I Got Reincarnated as the Game's Villain

"Haah…" sighed a young man with dark black hair and green eyes, manifesting a huge sword as he pulled it out of its scabbard and began walking.

'I need to find Janika, but before that…' he thought, already planning his next move.

According to the future he had seen—or at least fragments of it—this was the moment he first made connections with a certain girl he would later claim as his own. Well, at least until that idiot destroyed his life.

'I have to find and save Lyla, just like before,' he thought, already creating a mental map of all he needed to do before the exams reached their conclusion.

'But while I'm at it… I have to find and kill that bastard, Amael.'

…

…

In a spacious chamber, roughly twenty instructors and teachers were seated. A long, imposing table dominated the center of the room, around which they all gathered, creating an atmosphere that resembled a corporate board meeting. All eyes were fixed on the headmistress at the far end of the table.

She was an arresting figure, her pink eyes shining with an intensity that demanded attention, framed by flowing blonde hair that cascaded down her back. Her form-fitting top accentuated her curves, and though the V-shaped neckline hinted at modesty, her ample chest refused to go unnoticed. It was a silent challenge to anyone in the room to keep their focus on the task at hand.

Despite her distracting allure, her presence was commanding, and her authority undeniable.

In the heart of the grand observation chamber, a colossal, ethereal holographic display dominated the space, swirling with vivid sights and sounds from the examination grounds.

Under the watchful gaze of seasoned instructors, the next generation of extraordinary talents was being tested. Eyes scanned the ever-changing projections, searching for glimpses of exceptional potential among the throngs of hopeful students.

Suddenly, a collective hush fell over the room as all attention shifted to a single, riveting display.

In the clearing stood two figures, poised and brimming with tension. The atmosphere between them was so thick it seemed to hold the entire room captive.

The principal leaned forward in her seat, her voice a silken thread that sent shivers through the room. "Who are these two?" she asked, her gaze lingering a moment longer on Ferlen.

From the shadows behind her, a figure stepped forward, a portfolio clutched in one hand. His voice was cool and devoid of emotion as he replied:

"The blonde is Trian Kyle Miller, heir to the IronFord Dukedom on the outskirts of the Azure Empire. The other is Ferlen Zen Gracevine, scion of the Gradel family from the Elven Territory. Both are said to possess extraordinary quirks and bloodline abilities of considerable renown."

Click.

A metallic snap echoed through the room as the portfolio closed.

The Principal's lips curved faintly, a glint of amusement flickering in her sharp, discerning eyes.

"Interesting," she murmured.

FIn the heart of the conjured world, Ferlen stood tall, his posture exuding a practiced elegance. With a slight bow, the kind borne of old-world courtesy, he addressed his opponent.

"Trian Zen Miller," Ferlen said, his voice steady and reverent. "Facing you in combat is an honor—though, I must admit, an unexpected one."

Trian's response came not in words but in action—a flicker of movement, so swift it left an afterimage shimmering in the air.

"Oh, so impatient," Ferlen remarked, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

And then it began.

In a blink, the space between them vanished.

Clank!

The shriek of steel against steel tore through the charged silence as Ferlen, with reflexes honed to razor precision, deflected Trian's opening strike. Sparks scattered like fireflies in the twilight, the brief exchange merely a prelude to the chaos that followed.

Trian's movements were a dance of feral grace, each step calculated yet wild, each strike relentless. His blade became a blur of silvery arcs, driving Ferlen into a desperate rhythm of defense. Every clang of their weapons was a heartbeat of the duel, a staccato that reverberated through the arena.

Suddenly, Trian twisted, lunging with a ferocity that promised no mercy. His free hand extended, and in its grasp, shadows coalesced into arrows wreathed in an unnatural fire—dark flames that devoured light itself.

Ferlen's eyes widened, the surprise fleeting but unmistakable. Instinct took over. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a vortex of wind, a barrier of swirling gales that roared to life around him. The flaming arrows collided with the tempest, their dark fire hissing and sputtering as it struggled to pierce the gale's ferocity.

Boom!

The collision sent shockwaves rippling through the arena. Smoke and sparks spiraled into the air, and for a moment, silence reigned.

Ferlen's grin cut through the haze. "Smart, but not smart enough," he quipped.

The ground beneath Trian exploded with sudden, violent force. A colossal vine, thick and gnarled like an ancient tree, surged upward, its tendrils wrapping around Trian's leg with crushing strength. The earth seemed to roar in triumph as the vine hurled him skyward.

Trian slammed against a towering oak with a bone-rattling thud. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he crumpled to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs.

"Ahh!"

Clutching his side, he staggered upright, his breath ragged. But his resolve burned fiercer than the pain.

Another vine erupted, a monstrous tendril of earth and foliage. This time, Trian was ready.

With a snarl, he unleashed a torrent of black flames. The inferno roared to life, engulfing the vine in moments. Its gnarled mass turned to ash, smoldering embers drifting lazily to the scorched ground.

"Plant manipulation?" Trian spat, brushing dirt from his armor as he straightened. "An unorthodox choice, wouldn't you say?" His tone dripped with disdain, though his labored breathing betrayed the toll of the fight.

Ferlen chuckled, the sound low and rich. "The same could be said for your pyromancy. Though I wouldn't call it 'rare' so much as... unsettling."

Trian's eyes narrowed, his playful facade crumbling. The air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier with an ominous weight.

"Fine," he growled, his voice a low tremor. "You've left me no choice."

Darkness bled from his pupils, spreading like ink across his irises until his gaze was void of light.

A chill crept through Ferlen, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

"Obsidian Mode already?" he muttered, his voice tinged with unease.

Ferlen tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the polished steel a rare comfort in the chaos. His face, set with firm resolve, betrayed no hint of surrender as he braced against the flurry of slashes that Trian unleashed. His movements, though graceful, were measured and deliberate, each parry and block a testament to years of grueling training. Yet, even his honed skill seemed to falter under the relentless onslaught.

Trian, a maelstrom of raw, unrestrained power, pressed his advantage. His eyes, now pools of inky blackness, burned with a sinister, otherworldly light. Around his blade, dark flames roared and spat, scorching the earth with every swing.

With a guttural roar that reverberated through the forest, Trian lunged. His blade, shrouded in obsidian fire, distorted the very air as it cut through space. Ferlen, his instincts sharpened by desperation, met the attack head-on with dazzling swordplay. Steel clashed against fire in a deafening explosion, the impact rippling outward in a shockwave that rattled the trees.

Boom!

Despite Ferlen's brilliance, the overwhelming power radiating from Trian's blade proved insurmountable. The protective wind barrier that had been Ferlen's final line of defense wavered, then shattered with a desperate sputter. Flames roared through, their searing heat carving through his defenses effortlessly.

"Damn it!" Ferlen roared, his body shimmering before disintegrating into particles of light.

Whoosh!

Trian stood amidst the devastation, his chest heaving, the dark flames around his outstretched hand flickering ominously. His expression was grim, yet a faint notification materialized before him:

+400 pts

"Just a little more…" he murmured, his lips curling into a fleeting smirk before his sharp gaze darted to the side.

Whosh!

A piercing shrill tore through the air. Trian spun around, but the motion came a second too late.

A sharp, icy-blue object hurtled toward him, striking true against his neck.

And then… silence.

"Just 400 points. Useless," Trian spat, his tone laced with irritation. His thoughts drifted as he rubbed at his throat, the mark already fading away.

Since his arrival in this cursed realm, he had realized one immutable truth: no one stayed dead. Those slain would always respawn, endlessly returning to the fray.

But that wasn't a problem. No, it was an advantage.

More enemies meant more points.