A sudden flash of light split through the air, and for a split second, Lucas's heart skipped a beat.
It was surreal—more bizarre than when his cellmate once tried tattooing a naked woman on his back with a paperclip.
And far more unsettling than the bitter taste of bootleg beer he used to gulp down on weekends at the corner shop near his apartment.
As the light slowly faded, a voice echoed, low and thunderous.
"You're lucky, Vyle."
A sharp pain bloomed in Lucas's cheek. His nose stung. Something warm was trickling down.
Thick. Metallic. Red.
Blood.
He gagged as it pooled in his throat, forcing him to spit out more.
What the hell …?
The world around him had changed completely.
Gone was his dingy, sour-smelling apartment. In its place stood a vast, open arena under a blazing sun—one that had supposedly set hours ago.
Lucas squinted up—and froze.
A face.
A face he knew better than his own.
A face he should never have been able to see in person.
Samael Lightborn, protagonist of The Heavenly Bond, stood over him. His fist was clenched, streaked with drying blood.
My blood, Lucas realized.
And then—something strange.
A rush of unfamiliar memories surged into his head.
Painful. Fragmented. Real.
Memories that didn't belong to him.
They belonged to Kael "Ashborn" Vyle, a third-tier villain from the game.
But why?
Wait. Hold on.
That memory of the duel arena … of this bruised, broken body…
I've been transmigrated(?)
Samael's voice snapped him back. "I'm letting you go this time. But if you ever come near Carmilla again, I'll make you wish you hadn't been born."
His eyes burned with fire. No bluff. No hesitation.
Dozens of students surrounded the ring, staring in stunned silence.
Then cheers broke out. Some clapped, others whooped in celebration.
A professor—who'd been acting as referee—walked up and patted Samael on the back. "Impressive duel. That Ashborn brat needed someone to teach him a lesson."
But not all joined in the praise.
A few stayed huddled in corners, whispering loudly enough that it wasn't really whispering at all.
"How could Edwyn Vyle's son lose like that?"
"I guess being Ashborn really is a curse. No way the gods would let someone like him win."
"I can't believe I was ever afraid of him."
The applause was laced with ridicule.
Then, descending from the stands, a girl in a maid uniform and dark red hair approached.
She stepped cautiously over to Kael—still slumped on the ground.
Lowering herself beside him, she spoke in a trembling voice. "Y-Young Master …"
"Argh!" Kael slammed his fist into the dirt—once, twice, three times.
Frustration radiated from him, and the maid's body began to tremble.
She knew exactly what could happen when her master was angry.
"Damn it … so stupid." He let himself fall back into a seated position. His tone wasn't filled with fury, just … shame.
He looked over at her—his personal maid.
Ellaria "Ashborn" Vionette.
Nineteen years old. A prodigy in blood magic. Strong enough to kill Kael if she wanted—but her position kept her from ever trying.
She wasn't a heroine. Samael would never come to "save" her. Her status as a fellow illegitimate child sealed her fate.
"Hey," Kael called, voice quieter now.
She jumped. "Y-Yes, Young Master?"
"What do you think I did wrong in that duel?"
She hesitated. Chose her words carefully.
"I… I believe Lord Lightborn may have used magic. Yes, that must be it. The professor overseeing the match—he seemed suspicious."
Magic was forbidden on academy grounds, but Samael was the protagonist. He'd never use anything 'dishonorable'.
Kael scoffed. "What the hell was that? Are you trying to comfort me?"
Realizing her mistake, Ellaria quickly backpedaled. "No, I—I mean, it's just a theory. Or perhaps he had a Holy Weapon granted to him."
"Ugh. Just help me up."
"Wh-What?"
"It's already humiliating enough that I have to ask. Don't make me repeat it."
"S-Sorry, Young Master …"
Kael reached for her offered shoulder. She lifted him with ease—and for some reason, that only made him feel more pathetic.
Was this body really that frail?
"Shall I take you back to your dorm, Young Master?"
It was tempting.
But Lucas—now Kael—remembered something far more important.
The Dream of Fate.
A ceremony where students would discover their Origin Magic. For others, it was just tradition. But for Kael—who couldn't form a Bond with anyone—it was his only shot at a real power base.
In the original game, even after being spared, Kael locked himself in his room and missed the ceremony. That's what doomed him—kept him forever weak, forever one step behind Samael.
"No," he said. "Take me to my classroom."
Though the pounding in his cheek was hard to ignore.
"… but let's stop by the infirmary first."
#
Just as expected, the classroom was half-empty.
Only 10 out of 25 students were present—nine of them are the girls. Samael, naturally, was present.
Kael stepped in, pressing a cold pack against his swollen cheek.
All eyes turned to him.
Snickers broke out. He kept walking, pretending not to hear them—but he could feel Samael's eyes, locked onto him like a predator.
What is this guy's problem?
Kael dropped into the back row and leaned his head against the wall.
Time passed.
Then—footsteps. Rushed, heavy.
But the one who entered wasn't the professor assigned to lead this session.
Five upperclassmen entered—third-year students—each bearing three stars on their uniforms.
Their gazes were sharp, judgmental. One of them stepped forward, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
His voice rang with venom.
"Where's that Ashborn bastard?"