Messy Confession

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[Nemesis Index]

You are inside the body of a villain—a figure instinctively hated by the readers world. Each time you commit something significant, the world itself will judge you directly.

[World Rejection]

The direct effect of the Nemesis Index. When too many characters hold a poor opinion of you, the world will progressively reject and resist you. There are five stages: beginning with Dormant, where only a handful despise you and no penalties apply, up to Erasure, where even the smallest mistake could lead to your death.

[Enemy of the Story]

You are a wretched villain. Every single action of yours will invite suspicion and questioning. Make sure you can provide a rational explanation—or risk turning more people against you. (+10% experience gain from hostile encounters, +5% intimidation to NPCs)

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Yeah. Bullshit. So, to put it short—no matter what I do, I’ll just end up turning myself into the story’s main enemy.

I mean, look at how all of these abilities resonate.

With this cursed Title [Enemy of the Story], I’m convinced that even if I feed a stray cat, people will assume it’s just some cheap attempt to look good.

And if I choose to stay silent, refusing to explain that my actions were genuine? My [Nemesis Index] will rise, until the world itself finally rejects me completely.

So this is the clever little plan they tried to draft for me, huh?

To make me into a villain strong enough to unite humanity against me and prevent the end of the world?

How poetic.

Well, joke’s on them.

Even without these complicated stats, I could pull that off easily.

After all, making people hate me has always been my specialty.

---

Naval Gordon had just finished his training as a military policeman three months ago.

Something his father absolutely hated. The man always said he wanted to see him donning the uniform of a Conqueror, fighting on the frontlines.

But wasn’t that just another way of saying he wanted his son to die early?

Conquerors were indeed glorified—praised as humanity’s heroes and immortalized in history.

But hey, was that worth getting your body torn apart by those grotesque, monstrous abominations?

Because once you crossed the Borderlands, what awaited you was not the world everyone knew. It was a place filled with monsters, atrocities, and ever-lurking misfortune.

No surprise, then, that in the past twenty years, voluntary enlistment as Conquerors had steadily declined.

The result? Most participants were now taken from prisoners. Tempted with the promise of a full pardon, criminals were sent to a military school called the Academy—six months of brutal training, before being marched beyond the Borderlands.

Luckily, Naval wasn’t one of them. Since childhood, he had lived a straight life.

No criminal record. Not even a streak of delinquency. His grades were consistently above average, so joining the military police was hardly a challenge.

One month of classes, one month of perfunctory drills, and then his official induction.

After receiving his badge, Naval had already pictured the peaceful life ahead—stable income, high salary, and all he needed was a woman to warm his bed after work. That wouldn’t be difficult, considering his status. His life was set to be perfect.

His father could scold, belittle, or even swear never to acknowledge him again.

But ten years from now, the man would understand: having Naval alive by his side would mean far more than remembering him as a name in a song or a page in history.

What he hadn’t expected, though, was being assigned to District 15. The outermost city. The very edge connected to the Borderlands.

A place infamous for corruption—monitored by noble clans—and plagued by a soaring crime rate.

So high, in fact, that Naval encountered trouble on his very first night.

He was on duty with another newbies. It had been a quiet night.

Until 6 p.m. arrived… and he began hearing strange footsteps.

Like someone dragging something heavy. Growing closer to their guard post.

It didn’t take long before they saw him.

A boy. Handsome face. Blond hair. Eyes as clear as the midday sky. Dragging something filthy and heavy into the post.

Not something. Someone. No—worse. A corpse. Black-haired, eyes still wide open, skin pale with a sickly blue bruising across it.

There were five officers on duty, including Naval. They all immediately drew their pistols.

But the blond guy calmly dropped the corpse’s leg, then walked toward the complaint desk. The officers kept their aim steady, following his every move.

He glanced at one of them—at Naval—and clicked his tongue. “Are you going to keep pointing that gun at me, or do you want to get this over with?”

“What?”

Thump! Thump!

The guy patted the desk. “I’m here to confess. Confess!”

Naval exchanged looks with his comrades.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Naval sighed, lowered his weapon, and carefully moved forward, eventually taking the seat opposite the guy.

This blond guy didn’t seem to be hiding any weapons—both his hands were plainly resting on the desk.

But what about his Blessing?

Naval had heard that some graduates from the Academy underwent a Qualification Test that granted them supernatural powers. The bare minimum to survive the horrors beyond the Borderlands.

But… if this boy had really come from there, the guards should’ve reported it.

Unless he somehow managed to defeat a hundred elite soldiers stationed there and returned as a dangerous deserter.

Which was impossible.

Borderlands guards had a minimum level of 100. Not to mention they were all veteran Conquerors with countless experiences under their belts.

A mere boy who looked like a rookie cadet wouldn’t stand a chance.

But then… why did he look so familiar?

“Are you going to keep admiring my face while your comrades get cramps from holding their guns, or are you going to interrogate me already?”

The sudden jab made Naval stammer. His comrades, judging by their impatient glances, seemed to agree.

So Naval cleared his throat. “Fine. State your name, age, origin, and the issue you wish to confess.”

“Havel Maggaelhaeiss.”

Naval picked up his pen and began writing. Havel. Maggaelhaeiss—

Wait…

Naval snapped his head up. “Maggaelhaeiss?” he exclaimed. No wonder the boy seemed familiar.

But Havel ignored him and continued, “Age… eighteen, I guess? Born in this city. And the issue I’m confessing…” He glanced at the corpse sprawled near the entrance.

“...I killed someone, apparently.”