A Villain by Default

I sit at my desk in the Academy's main lecture hall, a room so over-the-top it makes me want to stage an intervention for whoever designed it.

Tapestries depicting grand battles between mythical heroes and demons drape the walls, their intricate embroidery practically shouting, "Look how important we are!" The floor, inlaid with golden runes, pulses softly to the rhythm of spoken words like it's got its own heartbeat. Floating mana crystals hover above each row of desks, their light dimming and brightening with the class's collective energy. No chance of sneaking a nap here unless you're cool with being literally spotlighted.

None of this grandeur helps me concentrate.

Professor Leora, the instructor, is a walking intimidation machine. Tall and lean, with purple hair streaked with white and fox-like eyes that always look like they know something you don't, he commands respect without ever raising his voice. The students practically worship him, hanging on his every word like he's some kind of magical prophet.

Not me, though. My mind's elsewhere—on Caelum, the Hero. Specifically, on what I don't know about him.

The game I'm stuck in—the one this world is based on—isn't exactly linear. It's one of those choice-based RPGs where player decisions send ripples through the storyline. And Caelum, the player character turned actual person, has already made choices I can't predict. That's a problem. A big one.

Two early decisions could give me some insight into his trajectory: his weapon choice and, more importantly, the infamous "Gonna Choice."

In the game, Caelum is forced to decide whether to save Gonna, a child attacked by demons, or sacrifice her to protect a larger group. It's the kind of moral dilemma that makes players pause the game and stare at the screen for five minutes. Mercy or sacrifice—his decision shapes his character arc and, by extension, the fate of everyone around him. Including me.

I glance down at Caelum, seated a few rows below. His golden aura practically screams "chosen one," and he's surrounded by his elite squad. Two of them, Seraphine and Finnian, are S-tier characters—walking nightmares for anyone stupid enough to pick a fight. The rest of his group isn't far behind, all of them at least A-tier. Together, they're the kind of team you'd only face in a game if you had a death wish.

Seraphine, the group's sharp-tongued mage, catches me staring. Her icy blue eyes lock onto mine, glimmering with an inner light that marks her as a mage of rare talent. She flicks a strand of her blue hair over her shoulder and mutters something to Caelum.

"Hey, that snotty noble is staring at you."

Caelum doesn't even look up. "I know."

"Are you not bothered by him?" she presses. "What if he tries something again?"

He doesn't answer, his focus unshaken. Typical Hero—always calm, always composed. But there's an intensity beneath that calm, like a storm waiting to break. If I can figure out which way he's heading, maybe I can steer myself out of his path.

Or, you know, survive.

Later, in the Cafeteria

The Academy's cafeteria is less a dining hall and more a banquet-worthy spectacle. Arched ceilings, massive chandeliers, and rows of polished tables set the stage for students to eat, joke, and occasionally scheme. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced vegetables, and the chatter is just as lively.

I'm lurking near the edge of the room, scanning the crowd. Silva, my ever-dutiful maid, stands beside me, waiting for instructions. I wave her off toward the serving counter to fetch our meal.

"Go on," I say. "I'll… handle something here."

She hesitates, clearly not thrilled about leaving me unsupervised, but a quick bow and she's off.

This is it. My chance.

I spot Caelum's table in the middle of the hall, his squad seated around him like a pack of territorial wolves. Seraphine's icy glare could freeze a fire, while Finnian's calculating gaze practically dissects me from a distance. The rest of the group isn't any more welcoming.

Still, I force myself to approach. If I'm going to survive in this world, I need to understand Caelum's direction—and that means asking questions. Even if it means risking Strike Nine.

"Hey, Hero," I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. My palms are clammy, and I'm all too aware of the Dignity+ trait looming over this interaction like a thundercloud.

Caelum looks up at me, his usual friendly smile replaced by something cooler, sharper. "Everyone here is a hero in training, Eclipse. I hope you're not bringing me a problem."

Behind him, Seraphine scoffs, leaning forward with a smirk that could cut glass. "And what could you possibly want to know from a commoner? I thought they were beneath your noble standards."

Her jab hits a nerve, and before I can stop myself, my trait kicks in. The words tumble out, cold and cutting.

"Yes, they are."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've screwed up. Again.