Reincarnated As A First Rate Villain: I Don't Know How To Play My Role Chapter 43

The morning sun of the Valderian Empire glead down upon the middle wall district, casting golden light across the bustling cobbled streets. rchant stalls lined the avenue like a chaotic mosaic of color—fruits in pyramid displays, bolts of fine silk fluttering like banners, and hawkers shouting the rits of their wares in rhythmic chants. Horses trotted past, their hooves clacking against stone, and the general hum of daily life echoed through the alleys and plazas.

But suddenly, the commotion faltered. Heads turned, and voices dropped into hushed awe. From around the corner rolled a luxurious, obsidian-black carriage, carved with silver accents that shimred like moonlight. Its wheels bore the stylized crest of a scorpion—sharp and intricate. The symbol of House Obrechtz.

"That’s... the Obrechtz crest, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, yeah! Look at those guards!"

"Heavily armored... those are A-rank knights, no doubt. What’s a duchal house like that doing here in the middle wall?"

"Shh! Keep your voice down. You don’t want to be overheard."

Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves. rchants whispered behind raised hands. Even the local guards stood straighter as the scorpion-marked carriage passed by, its presence invoking both dread and curiosity.

Inside the carriage, nestled on a velvet seat of deep sapphire, sat a petite girl with long black hair tied in twin ribbons and eyes that glead like polished obsidian. Helena Obrechtz.

Only four years old, yet her deanor carried a weight far beyond her years. Her small brows were furrowed, lips pursed in deep contemplation. Her tiny black boots swung slightly as she sat, legs not quite long enough to touch the floor.

Her mind was not on the scenery outside but on the mory from yesterday. A mory that continued to replay in her head.

At the Obrechtz mansion, she had been in her sister Katarina’s room. The two of them looked similar—sa black eyes, sa long raven hair, sa heart-shaped face—but only Helena carried the burden of mory from a past life.

Katarina, seated with her back straight like a proper noble, had been radiant with excitent. "I still can’t believe I awakened an SSS rank potential helena" she said, her voice brimming with pride.

Helena tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Just like in the last tiline..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Helena said with a small smile. "Sister, may I asked again, when you awakened, did you see anything... strange?"

Katarina blinked, about to answer when her face suddenly drained of color. She stared into the air—no, into the translucent screen hovering before her. Helena, who was listening intently have also received the system error ssage.

"The system... it says it’s shutting down..." Katarina whispered.

The two sister’s look at each other with confusion and eyes that were seeking for clarification on what they saw.

Almost imdiately, the chamber erupted into motion. Guards rushed in. Maids dropped trays in alarm. Panic spread like wildfire through the estate.

————

Back in the present, Helena tapped her gloved fingers against her chin, her eyes distant.

Father said not to worry, she reminded herself. Grand Duke Maximilian had reassured them all during the ergency family assembly.

"The awakening of mana will still proceed," he had said. "The six branches have confird it. But... the system itself—the one that tracks growth, skills, and classes—it may be gone forever."

That had struck Helena like a bell.

If the system was gone, then the rules had changed. The advantages they had in their past lives might no longer apply. Her hands tightened in her lap.

"Is it because of us...? The 16 of us... being sent back?"

She didn’t have an answer. But her instincts told her the timing was no coincidence.

The carriage slowed to a halt.

A knock sounded on the door. "Young Lady Helena, we have arrived."

Helena blinked and composed herself. She smoothed her dress and adjusted the ribbon in her hair. The carriage door opened, revealing an old man with short gray hair, a scar running along his jaw, and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

Damien.

An Obrechtz knight of high esteem—silent, deadly, but gentle to Helena.

He held out his hand. "Careful now, Young Miss."

Helena placed her small gloved hand into his palm and stepped gracefully out of the carriage. The scent of dust and city life hit her at once—baked bread from a nearby stall, the musk of horses, the perfu of nobles passing by.

They stood in the heart of the middle wall’s southern quarter. A wide street branched ahead, leading toward the local Church of Elyssira. Helena’s eyes imdiately found what she was searching for.

An orphanage. Tucked to the right of the grand church, it was modest—weather-worn bricks, flower beds tended by small hands, a faded sign that bore the tree of Elyssira.

Her eyes narrowed.

This is the place, she thought. If she’s here, I’ll find her.

Kthonix Aethoria. The future Saintess. One of the future heroes and a regressor like her.

In the previous tiline, she had risen from nothing—an orphan turned holy icon. Her awakening had been legendary. Her faith had rallied tens of thousands.

Now, Helena stood at the beginning of it all.

She tilted her head, strands of black hair shifting in the wind. The double moons hung high, though faint in daylight.

She murmured softly, almost reverently:

"Now then... where are you, Miss Future Saintess?"

With a nod to Damien, the two of them began walking toward the orphanage gates.

___________________________

At the northern edge of the Valderian Empire, nestled among the towering frostbitten peaks, stood the mighty estate of House Dragelheim—its walls thick and pale like ancient ice, its banners depicting the sigil of a coiled dragon breathing frost. The air here was sharp with cold and thick with pride. Dragelheim, the Guardian of the North Peaks, not only protected the Empire from the frostbeasts that prowled the permafrost valleys but also housed so of the richest mines of frost and earth mana gemstones in the continent.

The estate was vast, accommodating nearly four million citizens under the protection and administration of the Dragelheim household. Life here was built around steel, discipline, and reverence for strength. Soldiers trained in the courtyards. Blacksmiths forged enchanted tools and weapons. Mana veins pulsed beneath the mountainous terrain.

Within the heart of this cold dominion, behind the towering frostglass windows of the main mansion, a young boy was drenched in sweat. His cerulean hair clung to his forehead, and his aqua eyes burned with focused determination.

Dragomir von Dragelheim, son of Grand Duke Siegfried Helmwart Dragelheim and Archduchess Adelaide Freiin von Dragelheim, stood barefoot on the polished training floor. Though only five years of age, the boy had already begun pushing the limits of his small body, practicing sword stances passed down through generations of warrior nobility.

He exhaled heavily, dropping the short wooden training blade from his hand. It clattered softly against the floor. His chest rose and fell with each breath. His thin tunic was soaked through, nearly translucent in places, sticking to his skin.

Dragomir sat down and leaned against a nearby pillar, allowing the cold air of the mansion to wash over him. As he wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, his thoughts wandered—not toward toys or tutors like any child his age might—but to the unnerving event that had shaken the entire estate the night before.

The System Shutdown ssage.

It had appeared without warning, stunning not only Dragomir, but the entire household. Guards had rushed through the halls. Scholars debated in whispers. Even the Archduchess herself had furrowed her brow in concern. The Dragelheim estate, known for its unshakeable calm, had felt its foundations rattle.

Dragomir was no ordinary child. He was a regressor. One of the 16 reincarnated heroes brought back in ti.

He had seen the end. The ruin.

In the tiline that had been erased, he and the other heroes fought until their final breath. They had stood together against the Abyssian King, whose power had twisted reality itself. And just when victory seed almost within reach, it happened—he appeared.

Lucien Caelum Velebrandt.

Once the heir to a noble house.

Once a human.

But in that tiline, Lucien had turned his blade not only against the Empire, but against his own blood. Dragomir still rembered the horror in the reports: the Velebrandt estate razed to the ground, its people slaughtered in a single night by their own lord. The flas could be seen from miles away. It had sent shockwaves through the nobility and shaken morale across every front.

And then, in the final battle, the Abyssian King had called upon him. Lucien, now Abyssian—corrupted, monstrous, powerful—had stood shoulder to shoulder with the enemy.

Dragomir gritted his teeth.

There had been no bond between them. No friendship. Lucien was older, distant, and had never been close to the heroes. But his betrayal stung like a poison. Not because of love lost, but because of the sheer devastation he had caused.

"Not again," Dragomir muttered to himself, his voice quiet but sharp.

He clenched his tiny fist, his knuckles pale.

"This ti, we’ll stop him before it begins. I don’t care how powerful he becos. If I must climb the mountains of blood and corpses to protect the Empire... I will."

His small body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from sheer conviction. The kind of resolve no child should have to carry. But Dragomir, like the others, had already died once. In this life, he would not let history repeat itself.

The doors to the training room creaked open softly.

A steward entered with a polite bow, holding a warm towel and a fresh robe. "Young Master Dragomir, your mother has requested your presence in the solar. There is news from the capital."

Dragomir took the towel wordlessly, wiping his neck as he stood up. His legs ached from training, but he welcod the pain. It reminded him that he was still alive—that this was a new chance.

"I’ll be right there," he said, his tone calm, but his heart already preparing for war.