《Transmigrating As The First Villain The Hero Kills》 Chapter 01: When Did People Transmigrate By Blinking You people must have pissed off your gods for them to make me this powerful. Hateful eyes devoured these words on a phone screen as the character speaking them massacred without mercy, disgracing those the reader held dear. These mournful, striking blue eyes belonged to a black-haired teenager named Luke, who glared at his phone with fierce concentration, reading a novel he despised. Luke continued scrolling with his thumb, his heart aching more with every line. He read, action by action, as the character he loathed took action, hoping desperately that the next line would describe the character''s demise¡ªperhaps a sword through the heart, at the very least. But Luke''s scrolling reached the end, and instead of satisfaction, he was met with the text: *[The Hero¡¯s Journey continues]* --- "Fuck!" Luke exploded at the words, finally tearing his gaze from his phone. The orange hues of the setting sun were descending beyond the horizon, clouds floating toward it like moths to a flame. His blue eyes remained fixed on the sky, his body comfortably seated on a steel park bench by the lakeside. Behind him, a garden flourished, small trees lined the sides, and before him, a vast, calm lake stretched beyond the concrete barrier that prevented the water from reaching his feet. As the sun sank behind the trees, his heart ached at the sight of something others might find serene. Hundreds of people in different places were probably admiring the same view, pondering their own lives, their problems. But surely, none of them were praying for the death of a fictional character. Luke had come here to find peace, but within minutes, his thoughts overwhelmed him. He quickly grabbed his phone and began typing a comment under the novel''s latest chapter: --- **Luke_SW:** As usual, the author failed to kill Arryn Rocheford. He doesn¡¯t have any traits to be an MC. He just kills people because he dislikes them, in the name of justice. More importantly, he doesn¡¯t even care about the people he¡¯s supposed to protect. In this chapter, he used his own men as bait to lure the villain, and they all died because of it. He is just a bad MC for a good story. --- Luke hit send, stood up from the bench, and decided to do what he originally came for¡ªjogging. His formal white shirt and black dress pants, paired with bright red running shoes, drew a few amused glances from passersby, but he ignored them. For the next thirty minutes, Luke jogged around the park under the slowly ascending moonlight. Clouds played peek-a-boo with the moon, like adults teasing a child. After making a full circle, he returned to the same bench, drenched in sweat, struggling to catch his breath. His legs trembled, dancing to the rhythm of his pounding heart. He was exhausted. As Luke leaned back, the streetlamp beside him cast a faint glow, illuminating his sweat-drenched shirt.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. A gruesome scar was visible on his back¡ªlike an imprint on wet cement. He had borne it his whole life. Yet, as the cold breeze from the lake brushed against him, it felt warm, soothing his back like the gentle flutter of a butterfly''s wings. A small smile crept across his lips. Once he had calmed down, Luke grabbed his phone, wiped the sweat from the screen with the inside of his shirt, and checked his comment. He felt slightly pleased¡ªit had received over 100 likes and several comments, most of them agreeing with his hatred for the MC, Arryn. He kept scrolling until his vein throbbed at a particular reply: --- **I_am_G:** What are you talking about? Arryn''s job is to kill the enemy. He did it, didn¡¯t he? Arryn never told anyone to follow him, yet they did¡ªbecause of his aura and leadership. He is a great MC with a poor story. --- "You piece of shit. You finally showed up, huh?" Luke muttered, already typing his response. He had beefed with this anonymous user countless times. This user didn¡¯t just argue with Luke but also with many others who despised Arryn. --- **Luke_SW:** People followed him because of his leadership? What? Are you serious? They followed him because he is a prince and his father is the king. It¡¯s that simple. His father ensured his son was protected until the end, even throwing away Royal Knights'' lives like balloons. You need to read the novel again properly. --- Luke hit send without hesitation, as if the user already knew what he would type. Sure enough, the reply arrived instantly. --- **I_am_G:** As usual, so cute with your Arryn hate. Then let¡¯s say you had the power to change the story. What would you do? --- Luke didn''t even pause before typing: --- **Luke_SW:** Easy. I would have the other six continents wage war against Arryn¡¯s for their injustices, kill Arryn, wipe out his entire continent, and free their people. --- He smirked, proud of his words, and waited for a response. The user usually responded within a second, but for the first time, none came. *Can you really do it?* Suddenly, a strange whisper echoed behind his ears. Luke jolted off the bench, fear gripping him as he whipped around, his eyes darting behind it. ¡°Who''s there?!¡± he shouted. Nothing. Just an empty grass field, moths circling the streetlamp, and eerie silence blanketing the lakeside park. ''It must be my imagination.'' Still feeling uneasy, Luke took a deep breath and sat back down. He exhaled slowly, calming his nerves, and blinked as a moth flitted past his face. And in that blink¡ª ¡°A-AAHHHH!¡± Luke stumbled backward, his seat clattering to the ground. His panicked gaze snapped to his hand, where a bastard sword gleamed under dim candlelight. The sword weighed down his hand, and he threw it away in shock, jolting back until his back hit the wall. Luke, confused, scanned the large room with restless eyes. A massive wooden table stretched before him, cluttered with half-filled pitchers and empty booze bottles. Shelves of liquor lined the walls, with rusted, dust-covered swords and shields hanging between them. At the far end of the room, a single door loomed beneath a mounted green horn. The white brick walls, stained with old blood and steeped in the stench of booze, enclosed him. A small chandelier, its numerous candles flickering, dangled from the ceiling, casting restless shadows over the room. Luke''s breath hitched. "This place... why do I know this place?" He struggled to process what he was seeing, unable to believe his eyes. Doubt crept in, making him question if he was hallucinating. Yet, everything around him seemed to insist¡ªthis was real. *BOOM!* The door exploded in a violent eruption of splinters, sending fragments skittering across the floor. A dense cloud of dust billowed into the room, thick and suffocating, as the air crackled with the force of the blast. Luke''s body froze. His mind raced, dredging up memories he shouldn¡¯t have. A figure emerged from the dust, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps. He held a sword glowing with white light, his smile wide, condescending. A deep, taunting voice rang out. "So, you¡¯re the first villain I have to kill, huh?" Luke''s throat tightened as he whispered the name of the man standing before him. "Arryn Rocheford." [The Hero¡¯s Journey continues...] Chapter 02: The Hero Arrives With A Bang Chapter 02: The Hero Arrives With A Bang Long golden hair, mischievous golden eyes, a disdainful grin, an arrogant posture, and a divine gleaming sword in hand¡ªcheck. Like a mental checklist, Luke quickly analyzed the man before him and confirmed his identity. As his heartbeat thundered in his ears, the truth settled in¡ªthis was Arryn Rocheford, the very protagonist of the novel he despised. Arryn¡¯s hair, long and smooth, shimmered with an otherworldly sheen that even the gods envied. His eyes, predatory and golden, sent shivers through anyone who dared to meet them. Framed by his wicked smirk, he exuded the arrogance of a man utterly convinced of his own superiority. Yet, his flawless, radiant skin gave him an angelic aura, making people feel compelled to bow before him. Arryn was dressed in a medieval-style white lace-up shirt, brown leather trousers, and black boots. A sword sheath hung from his waist, adding to his divine yet threatening presence. Even if these features didn''t reach people''s ears, his sword did. The longsword, entirely composed of white divine light, overshadowed the moon¡¯s glow. To his followers, it was a beacon of calm serenity; to his enemies, it was a harbinger of fear and inevitable death. ¡°Hiding underground. A perfect hole for a rat like you,¡± Arryn sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He let out a slightly dissatisfied sigh before continuing, ¡°How disappointing. I expected a swarm of your men. Instead, I found a handful of wretches guarding a filthy alleyway. This is the legacy of the so-called underground ruler of Lestead?¡± Luke remained rooted in shock, his gaze fixed on Arryn. His legs trembled uncontrollably, though the large table hid his shaking from Arryn¡¯s view¡ª otherwise, Arryn wouldn''t have wasted his time speaking to him. ¡®Don¡¯t tell me¡­ I¡¯ve transmigrated into this novel. Why is this bastard here?¡¯ Arryn¡¯s sudden appearance was an impossibility Luke had never considered. His mind swayed between shock and hysteria, teetering on the brink of an internal collapse¡ªuntil an acrid, metallic stench slapped him back to reality. As the dust from an explosion settled behind Arryn, Luke¡¯s eyes tracked its source. Luke''s mind screamed at him to flee as he witnessed severed heads scattered among more than a dozen corpses, resting where they had fallen. And yet¡­ not a single drop of blood marred the floor. The sheer terror in the severed heads'' faces pierced Luke¡¯s eyes, making him question what kind of death they had suffered. Luke''s stomach churned. His grip on the table tightened as his legs nearly gave out. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, and leaning on the table for support, he understood in that moment the fate awaiting him next¡ªdeath. Arryn observed Luke¡¯s pitiful state with detached interest, as if he had already lost interest in his prey. ¡°Weak-Leg Errol,¡± he mused. ¡°I can''t believe you had the gall to try to steal my divine sword.¡± Arryn tightened his grip on his sword, preparing to cleave Luke in half and end things quickly. Meanwhile, Luke¡¯s eyes remained locked on a half-filled glass pitcher nearby. In an instant, like clear brown alcohol, Luke¡¯s thoughts became crystal clear. This shift piqued Arryn¡¯s curiosity, and he waited, intrigued by Luke¡¯s next move.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Finally, Luke regained his composure, his legs steadying as he recalled the name Arryn had just called him: *Weak-Leg Errol.* ¡®Errol Wynter! I¡¯m in Errol Wynter¡¯s body¡­ If it¡¯s Errol, then there¡¯s a possibility.¡¯ Luke¡¯s mind raced with possibilities. His heartbeat slowed with each calculated moment. His eyes darted toward the sword he had tossed earlier, lying to his left, then to a shelf filled with dusty shields, swords, and bottles of booze. He weighed his options. ¡®I could throw this pitcher at Arryn. It won¡¯t hurt him, but it might startle him enough for me to grab the sword and¡ª No¡­ He¡¯s a Star-Bearer. I can¡¯t defeat him like that.¡¯ His thoughts shifted again. ¡®What if I throw the booze and weapons at him to distract him, then dash through the door and escape? No¡­ Still dead.¡¯ ¡°Hey, Weak-Leg.¡± Arryn tapped his foot impatiently. ¡°Are you planning to do something? Or do I put you out of your misery now?¡± Luke, after a moment of clarity, fixed his gaze on the pitcher. Luke grabbed it, gulping down the bittersweet booze without hesitation, emptying it in seconds. The burn steadied him. Then, abruptly, he hurled the empty pitcher¡ªnot at Arryn, but to the side, where the sword lay. The glass shattered. Arryn narrowed his eyes, puzzled by Luke¡¯s strange behavior. Before he could react, Luke stepped out from behind the table, facing Arryn directly. No weapon in hand. No defensive stance. Just two bloodshot eyes staring right at him, raw and unwavering. For a brief moment, Arryn smirked. This Errol Wynter was showing defiance¡ªsomething unexpected. But before the smile could linger for even a second, it vanished with Luke¡¯s next action. Without warning, Luke dropped to both knees, spreading his arms to show he was unarmed. Before Arryn could scoff, Luke slammed his forehead against the wooden floor. A loud crack echoed as blood splattered onto Arryn¡¯s boots. Luke''s head collided with the floor, causing blood to stream from his forehead. His clenched fists betrayed his mounting frustration, and his bent posture resembled that of someone pleading for forgiveness. ¡°A royal bow before a prince? How pathetic.¡± Arryn clicked his tongue in distaste. Any expectation he had vanished. Luke heard the rumbling sound of the sword being sheathed, the light from the blade illuminating the entire room before slightly dispersing. Luke could tell that Arryn had sheathed his sword, and in that moment, he knew he wouldn''t be killed. Luke nearly collapsed in relief. Luke had thought of many ways to escape or even kill Arryn. But none ensured victory. Then, he recalled a chapter from the novel. Among noble bloodlines, a tradition existed: if someone threw away their weapon, bowed, and bled in surrender, even traitors had to be forgiven. Even if that person had tried to kill them. As a prince, Arryn Rocheford was bound by this custom. And more importantly, divine sword wielders feared that killing someone who bowed before them would sully their blade, possibly stripping them of their ability to wield divine power. Luke banked everything on this belief. Even though he had secured a chance to live another day, tears trickled down his face. The man he hated with all his heart, the man he wished dead in every chapter, the man he had dreamed of killing himself¡ªhe was now bowing before him. The humiliation burned inside him. ¡°You made a clever decision, I¡¯ll admit, but¡­¡± Arryn paused. Fear gripped Luke again as he heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. The room''s illumination increased slightly, with Arryn''s sword casting a sharp shadow over him. The weight of Arryn¡¯s bloodlust bore down on him, as if Arryn had pressed his boot against his head, pinning him down. ¡®Why is he unsheathing his sword? Is he going to kill me? Why? Why?¡¯ Luke''s mind spiraled in panic. Questions overwhelmed him as he struggled to understand Arryn''s actions, yet no answer came. As Luke¡¯s mind clouded with more fear, he could feel the light of Arryn''s sword directly above his head, like a blade aimed down at him while his head was trapped in the pillory. Yet, even in all this, the radiant light from the sword sparked a single thought in his mind: ¡®I can¡¯t escape this.¡¯ ¡°Say your prayers, Errol Wynter,¡± Arryn declared. Arryn lifted his sword high, and Luke began to scream as his demise neared. In the blink of an eye, Arryn brought the sword down, but just as it was about to strike, ¡°Masym Rete! Masym Rete!¡± Luke screamed a single name, causing Arryn¡¯s blade to stop mere inches from his skull. Golden eyes darkened with sudden intrigue. ¡°Speak!¡± Arryn ordered, his voice carrying a new edge of interest, yet his sword hovered in place. Luke, forehead still pressed against the floor, gasped for breath. ¡°I will give you¡­ Masym Rete!¡± [The Hero¡¯s Journey continues¡­] Chapter 03: You Are a Liar Chapter 03: You Are a Liar "Masym Rete! Why do you know him?" Arryn''s voice was sharp and demanding, his predatory eyes locking onto Luke¡¯s gaze. Blood trickled down his forehead, yet Luke didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, he returned Arryn¡¯s stare unwaveringly and responded, "Because Masym Rete is a regular buyer of ours, and he is the one who ordered me to steal your divine sword." Arryn stayed silent for several moments, his expression inscrutable. The tension only escalated Luke''s anxiety, his mind torn between fleeing or begging for mercy. Yet a small part of him kept repeating: ¡®Take the bait. Take the bait already.¡¯ Blood pooled at his feet. His vision wavered from the head injury and the remnants of intoxication clouding his mind. Consciousness flickered, and memories surfaced¡ª Memories he couldn''t distinguish from Errol Wynter¡¯s past or his own recollections of reading about him. --- Under the same roof, beneath a swaying chandelier, in a room lined with shelves brimming with alcohol¡ª A man slouched in a grand chair, boots propped up on an oak table. His unkempt black hair fell over tired brown eyes, and his crimson shirt, stained with spilled booze, clung to his lean frame. His black pants, dirtied at the knees, only made his stick-thin legs look more frail. But the true mark of menace lay in his boots¡ªscuffed, worn, and streaked with dried blood. Errol Wynter. Yet this was not the same man who had once bowed before Arryn. He looked pitiful, exhaustion weighing on his frame, but his voice carried a slurred, venomous bite as he barked at the man bowing before him at the wide-open doorway. "How many times do I have to say it?! Don¡¯t bring up that bastard¡¯s name in front of me! I don¡¯t care if Arryn is in Lestead City or not." Errol¡¯s voice slurred with frustration. The figure at the door lifted his gaze slightly and repeated the message he was sent to deliver: "Your sister orders you to remain hidden until Arryn departs the city. She insists you must not cross his path, Sir Errol." Errol''s eyes flared with rage. "What?!" He shot to his feet so abruptly that the chair scraped against the floor with a screech. "I run Lestead¡¯s underground market! And she wants me to cower in hiding because of some sanctimonious prince?!" With a furious swing, Errol hurled the glass pitcher in his hand at the messenger. It barely missed, flying past him¡ª Only to freeze mid-air. With a flick of a hidden hand, the pitcher hovered as if suspended by invisible strings before drifting back to the table. The trick hadn¡¯t been performed by the bowing man, but by another presence lurking in the shadows of the hallway. Errol, now unsteady on his feet, collapsed back into his chair with a dissatisfied frown. "Tch. Useless. Tell my sister that Errol will be the one to kill Arryn. Now get out." Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!Errol gestured for the person bowing to leave, as applause echoed from the hallway, praising his brave words. The messenger rose and turned around without uttering a word. As his footsteps slowly faded into the darkness of the hallway, they abruptly disappeared¡ªas if he had been swallowed by it. Errol¡¯s smirk deepened. It wasn¡¯t just the sound of footsteps that had disappeared. So had the man¡¯s life. A wave of dark energy surged from the hallway. Errol grabbed a nearby bottle and took a swig as the shadow crept into the room, extinguishing the candlelight until only darkness remained. "Why are you here? My sister¡¯s not in the city." Errol spoke between gulps, unaffected by the suffocating blackness surrounding him, having long grown accustomed to such trickery. His only focus was to end the conversation quickly. A whisper slithered through the blackness, gentle yet chilling. "I came for you." Errol chuckled, the shock short-lived. "Me? And what exactly do you want from me?" The whisper coiled around his ear, warm and insidious. "I want you to steal Arryn¡¯s divine sword." --- A fleeting dream, far too real, made Luke regain his consciousness. He found himself lying on his back, staring at the flickering candlelight on the ceiling, and wondered, ¡®Why isn¡¯t any wax dripping?¡¯ Like a sudden jolt pulling him back to the present, a sharp sting in his forehead snapped him back to reality. Luke touched the spot, expecting to feel blood¡ªbut the wound was gone. Not even a scar remained. Only the crimson stains on his hands proved it had been real. In shock, Luke stood with great struggle. His legs trembled, but he fought to stay standing. His eyes scanned the room, searching for his tormentor. Arryn stood by the liquor shelves, inspecting a bottle as if Luke were of no concern. For a moment, Luke eyed the front door, the temptation to dash toward it and escape while he still could weighing heavily on him. Instead, he turned toward Arryn and took a single step forward. The movement caught Arryn''s attention, making it clear¡ªLuke had made the right decision not to run. "Oh! Weak-legs, you''re finally awake!" Arryn grinned, grabbing a bottle from the shelf and hurling it toward Luke. "Catch!" The bottle¡¯s arc was short¡ªit would never reach him. Luke would have to run forward to catch it, but his legs were in no condition to move. He simply watched as the bottle crashed between them. Arryn maintained his smile, silently delivering a message: *If you can¡¯t run to catch that bottle, how will you run from me? Don¡¯t even think about escaping.* Luke clenched his fists. Arryn stepped closer, expression darkening as he unsheathed his divine sword. "I¡¯m going to ask you three questions." Luke''s heart raced, but a faint smile tugged at his lips¡ªone too subtle for Arryn to perceive. Satisfaction coursed through his mind as he thought, ¡®He took the bait.¡¯ Arryn raised his divine sword between them, its hilt pointed downward and blade held upright. His voice resonated with unwavering authority: "You may answer however you like. You can lie, you can tell the truth¡ªbut I will be the one to determine whether you are truthful or a liar." ¡®Here comes Arryn¡¯s selfish judgment.¡¯ Luke understood Arryn''s words all too well, having read about them in the novel. He knew this judgment was nothing more than self-gratification. Arryn didn''t seek the truth. He had already decided the answers he wanted to hear. If the responses matched his expectations, he would let the person live. If not¡ª Arryn¡¯s divine sword pulsed suddenly as he asked his first question, ¡°What do you know about Masym Rete and his identity?¡± Luke didn''t hesitate. "Enough to point my finger at Masym Rete." Luke couldn¡¯t discern whether Arryn was convinced by his answer, as Arryn¡¯s face remained obscured behind the divine sword¡¯s white light. Without commenting on the first question, the divine sword pulsed again, and Arryn¡¯s voice asked the second question, "Why should I keep you alive after you lose your purpose when you¡¯ve revealed Masym Rete?" Luke swallowed hard and responded in a solemn tone, "You don¡¯t have to. I accept any fate¡ªso long as you kill Masym Rete." The sword flared a final time. "Why did you and Masym Rete want my divine sword?" Luke hesitated, unlike his previous prompt responses. His mind scrambled for the right answer¡ª *Money? Fame? Power?* But none of them felt convincing. Then, a faint memory surfaced before his eyes, and instinctively, he spoke: "We stole it to kill you with your own sword. Look at me! I run the underground market of Lestead City! And you expect me to live in hiding because of a self-righteous prince like you visiting my city?" The moment Luke¡¯s answer reached Arryn¡¯s ears, the sword stood between them, and in an instant, its edge was at Luke¡¯s throat. With an unwavering voice, Arryn declared, "Errol Wynter, you are a liar." [The Hero¡¯s Journey continues...]