A Villain by Default

I stare at the door like it just insulted my mother. It hasn't moved, hasn't said a word, but I'm pretty sure it's mocking me. My maid's voice, sweet and oblivious, cuts through my brooding.

"Master Eclipse, wouldn't it be lovely to take some fresh air?"

Fresh air. Outside. Where people are. Yeah, no.

"Not a chance," I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. "I'd rather die."

Her eyes widen like I've just spoken in tongues. Which, in a way, I have. People here don't say things like "die" unless they mean it, and they definitely don't use words like "fuck." I've learned that one the hard way.

She blinks, recovers, and does what every good servant here does—pretends her master's eccentricities don't exist. With a quick bow, she's gone, leaving me alone in my misery.

And oh, there's plenty of that to go around.

I drag my hand down my face, wandering over to the mirror on the far wall. The guy staring back at me could've been plucked straight out of a royal portrait. Pale skin, neat eyebrows, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass—basically, he's got "privileged asshole" written all over him.

Too bad he's me.

Eclipse Warbringer. Minor noble. Minor villain. Major screw-up.

In my old life—you know, back when smartphones were a thing, and I wasn't wearing cravats for breakfast—this name would've sounded like something out of a bad fantasy novel. Which, funnily enough, isn't far from the truth. This world? It's the setting of my favorite game. Or, it was my favorite until I woke up here.

Turns out, being a side character in a story you've already played isn't as fun as it sounds. Especially when you're this side character.

See, Eclipse—the original, not the unfortunate soul who got isekai'd into his body—was a stepping-stone villain. A nobody. The kind of guy players crushed in ten minutes for some mid-tier loot. He only mattered because of how many times he pissed off the Hero.

Ten times, to be exact. Ten strikes before the Hero went full demigod on him and wiped him from existence.

When I woke up here? The first thing I learned was that I'm already eight strikes deep.

Two strikes left.

The memory of that realization—the sheer, cold dread of it—makes my stomach churn. I drop onto my bed, letting the absurdly fluffy mattress swallow me whole. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

My voice echoes in the cavernous room. No answer, of course. Not from the ornate walls, not from the ridiculous chandelier, and definitely not from the glowing blue screen hovering above me.

Ah yes, the screen. My one consolation—if you can call it that—is that this world's game mechanics came along for the ride. I flick my hand, and the stats menu pulls up like a hologram.

Name: Eclipse Warbringer Traits:

Warbringer Heir: Boosts other Warbringer family members' physical and magical attack by 15%. Dignity+: Communication with lower-status individuals reduced by 80%.

There's a long list of numbers and categories beneath it, but my brain zeroes in on that cursed second trait. "Reduced by 80%" might as well mean "You're screwed." Every time I try to talk to someone outside my noble bubble, it's a disaster. Like, "throwing a match into a fireworks factory" levels of bad.

The Hero Academy, where I'm currently enrolled, is full of "lower-status individuals." Kids from common families, people who actually earned their place instead of being handed it on a gilded platter. My trait makes me sound like an arrogant jerk no matter what I say, which is… accurate, I guess, but also unhelpful.

I've been hiding in my room for a week to avoid Strike Nine. But tomorrow? Tomorrow's the Academy's mandatory field test. Skipping it isn't an option.

Great.

I stare up at the ceiling, the screen's soft glow illuminating my growing sense of doom. "I always dreamed about being isekai'd into a game world," I mutter, "but not like this. Definitely not like this."

How the hell am I supposed to survive this?

No cheats. No secret powers. No in-game shop to buy my way out.

Just two strikes left and a whole lot of ways to screw up.