Reincarnated as the Villain's Father Chapter 25: Fate and butterfly

When Willabelle and I reached the forest just outside the town, I could already see the silhouettes of a few figures gathered around a fire. They were her companions.

As we walked toward them, a man stepped out in front of us. The mont he saw Willabelle, he lowered the long spear in his hand, but his eyes narrowed at with suspicion. Willabelle must’ve noticed it too, because she stepped forward and introduced .

"This gentleman’s na is Leonardo. He saved my life. Twice. You can trust him, Donovan."

Donovan planted his spear in the ground, speaking without looking away from .

"We’re grateful you rescued Eliza. But don’t expect that to earn my trust. You ca into this forest for a reason. What is it?"

There was no open threat in his tone, but every word was weighed, asured. One of the silhouettes near the fire stood up; a tall, slender woman. She stepped closer, calling out to Donovan.

"Is it really your place to question the man Eliza brought with her?"

"No. But if I’m going to breathe the sa forest air as him, I want to know his intentions," Donovan replied, not backing down an inch.

Willabelle stepped in, her voice still calm but underlined by a quiet firmness.

"If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility. Now let him pass."

Donnovan narrowed his eyes and weighed Willabelle’s words. He finally convinced stepped aside. As we made our way to the camp, the tall woman followed us toward the fire. No sooner had Willabelle reached it than a small figure with short blonde hair ca sprinting toward her.

"Mom!"

Willabelle dropped to her knees with open arms. The child crashed into her embrace.

Watching their sweet reunion, I studied the boy. There he was. The protagonist of Hero of Justice, the very novel that shaped this world I now lived in.

With his short blond hair and bright blue eyes, he didn’t particularly resemble Willabelle, but sothing in his expression betrayed the resemblance. The determination in his gaze, the small yet stubborn wrinkle on his forehead, the strange seriousness of a child awakened too early to the world. I rembered the novel. His growth, the battles he fought, the sacrifices he made... Yet right now, he was just a five, maybe six-year-old boy clinging to his mother’s neck.

While gently stroking his back, Willabelle glanced at from the side.

"This is Magnus. My son. Magnus, this is Leonardo."

At her words, Magnus lifted his head from her shoulder. His small face was composed, almost solemn. He studied with an intensity that no child his age should possess. The blue spark in his eyes flickered with a fire barely concealed. At last, he spoke.

"Are you strong?"

I smiled. Children like him -those burdened too soon by fate-rarely bothered with small talk.

"probably," I said. "But your mother is stronger."

Magnus tilted his head slightly, as if weighing my answer. Then, he turned back to Willabelle.

"He can stay."

And just like that, the invisible tension blanketing the camp dissipated. Though a few people, Donovan included, still eyed cautiously, I was no longer an outsider. Willabelle stroked her son’s hair, then turned to .

"You must be tired. Rest by the fire. I’ll co over in a bit."

I nodded and took a seat by the flas. The tall woman was already there, kneeling to toss a few logs into the fire. She gave a brief glance but said nothing. Like she’d already made up her mind about .

"I’m Lethra," she said without taking her eyes off the fire. "Willabelle’s sworn companion. So... what’s your story, Leonardo? I heard you saved Eliza. What exactly happened?"

The fire crackled and popped as her question lingered in the air. Willabelle appeared from behind a tent, walking toward us. She called out to Lethra.

"I’ll explain everything once everyone’s gathered... For now, where’s Alya?"

The mont I heard that na, I focused in. Alya... She was the one who was supposed to save Willabelle tonight. at least, in the original story. The novel never made the event clear. It was told from Magnus’s point of view, and all it ntioned was that Willabelle returned alone, battered and grief-stricken. Then ca the scene where she inford the group of Alya’s death.

Alya was ant to die tonight trying to save Willabelle.

But that didn’t happen. Because I saved her instead. I could only hope my actions hadn’t triggered so catastrophic butterfly effect. Back when I reincarnated, this was one of the least developed parts of the novel, mostly focused on the protagonist’s childhood. I didn’t pay much attention to how my presence might alter things.

To be honest, I never thought so fucking butterfly could start a hurricane. But I’m not naïve enough to take the butterfly effect lightly either. My existence here, by definition, changes the future. Which ans I only have one real option:

To beco strong enough that no butterfly wings can shove themselves up my ass.

Still, the stronger I get, the more I alter the future. Or... maybe I won’t change it that much at all. After all, this is a novel world. Theoretically, fate exists here, because an author in my modern world once wrote the fate of this world. What if everything is programd to follow the story no matter what?

There’s one way to test that theory.

Alya.

If she doesn’t die, then it ans this world is no longer bound to the written story.

And honestly, she probably will survive. I’ve already caused a dozen deviations from the novel. But Alya was directly tied to the main character’s origin story. Everything I claid to have changed so far had ti to revert to its original trajectory. At least there was such a possibility.

Lethra looked up briefly at Willabelle’s voice, then turned her gaze back to the fire. Its flickering light reflected in her eyes; tired, but watchful. She rose quietly and checked her bag, muttering under her breath.

"Alya went to town for food. She should’ve been back by now."

Willabelle’s pace quickened slightly. She sensed sothing was off too. Just before disappearing behind the tents, she glanced my way. There was trust in her eyes... but also hesitation.

Lethra, returning to the fire, glanced sideways at and murmured,

"You’re hiding sothing, aren’t you?"

Her words didn’t surprise , but they left a chill in my chest.

"What do you an?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"You think too much. And soone who thinks that much usually has sothing to hide," she said, then paused. "I don’t believe you’ll hurt Eliza. Or Magnus. But that’s not the sa as understanding you."

Silence fell again. Only the crackling of fire and a distant owl’s cry filled the air. Then, from the forest’s edge, a shadow appeared; swift and silent. Several people instinctively reached for their weapons, but the figure was familiar.

Alya.

She was completely unhard. It was as if nothing had happened to her at all. And just like that, my annoying theory was disproven, for now. If I’d been right, I was destined to be killed by my bastard son Lucareth, no matter what I did.

Alya erged into the camp like a ghost from the treeline. A plain sack over her shoulder, a dagger at her belt, and a weariness on her face that paid no mind to the chill of the night. But her eyes were alert, her steps light. The camp fell silent.

Willabelle froze. She narrowed her eyes, studying Alya’s face. Then, she took a deep breath; controlled, not relaxed. A held-back fury, perhaps. Or a deliberate choice not to show her concern.

"You’re late," she said, her tone neutral, but a needle lay hidden beneath.

Alya didn’t look away. "The town wasn’t quiet," she replied. "Two rcenary guards tailed . I lost them. And... I found more food than expected."

She dropped the sack. Dried at, hard bread, and root vegetables spilled out. The silence gave way to murmurs of surprise and gratitude.

But I didn’t take my eyes off Willabelle. Her lips were pressed tight. Alya’s words weren’t enough for her.

Still... the fact that Alya didn’t die whispered sothing entirely new to :

I was the one writing the story now.

The novel had begun to unravel.

And the fate of this world... was now mine to shape.