I Reincarnated as the Villain… But the Hero is My Brother

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 – The War Council’s Teeth



It was a circular room carved from blackstone, with twelve seats arranged around a lava-fed obsidian table that pulsed faintly with infernal energy. The flames beneath the floor gave the illusion that the room floated over a river of blood.

Torches flickered as I entered, casting jagged shadows on the demon-etched walls.

I had been here before.

Well… Lucien had.

Not me.

But now, every eye in the room turned to me — sizing me up like wolves watching a wounded alpha stumble back into the den.

"Crimson Sovereign," said a low, sharp voice.

I turned.

A tall man in pale gold armor stepped forward, face hidden behind a skeletal wolf mask.

Duke Verdan Morn, General of the Ash Vanguard. One of Lucien's most powerful — and dangerous — lieutenants.

He was the kind of man who believed loyalty only lasted as long as strength did.

"We were told you would not wake," Verdan said. "That your soul was… damaged."

His voice carried no emotion. Just ice.

"I got better," I said flatly.

Someone at the table snorted — a woman in scarlet robes with silver chains hanging from her shoulders.

Lady Orathei, Mistress of the Blood Spire. High Magister. A schemer. A psychic. She stirred the council like a witch stirring a pot of poison.

"Better," she repeated, voice soft. "We shall see."

I took my place at the head of the table. Selira stood at my right like a shadow. No one objected.

But the silence stretched too long.

These people could smell weakness.

And I was still learning how to wear Lucien's skin without letting mine show through.

I let my fingers trail along the edge of the obsidian table.

Then I spoke.

"Blackspire Fortress has fallen."

The words dropped like stones.

Even Verdan flinched — barely.

Orathei's smile froze.

"Taken by the Hero," I continued. "No casualties. Not even the guards."

Now the room broke.

"What?"

"How—"

"Impossible—"

Verdan's fists clenched on the table. "We stationed three flamebinders and two war priests at Blackspire. It was fortified for a six-month siege."

Selira added, "He didn't siege it. He walked in."

Silence.

I leaned forward.

"This is not a boy playing at sword games anymore. This is a threat that walks in light and leaves no ashes behind. If you underestimate him, you die."

Orathei's eyes narrowed. "You speak of him as if you fear him."

"I don't," I said. "But I respect what he's becoming."

I paused, watching them closely.

Then I dropped the next blade.

"In six days, he reaches Ebonhall."

The capital.

Their faces turned pale — even the masked ones.

Verdan's voice was calm, but deadly. "You suggest retreat?"

I smirked. "No. I suggest we give him what he wants."

A beat.

"You want to invite the Hero into the city?" Orathei said, laughing darkly. "Oh, how merciful our Sovereign has become. Shall we offer him tea and a dagger for the throne, too?"

I stared her down.

"Mercy is a tool," I said. "Like war. Like prophecy. And I don't care which I use — so long as I win."

Selira stepped forward. "We propose a meeting. A ceasefire parley. Make it look like we want to talk. Lure him in. Control the field."

"You think he'd accept?" Verdan asked.

"I think he's stupid enough to believe in peace," I said. "He still sees the world in black and white. Light and dark. He thinks villains can be redeemed."

"And you plan to use that?" Orathei asked, curious now.

"Not use," I said.

Test.

If Elion came here under a banner of peace, I could see him — speak to him — maybe break the system before it forced us both into the final battle.

It was a dangerous play.

But every other path ended in one of us dying.

Verdan growled. "The nobles will call it cowardice."

I looked at him, and for the first time, let some of Lucien out.

"I don't care what they call it. I could burn this table to cinders and make new warlords out of street rats, and the people would still kneel."

He held my gaze for one long moment… then slowly bowed his head.

Selira smiled faintly.

Orathei tapped her fingers. "If this parley fails, what then?"

"Then," I said, standing, "we stop pretending. And I show them why the prophecy feared me."

Outside the council chamber, the storm clouds had begun to gather.

Dark winds tore across the sky.

Meanwhile, somewhere beyond the borderlands...

Elion Seraphis stood before the burned ruins of Blackspire, his golden cloak whipping behind him. His hand still glowed faintly from the spell he'd used to heal the last wounded enemy.

His knights waited behind him, silent.

Then he spoke.

"Send word to Ebonhall," he said. "I will accept the ceasefire."

 

A tall man in deep-purple armor stood, his golden eyes gleaming like fire beneath a polished helm.

Duke Vaern Talomar, Warden of the Infernal South — one of the oldest members of Lucien's council.

"Did the void dull your hearing… or your mind?" he said, voice carrying the slow menace of a practiced killer. "We waited a week for your resurrection. And now you walk in here, days before the Hero arrives, asking for scrolls and ghosts instead of war."

The others stirred — some shifting in discomfort, others nodding.

I recognized a few.

To Vaern's right:

Lady Isera Vynn, bone-witch of the Bleeding Coast. Eyes like ink and hands stained with permanent sigils.General Kaarn, a towering beastman with iron-studded horns and a greatsword the size of a coffin.And beside them:Minister Relek, thin and pale, covered in gold rings and distrust.

Selira stood behind me, arms crossed.

I took my seat at the head of the council table — the Throne Seat, reserved only for the Crimson Sovereign.

"I asked for information," I said calmly. "Not out of weakness, but because I intend to win this war without walking blindly into prophecy."

Vaern laughed, dry and low. "Victory doesn't come from dusty parchment."

"No," I said, locking eyes with him. "It comes from knowing which strings your enemies are pulling before the blade reaches your throat."

The room went silent.

Lady Isera spoke next, her voice slow and melodic, like a song that might slit your wrists if you listened too long.

"You saw something, didn't you?" she asked. "In the dark… while you were gone."

My fingers tightened around the stone armrest.

"They showed me the loop," I said. "The truth behind the prophecy. It's not divine. It's a cage. A cycle of slaughter, designed to repeat endlessly — Hero versus Villain, life after life."

A pause.

Kaarn growled. "Who benefits?"

"Something ancient," I replied. "It feeds off the conflict. It needs the war to continue."

"Then what would you have us do?" asked Minister Relek, voice snakelike. "Disband our armies? Hug the Hero when he reaches the gate?"

"No," I said, coldly. "I'm going to kill the prophecy. And to do that, I'll need every asset we've ignored for decades."

I stood.

"Recall the Onyx Ravens from exile," I said. "Summon the Hollow Seers. I want warlocks, cursecrafters, and realmwalkers pulled from the crypts. We have six days until Elion crosses the Spite River."

"The Ravens were banished for dark sorcery," Kaarn growled.

"So was I," I said.

No one responded.

"Six days," I repeated. "Then he'll reach us."

Vaern leaned forward.

"And what if the Hero is not the puppet you claim? What if he's exactly what the prophecy says? A righteous light sent to purge you?"

I looked Vaern straight in the eyes.

"Then let him try."

Selira broke the tension with a clap of her hands.

"Well, that was fun," she said with a smirk. "Can we get back to doing things that'll keep us alive? I assume you want the border walls re-sealed?"

"Yes," I said. "And more than that…"

I pulled a small stone shard from my pocket. Haleth had slipped it into my hand before I left the archives. It looked like nothing — chipped, worn, almost meaningless.

But when I touched it to the obsidian table, it lit up.

Red. Pulsing. Alive.

A holographic map shimmered into view — not just of the Demon Realm… but beyond it.

I tapped a location.

The map zoomed into a scorched wasteland — The Hollow Verge.

"Send scouts here," I said. "If the legends are true, this is where the Shardwatcher was last sealed."

Relek scoffed. "The Hollow Verge is cursed. We lost an entire battalion there last cycle."

"Then we send those who've already died once," I replied. "Get me the Bone Legion."

I dismissed the council before the old arguments could return.

They left one by one, their eyes whispering doubts as loud as screams.

Only Selira remained.

"You really want to find this… thing?" she asked.

"I have to," I said. "The only way to save Elion is to destroy the system that's using us both."

She frowned. "And if he doesn't want to be saved?"

My chest ached at that.

"I'll find another way."

She turned toward the door, then paused.

"I've followed you through some horrible things, Lucien," she said. "But this... this is something else. If you're wrong, you'll burn this empire to ash chasing a myth."

"Then I'll rebuild it from the bones," I replied.

She gave a tired smirk. "There's the tyrant I remember."

She walked out.

And I was alone again.

Alone… except for the system's whisper, returning at last.

[Path Divergence: 3%]

The Hero dreams of fire.

You will meet again… soon.

 

The Bone Legion was worse than I remembered.

I stood on the edge of the Deadmoor Fields as their summoning began. Thick ash swirled in the sky, choking the horizon in a ghost-gray fog. A single, jagged horn sounded from the abyssal tower — and then they rose.

Hundreds of them.

Some wore cracked armor. Some were naked skeletons, their bones blackened with centuries of decay. Others still had dried flesh clinging to their faces, mouths locked in eternal screams.

And yet… they knelt.

To me.

Lucien's power lived on in their marrow — or maybe the system had preserved their allegiance just to see how far I'd go.

Selira stood at my side, arms crossed.

"You know," she said, "when most people want to talk to someone dead, they light a candle or say a prayer."

I watched the dead rally in silence.

"This is faster," I muttered.

A robed necrosage approached — his body stitched from three different corpses. He bowed low, voice scraping like dry leaves.

"Sovereign. The Bone Legion awaits orders."

"Send your best ten into the Hollow Verge," I said. "And tell them to return with whatever they find... or don't return at all."

The necrosage grinned. "Delightful."

He vanished into the fog.

Back in the fortress, I paced the war room, alone.

Six days felt too short now. Every second bled faster. And the worst part?

I still hadn't figured out how to talk to Elion.

If I showed up looking like Lucien — glowing red eyes, demon-blade in hand — he'd attack on sight. The prophecy was built to make us enemies.

But if I waited too long… the system might make the choice for us.

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

[Incoming Private System Message from: Elion Seraphis]

**"I don't know why I'm sending this. You won't answer. But I've had dreams... Of fire. Of you.

Your face haunts me, even when I'm awake.

If you are what they say — then I'll stop you.

But if there's even a shred of the truth behind these memories…

Then find me first."**

I froze.

My hand shook.

He remembered something.

Elion was remembering me.

Not Lucien.

Me.

I didn't reply.

Not yet.

The system might notice.

Instead, I walked to the hidden forge beneath the fortress — where ancient runes still glowed in the stone and dark fire poured from the mouths of forgotten spirits.

It was time to create something the prophecy didn't account for.

A weapon with no past. No fate. No chain.

A voice echoed from the dark.

"You shouldn't be here."

I turned.

A man stood in the shadows — tall, cloaked in armor that shimmered like smoke and mirrors. His eyes were covered by a band of cloth, yet I felt his gaze like a spear through my soul.

"You're not Lucien," he said.

I stepped closer. "You know that?"

"I know what walks through fate's cracks. And you… are a crack that bleeds."

He stepped into the light.

The forge flames revealed a sword on his back — crooked, black, humming with energy that smelled like burnt time.

Time.

I realized who he was.

A Chronoblade.

Timewalkers. Banned by every kingdom. Hunted to extinction. But if even one survived…

"I need your help," I said.

"No," he replied instantly.

I blinked. "You don't even know what I'm asking."

"I know it'll end the same way it always does."

"Then maybe it's time we end it differently."

He studied me for a long moment.

"Make a sword," he said. "Not for war. Not for prophecy. But for your soul. That's the only weapon that might hurt what's coming."

He turned to leave.

"What's your name?" I called.

He paused.

"They called me Ash," he said.

Then vanished into smoke.

I stared at the forge.

Pulled out Lucien's old blade — the cursed one with blood-etched runes.

And threw it into the fire.

Time to make something new.

Something mine.

 

The forge fire screamed.

Molten sparks danced like dying stars as I shaped the blade with every strike, every memory, every piece of the soul that once belonged to Kael — not Lucien.

This sword wouldn't be cursed. It wouldn't be royal.

It would be mine.

And it would remember who I really was.

I didn't sleep for two days.

By the time the blade cooled, it no longer looked like a weapon from this world.

Its core shimmered silver-black, like a mirror cracked through the middle. The hilt was carved with twin sigils: one for fire, one for light — Elion and me.

I named it "Vowbreaker."

Not for what it would kill — but for what it would defy.

I was halfway through strapping it to my back when the war horn sounded.

But not from the outer walls.

This came from inside the fortress.

A high, shrill tone of betrayal.

Selira burst into the forge a second later, eyes wide.

"They've turned on us!" she yelled. "Vaern. Relek. Half the southern guard — they've declared you possessed! They think you've lost your mind."

I grit my teeth. "No. They're scared. The prophecy favors the Hero — so they're betting on Elion."

"They sent assassins," she said quickly. "I killed three. But the last one…"

Her voice faltered.

"What?" I asked.

She tossed a bloodstained token at my feet.

I recognized it instantly.

A Seraphis house sigil.

My blood ran cold.

"Elion?" I whispered.

"No. Worse," she said. "Your cousin. Theren Seraphis."

My mind spiraled.

Theren.

The golden boy of the Seraphis line. Brilliant. Beautiful. Utterly ruthless. He had no place in the prophecy — because he wasn't a player.

He was a wildcard.

And now he'd entered the board.

Before I could process it, the system buzzed to life.

⚠️ Emergency Fatebind Alert

A third soul has entered the convergence loop.

New Player Registered: THEREN SERAPHIS

Alignment: UNKNOWN

Fate Tier: Variable

Status: Instigator

❗World Balance Severely Destabilized❗

Time to Convergence: 4 days.

I stepped back, stunned.

"What the hell is he doing in the loop?! He's not part of the prophecy!"

Selira's jaw clenched. "Maybe he made himself part of it."

"He'll ruin everything," I muttered. "He doesn't believe in prophecy, Elion, me — nothing. He just wants power."

"And he's headed this way."

We reached the northern towers in time to see the fire.

Not from Elion.

But from within our own ranks.

A dozen of my elite crimson guards were burning — trapped in walls of silver flame that couldn't have come from any known magic school.

This wasn't light.

It wasn't fire.

It was something in between.

A figure stepped through the smoke — dressed in white royal armor trimmed with gold, his long blond hair barely touched by soot.

Eyes like glass. Smile like ice.

Theren.

I felt it the moment he looked at me.

Like something ancient had just blinked awake inside his body.

And he was smiling directly at me.

[NEW SYSTEM EVENT TRIGGERED]

❗RIVAL PATH UNLOCKED❗

You are no longer the only "villain."

⚠️ Theren Seraphis has chosen his own path…

And you are now standing in it.

As the smoke rose and soldiers screamed, I realized the truth:

The Hero wasn't my only problem.

The prophecy wasn't the real trap.

Theren Seraphis had just rewritten the game…

And this time, the villain might not survive the opening move.


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