Reincarnated As A First Rate Villain: I Don't Know How To Play My Role-Chapter 28

The soft rustle of velvet curtains stirred faintly in the early morning breeze, whispering secrets to the silence as sunlight began to cascade through the large, stained-glass windows of the Velebrandt estate's vacant imperial mansion. Warm, golden beams spilled across the polished marble floors, illuminating the intricate patterns and casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the antique furniture. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunbeams, like floating embers suspended in mid-air, their gentle twirls undisturbed in the quiet sanctity of morning. The air was heavy with stillness, as if the very mansion held its breath, waiting for the day's awakening.

In one of the grand chambers, tucked within a four-poster bed of navy-blue silks and gold-threaded canopy, Lucien Caelum Velebrandt slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling with each gentle breath, still nestled beneath the heavy embrace of thick blankets.

The sound of soft footsteps approached, barely audible on the plush carpet, followed by the soft creak of a sliding wooden door. A figure stepped into the room, her movements graceful and composed, clad in the crisp black-and-white attire of the Velebrandt household. Shoulder-length brown hair framed her gentle face, her features soft and serene as she gazed at Lucien with a quiet intensity.

It was Marie.

Lucien's personal maid.

A small, tender smile curled on her lips as she gazed at Lucien, still bundled up in the blankets, his peaceful slumber a stark contrast to the grandeur of the room. She walked over to the bed, her movements silent on the plush carpet, and bent down slightly, her fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from Lucien's cheek, her touch soft and deliberate.

"Young master," she said gently, her voice like warm tea on a cold day. "It's morning. It's your birthday."

Lucien stirred at the soft nudge against his shoulder, his body shifting slightly beneath the blankets. His eyes squinted open, heavy with sleep, and one arm rose instinctively to block the stream of light piercing through the curtains, casting a warm glow across his face. As the blurry haze of sleep slowly cleared, his gaze landed on Marie's face, her gentle features and soft smile coming into focus, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled at him.

"...Marie?" he murmured.

Marie gave a soft nod. "Happy tenth birthday, young master Lucien."

Lucien blinked. Then he sat up slowly, yawning as he stretched out his arms and legs. "Thanks, Marie..."

She bowed her head lightly. "Breakfast is ready in the dining hall. I've prepared your formal clothes, and I'll bring them up shortly."

Lucien nodded, rubbing his sleepy eyes, the gentle friction easing the heaviness from his lids. After Marie exited the room, Lucien shuffled to his feet, still wearing his rumpled pajamas, the soft fabric clinging to his frame. With tousled silver hair and bare feet brushing over the cool floor, he wandered down the silent halls of the mansion, the vast space echoing softly with each step.

The corridor was soaked in golden morning light, the sun's warm rays spilling through the tall windows and casting a luxurious glow. Thick red carpets, adorned with intricate patterns, cushioned his steps, muffling the sound of his footsteps. The windows, framed with gold-trimmed velvet curtains, shimmered and rustled softly as the sun peeked through them, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the floor.

Today's the day, Lucien thought, a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. I'm finally turning ten. I'll awaken my powers.

His thoughts drifted to the hidden potential lying dormant within him, a mysterious energy waiting to be unleashed. As his fingers brushed along the cool, polished railing of the staircase, Lucien's eyes glazed over slightly, his focus shifting inward as he opened his system interface.

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[System Interface]

Name: Lucien Caelum Velebrandt

Race: Human

Age: 10

Bloodline: Velebrandt (Archduke Lineage)

Aura/Mana/Holy Awakening: Not yet awakened (Now Eligible)

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[Stats]

Strength: -G

Agility: -G

Endurance: -G

Willpower: -G

Focus: -G

Charisma: -G

Potential: Myth (Swordsmanship Potential Unmeasured)

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[Talents]

• Swordheart Overdrive (Myth)

• Dread Sovereign's Presence (Myth)

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[Skill Ranks]

• Swordplay: Myth (Instinct Dormant)

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Lucien paused mid-step, his eyes fixed on the system screen floating before him. His brows furrowed in concern. Even after training with General Rex, the grueling sessions and relentless drills hadn't seemed to yield any tangible results. His stats remained stagnant, a frustrating contradiction to the progress he felt in his bones.

He remembered the sweat-soaked days in the training yard back at the Velebrandt estate, the clash of steel on steel, the rush of adrenaline as he sparred with General Rex. He was certain he was stronger now—faster, sturdier, sharper. If he were to face his six-year-old self, he could win easily. The confidence was there, but the numbers on his interface told a different story.

Lucien stared at the system screen for a while longer, his gaze lingering on the unchanging values. A mixture of frustration and disappointment swirled within him. He sighed, the soft exhalation a quiet admission of his confusion.

Maybe it'll all make sense once I awaken.

Lucien pushed the thought aside and made his way to the dining hall, the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread and sizzling meat drawing him in. As he entered, the warm scent enveloped him, and his stomach growled in anticipation. His breakfast, prepared with care, was laid out neatly on the table: toasted rye bread slathered with golden honey, fluffy eggs, steamed vegetables that glistened with dew, and a steaming bowl of herbal soup brewed just the way he liked. The flavors danced on his tongue as he ate quietly, savoring each bite.

After finishing his meal, Lucien returned to his room, and his eyes widened as he spotted a set of elegant noble clothes laid out atop his bed.

A dark blue tunic embroidered with intricate silver threading caught his gaze, accompanied by a matching cloak lined with luxurious velvet that seemed to shimmer in the morning light. White gloves lay neatly folded beside a ceremonial belt, adorned with small, polished silver accents that gleamed subtly. The outfit seemed to radiate an air of refinement and nobility, clearly chosen for a special occasion.

Lucien couldn't help but smile faintly. Thanks, Marie...

He then retreated to the bath chamber and let warm water cascade over him. Steam rose around him, enveloping him in comfort.

It had been two years since he stopped Marie from assisting him during his baths. He was eight at the time—old enough to clean himself. Marie had respected his decision, although she'd shown a trace of sadness at being dismissed from that small duty.

But Lucien felt it was necessary.

He was now the same height as Marie, and though his body was still in the early stages of development, his mind—carrying memories from another life—was not.

As he soaked in the tub, his thoughts began to wander.

Marie... His cheeks flushed red as he tried to chase away the image of her gently washing him when he was younger. His heart pounded, his thoughts danced toward dangerous territory—and he swiftly splashed cold water on his face to calm himself.

"No," he whispered. "Focus."

After his bath, he dried off, donned the formal attire, and stood before the mirror. The ten-year-old heir of House Velebrandt looked sharp, composed, and quietly regal.

Descending the grand staircase, Lucien made his way to the front entrance. Waiting for him were familiar faces: General Rex, towering and stern as ever, along with several other staff members and caretakers—including cooks, gardeners, and two of the junior butlers. At the center, Marie stood with hands neatly folded in front of her, a subtle smile on her face.

As Lucien approached, all present bowed in unison.

"May the stars guide your awakening, young master," they said as one, a chorus of sincere devotion.

Lucien offered them a graceful nod. "Thank you, all of you."

Rex stepped forward and gestured toward the carriage already prepared. "Come, young master. Let us proceed."

Lucien nodded once more, giving a final wave to the household staff. Marie would be traveling in a separate carriage—though she'd remain close at all times during the ceremony. And as always, the same six A-Rank knights who'd accompanied him from the estate previously would serve as escort.

As the carriage door opened, Lucien paused for a moment, feeling his pulse quicken.

The day has come.

He climbed in, his hands gripping the velvet-lined interior as he tried to suppress the bubbling excitement in his chest.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

And the carriage began to move.

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In the middle ring of the Valderian Empire, where stone streets converged with cobbled markets and the melodic chime of bells drifted from bronze-roofed chapels, the morning air was alive with a gentle warmth. Dusty breezes whispered through the crowded streets, tugging at the hems of merchants' cloaks as they hurried to set up their stalls. Children's laughter echoed between the houses, a joyous chorus that mingled with the sweet songs of birds at dawn, filling the air with a vibrant energy.

Just near the edge of a bustling plaza, tucked beside a narrow road lined with vibrant potted marigolds that spilled over their terracotta pots, stood a humble building of weathered white stone and faded blue banners: an orphanage maintained by the Church of Elyssira. The structure's walls had seen many seasons come and go, bearing witness to the passage of time, yet the flowerbeds remained meticulously tended, bursting with colorful blooms that added a touch of warmth to the façade. The gates, adorned with intricate ironwork, stood welcomingly ajar during daylight hours, inviting passersby to pause and glimpse the sanctuary within.

In front of the orphanage, seated upon a clean step with her back resting lightly against the outer wall, was a small girl—no older than five. Her tiny frame was relaxed, her posture a picture of contentment. She wore a simple white dress that brushed against her knees, its hem slightly frayed from wear. Her small fingers clutched a piece of crusty bread, freshly baked and warm, emitting a tantalizing aroma that wafted up to her nose.

With her eyes gently closed, she took slow, deliberate bites, her face tilted slightly upwards as though savoring the experience. Each chew was a moment of pure bliss, as if she was trying to memorize every nuance of flavor—the satisfying crunch of the crust giving way to the soft, airy interior, the tender texture that melted in her mouth, and the faint hint of butter that added richness to each bite. The world around her melted away, and for a fleeting moment, all that existed was the bread and the simple joy of eating it.

She chewed in silence, unbothered by the distant chatter of pedestrians or the rattle of carriage wheels passing nearby, her peaceful reverie undisturbed by the bustling world beyond her little haven.

Her black hair flowed like midnight silk, cascading freely down her back and over her small shoulders. The sun played gently on it, casting soft glints where the strands moved with the breeze. There was an air of serenity around her—one that felt entirely out of place in the liveliness of the street.

And then, with the final bite lingering on her tongue, the little girl whispered to herself:

"I pray... that this fleeting tranquility shall linger undisturbed... at least a while longer."

Her voice, though young, carried a grace that surpassed her years. Poised, slow, and thoughtful—like one accustomed to the burden of words, or the weight of knowing too much.

She slowly opened her eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, as if time itself was holding its breath in anticipation. Her eyelashes were long, faintly violet—a shade that seemed almost otherworldly, a hue that didn't belong to the mortal realm. But it was what lay beyond those lashes that was truly uncanny.

Her eyes were violet too, yes... but they were not merely purple. Inside those eyes shimmered something else, something that defied explanation. It wasn't a trick of the light, nor was it a reflection. It was as if the very fabric of the universe had been woven into her gaze. Swirling colors moved within her irises—faint motes of gold, blue, rose, and green, slowly orbiting as though her gaze held the breath of constellations. Galaxies danced within her eyes, a celestial ballet that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

Her pupils, dark as obsidian, gazed through the streets, the buildings, the sky, and beyond, as if seeing into realms that lay far beyond the mortal world. The intensity of her gaze was both captivating and unnerving, a sense that she was beholding secrets that no human child should ever know.

"None of the others have acted rashly," she murmured in a refined voice, tapping a finger lightly against her chin. "How unexpectedly... restrained."

There was no one beside her, and yet her manner of speaking suggested she was addressing something—or someone.

"The fifteen of them... have not yet disturbed the turn of the world."

She let out a breath, neither a sigh nor a yawn, but something like resignation. Her voice sounded far too noble, far too mature, to be that of a child born in a chapel orphanage.

Some distance away, behind a curtain near the orphanage's main hall, a caretaker peeked through the window and smiled softly.

"That Echoira again... always sitting there with her eyes closed," she said to another sister. "Such a quiet little thing. It's as if she sees everything... even while blind."

"Yes," the other replied. "She's truly remarkable. The way she walks, moves, even avoids bumping into things—it's as though she can feel the world without seeing it."

Indeed, the sisters of the Church had named her Echoira—a name derived from ancient tongue, meaning "she who sees by sound." It was assumed the child had no sight, and yet possessed an almost miraculous sense of awareness.

But they were wrong.

She could see—more than anyone else.

She simply chose not to show it.

The name Echoira was never truly hers.

In her heart, she had already given herself another.

"...Khthonix Aethoria," she whispered to herself, her voice a quiet thread against the wind. "That is the name I shall carry... until my purpose is fulfilled."

She closed her eyes again. But this time, it was not to savor bread.

It was to listen—to the rhythm of the earth, the whispers of fate, the friction of future and past colliding in unseen spaces.

For she was one of the sixteen chosen heroes. And among them... perhaps the most enigmatic of all.

The Saintess of the Hidden Sky.

The one who would one day stand at the heart of the world's final judgment.

But for now, she sat alone. A small girl in a white dress, resting peacefully at the edge of a noisy street.

With nothing but time on her side.