Transmigrated as the Villain: I Will Destroy Fate

Chapter 165: Recontextualization [2]

Young Luca froze in the doorway of the ruined cabin.

Steam still rose from soaked, blackened floorboards. The fire was gone, crushed by the oversized water spell he had torn from the sky, but the air remained hot and thick with the smell of ash and burned wood.

Sylvia lay in the center of the room, still and unmoving.

Around her, three cloaked figures stood at the edge of a ritual circle. Its dark, unfamiliar symbols glowed with small light.

Luca did not recognize the runes or the structure, but every instinct screamed that what was happening to Sylvia was bad.

The intruders raised their hands in unison.

Mana poured from them, feeding the circle.

The lines on the floor brightened.

Luca moved before he could think. Water gathered around his arm, twisting into a compressed stream that lashed out at the nearest cloaked figure. It was not his strongest spell. It was fast, sharp, and desperate.

One of the figures lifted a hand without turning. The water bent. It did not splash against a barrier or shatter into mist. It simply curved aside, redirected with a casual ease.

Luca’s breath hitched. The difference in their power was absolute. Terrifying.

He was too weak.

The knowledge was like a physical blow, but it did not stop him.

If he stopped, Sylvia would die.

If he accepted they were stronger, Sylvia would die.

He attacked again.

Wind gathered at his feet. Water formed above his open palm. He screamed Sylvia’s name and charged.

One of the figures finally turned to face him.

A kick landed in his stomach.

He folded around it.

The air left his lungs in a broken gasp as he flew backward, his body skipping across the wet floor before coming to a stop. His ribs screamed. He tried to breathe, to move, but his body refused.

The figure who kicked him approached, his movements calm and precise. Luca saw the intent. The intruder was going to kill him.

Then the figure paused.

"Is this him?" the figure asked, his voice smooth. "The child she was searching for?"

Another one answered from across the circle. "It must be. The future Hero."

Luca did not understand the words. He barely heard them. His vision swam with pain and stars, but he saw the closest intruder lower his hood.

Pointed ears.

Smooth, ageless skin.

An elf.

Luca’s world tilted.

Sylvia was an elf.

She told him stories about elves, about ancient forests and long lives. She never said they would come to hurt her. The confusion, betrayal, and a hot, rising rage struck him all at once.

"Leave her alone!"

He charged again. It was not a plan. It was grief and fear controlling him. Fear that something would happen to Sylvia.

The elf intercepted him with even greater ease this time. A sharp, precise motion. A crack that echoed sickeningly in the ruined cabin.

Pain erupted in his leg, blinding and absolute.

Luca screamed and collapsed. He clawed at the wet floorboards, his body refusing to obey him as the broken limb buckled. He tried to push himself up anyway. He failed.

The ritual circle flared, its light growing brighter than the fire it had replaced. In its glow, Sylvia’s eyes opened.

Luca froze. Through the smoke, through the pain, their gazes met. She looked at him with an expression he had never seen. Sad. Sympathetic. She did not look surprised. That was what broke him.

She looked as if she had known this day would come.

Sylvia closed her eyes.

Then, the world shifted.

The cabin vanished.

The pain in his leg disappeared completely.

He stood in a white space.

Tall, luminous trees rose around him, their leaves glowing with soft, internal moonlight.

The air was calm, clean, saturated with a mana so thick it felt like the world itself was breathing.

He tried to call his own mana.

Nothing.

It was gone.

Then he saw her.

Sylvia stood between two of the white trees. She was not on the floor. She was not trapped in a circle. She looked tired, but whole.

"Sylvia!"

He ran, not even realizing his broken leg was no longer broken.

He reached her and threw his arms around her, clinging to her with a desperation he could not express in the cabin. She returned the hug gently, one hand resting on the back of his head. He was safe. She was safe.

"I’m here," he choked out. "You’re safe now."

"No." Her voice was soft, but it cut through his hope. "I cannot lie to you here, Luca. Today, I am going to die."

He pulled back, his mind refusing the words. "What? No. We can run. We can fight."

She quieted him, her hands on his shoulders.

"Let me tell you something about myself."

She was old, she explained. Almost five hundred years old. A long, long time ago, she was part of the first Hero’s party. She had fought in the war against the Demon Lord.

The stories she told him – they were not just stories. They were memories. The battles, the distant lands, the sadness in her eyes when she spoke of victory. It had all been real.

She knelt to meet his eyes. "Luca. You are the Hero. One day, the Goddess of Light will choose you. One day, you will have to save this world from its end." Her expression was heavy with a sorrow that felt ancient. "And even after I die, I will help you. The entire way. Okay? So don’t cry. Don’t be sad. I’m not leaving forever."

He could not accept it. He did not want to be a hero. He did not want the world, or a goddess, or a war.

He wanted Sylvia to come back.

He opened his mouth to answer, to scream. To beg.

But he couldn’t.

The white forest vanished.

––

Luca woke with a violent gasp. The memory tore away, leaving a blinding headache in its place. His body felt heavy, bruised. Injured.

The battlefield returned, and he realized the situation he was in.

Someone had hit him. Hard.

He groaned, forcing his eyes open.

A figure stepped into view.

A young man his age, with sharp features and a calm, appraising gaze.

He looked down at Luca with disappointment.

"You’re weaker than he said," the young man commented, his voice flat. "Weaker than the Hero should be." He frowned. "Did I misunderstand Lord Mesmer’s instructions?"