions, I did feel something brewing.
Wrath.
Whoever, or whatever brought me here, well, I would find them.
And I would kill them.
( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( )
I dragged my pen across a piece of fine paper.
I even put the date - an old habit, I guess.
I had begun planning my next steps.
As all protagonists do, though I made sure not to write in this world's language. Only in English.
I had skimmed a few local books already. From the large shelves in my study.
Most looked like medieval novels, scrawled in a script that reminded me of doctors' handwriting or childish scribbles.
I could read and write it easily, I discovered while reading some letters I found on my desk when I was searching the draws for paper.
I eventually found some paper.
I wrote what I knew:
12 books…
Me - the number one villain of the first book.
I tapped my chin with the end of my pen, thinking about other things.
Wasn't there a war between humans and monsters? I vaguely remembered my sister mentioning constant wars — endless bloodshed over petty grudges.
The protagonists past? Well I guess I would count. Huh. Count. His family's massacre as well. Besides that… I couldn't remember.
And the other villains... who were they?
I couldn't remember.
Only faint scraps of conversation came back.
Cassius, apparently, had been on equal footing with a couple of them.
Problem was...
I couldn't remember their names.
Or where they were.
I pondered about the protagonist. My sisters words came back to me. The first encounter between Cassius and the protagonist.
'Cassius first met Tyrean at an auction, purchasing him as a slave for his battle arena. He collects slaves for entertainment. He's the first boss Tyrean has to overcome to grow stronger.'
My eyelid twitched at the word.
Slavery.
In my world, it was a crime punishable by death.
Our Federation's soldiers would blast you into atoms if you even whispered about owning another human.
Our leader, Katrina, had believed in freedom above all else.
Even without most of my emotions, I wouldn't discard the morals and values I'd built in my old life.
If anything, they would be my compass — the one thing that kept me from becoming a true villain.
So I included that in my goal list, getridofslavery.
I then moved on to scenarios of my other goal.
Gohome.
Destroy the protagonist early? Would that send me back?
Risky.
Protagonists had a way of surviving. Plot armour? My face scrunched, was that what my sister called it. And I couldn't be certain their existence tied me to this place.
Also, Tyrean had survived against my character, a prettypowerfulboss apparently. It was only by sheer luck he had slain Cassius.
Luck. Something a protagonist had.
It would trip me up if I went against him. I didn't know if I had any luck in this body.
Did vampire have luck?
Anyways, it was better to back the main protagonist.
Better to use him.
My minions - the loyalty of the Octovus Clan - they were mine. The protagonist… he could be mine as well. I couldn't turn the kid into a vampire, but maybe... I could raise him.
Make him stronger.
Shape him into a shield.
Could I be his mysterious old mentor figure?
His grandpa in a ring?
Right.
The other villains surely held treasures - powerful artifacts, lost knowledge.
When Tyrean defeated them, I could reap the benefits.
Something clicked in my mind.
Divine artifacts.
Gods.
I would need something of considerable power to find my way home.
Despite the strength pumping through this new body, one truth burned inside me:
I did not want to remain a villain.
Nor something so hollow, so broken.
I desired my old self.
My family.
My world.
I wanted to go home.