Villain’s Entrance

The storm-eyed man and his entourage had already gone inside.

The Guild doors loomed wide open, heavy wood propped back like the jaws of some waiting beast. Nathan froze at the threshold, heart pounding.

For a split second, the memory of the dungeon slammed back into him — the blood, the bodies, the stench of stone and rot. His throat tightened.

Do I run?
His gaze darted left, right. Where would he even go? Back to Seoul? Back to the murder basement?

Yeah, no thanks.
Behind him, his six henchmen stood planted in formation, silent as statues. The air pressed at his back, a wall of muscle and expectation. Retreat? Impossible.

Nowhere to go but forward.
Nathan swallowed hard and stepped inside.

The hall hit him like a cathedral built for war. Vaulted beams overhead, banners swaying with the draft, weapons glinting in racks along the walls. Mercenaries and adventurers leaned on pillars or crowded benches, every pair of eyes cutting to him the moment he entered.
And then—
Nathan’s breath nearly left his lungs.

The counter. The clerks.
A row of them, hair in perfect braids, quills scratching across parchment with divine efficiency, their neat smiles pulled straight out of every anime guild scene Nathan had ever binged on a day off.

They’re real. Guild girls are real. Somebody stop me before I start humming the opening theme song—

The spell shattered with a single hissed word.
“Monster.”
Another voice followed, low and urgent: “Hush, he’ll hear you. He’s still a war hero.”

Nathan kept walking, face blank, insides screaming.

More murmurs rippled through the peanut gallery.
“Covered in blood but not a scratch…”
“…Where are the rest of them? He went in with more—”
“Only six with him now.”

The buzz of the hall soured instantly. Conversation thinned. Jokes died in throats. Nathan forced his face into the best grim-badass cosplay he could muster—jaw tight, eyes narrowed just enough to look dangerous.

The receptionists ducked their heads quickly, quills stuttering across parchment. Everyone else just… kept staring.
His men peeled away one by one, drifting toward the flanks where other commanders’ attendants loitered—until only two shadows lingered nearby.

Which left Nathan dead center. Alone. Spotlighted.
Each step forward burned like fire under his boots, each gaze cutting into him—some wide with fear, others sharp with suspicion.

Cool. Love this. Real main character energy. Except instead of applause, I’m getting strong “please choke on your own sword” vibes.

And then—salvation.
A whiff of roasted meat.
The yeasty warmth of fresh bread.
Somewhere in this cavernous hall, someone had dared to make stew, and the smell hit Nathan like a slap to the face.

His stomach growled so loudly one of his henchmen nearby coughed to cover it.

Beer. Bread. Background NPCs eating happy tavern food. Why couldn’t he be one of them instead?

Ronan caught his attention with a small hand gesture. I’m going to have to dub him Henchman Prime—another sharp nod, his way of steering Nathan without a word.

At the far end of the hall, two attendants in spotless tabards stood sentinel by a pair of massive double doors. They looked about as cheerful as undertakers, one lifting a hand in a perfunctory gesture that meant: this way.

Nathan’s pace faltered. His boots clicked too loud on the stone, every step dragging him closer.

No. I don’t want to. Not that room. Not with all those angry faces waiting inside.

The murmurs swelled behind him, hot whispers digging like claws into his back.

Oh god. This is exactly how every anime arc of doom starts.

Nathan’s ridiculously large feet dragged forward, heavy as anchors. Not his feet, not really — Mason’s boots, Mason’s body, every step a size too big for his own skin. The attendants herded him down a dreary stone hallway lit by chandeliers dripping wax, torches twitching shadows across the walls.

Guards stood rigid at a heavy door, muffled shouting leaking through cracks, light bleeding at the seams.

Well. That sounds like my destination.

His stomach plummeted. A guard pulled the door wide, and doom greeted him like an old friend.

Inside: a cavernous chamber, a massive round table strewn with maps that looked more like battlefield entrails than strategy. Candles guttered low, smoke coiling thick in the air. Every chair filled. Every face turned toward him. None of them friendly.

And there—storm-gray eyes locked on him, fury so sharp it could flay. Gorgeous, furious, glaring straight through him.

Nathan’s stupid, borrowed foot snagged on its stupid, borrowed boot and he nearly face-planted.

Before storm-eyes could erupt, another voice cracked across the chamber like stone splitting. Deep. Rough. Commanding.

An older bear of a man sat at the table, hair streaked with gray, shoulders thick as fortress walls. Authority rolled off him in waves.

Guildmaster. Has to be.

He raised a heavy hand, stopping the storm-eyed man cold. “Kieran. Hold. We are all curious to hear what Mason has to say.”

Nathan went rigid. Kieran?
Storm-eyes is Kieran?

The same Kieran his men had muttered about on the wagon. Rage incarnate, burning in those eyes—every ounce of it aimed squarely at him.

...Fuck.

The Guildmaster’s gaze sharpened like a blade. “Explain yourself.”

Hope flickered. Maybe the Guildmaster wasn’t so ba—

The man’s lip curled, voice booming like thunder. “Because it seems your ritual was a complete and utter failure.”
Hope extinguished. Nope. Bad. Very bad.

And then another voice, low and cutting: “Guildmaster, we can’t just let this pass.”
Nathan’s head turned. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blonde hair tied neatly back, not a strand daring to misbehave. Armor polished to a mirror shine, catching candlelight. And annoyingly handsome — like some rival character drawn just to upstage the protagonist.

The Guildmaster sighed. “Taron…”
Nathan froze.

Shit. Another named character. That was never good.

Taron’s eyes pinned him, cold and merciless.
“Seventeen men entered that dungeon. Nine return. The rest?” Taron’s hand cut the air like a blade. “Gone. And now whispers say your ritual got them killed. Tell me, Mason—how much blood is enough for you?”

Nathan’s brain flatlined. What the hell was Mason even doing down there? Snake oil salesman, ritual cult leader, war hero—pick a lane!

Kieran scoffed from the side, arms folded tight. “Don’t waste your breath, Taron. He’ll lie like he always does.”
Taron didn’t waver. “Then let him lie to my face.”

The silence pressed down like a slab of stone. Nathan’s lips curled into what he hoped looked like a dangerous smirk, though panic jackhammered in his chest.
“Fine. You want the truth?” He leaned forward, willing his voice not to crack.

He didn’t actually know the truth. He had no idea what Mason had promised these people, what they were expecting. He just needed something vague, something that sounded grim enough to pass.

“…The ritual failed. It didn’t work. The loss of life…” His throat bobbed. “…regrettable.”

The word slipped out stiff and brittle. Nathan winced internally. Really? Regrettable? Like I misplaced someone’s lunch order instead of eight actual human lives? Smooth, Nathan.

A ripple shuddered through the commanders — suspicion in some faces, disgust in others, and weary disappointment in the rest.

Then, from the far side of the table, a voice broke in: “What about the book?”
Nathan blinked. The what now?

Kieran leaned forward, eyes narrowing like knives. “Yes. The book. The one only you could read. The one that was supposed to bring us a weapon to end this war before it began.”

Nathan’s stomach flipped, static rushing in his ears. Book? Weapon? War?
He forced himself to nod slowly, as if considering. Then his mouth moved before his brain could stop it.

“Ah. Yes. That book. It is being… kept safe. With my men.”

The Guildmaster slammed his knuckles against the table. “Failure or farce, it cannot be ignored. The borders already seethe. Droswain pushes troops into Karth’s passes, and our scouts report banners massing by the rivers. War brews, gentlemen. We need results. We need weapons. We need certainty.”

Nathan’s stomach knotted. Fantastic. As if he wasn’t already neck-deep in murder accusations, now global politics wanted a turn.

Kieran’s voice cut through like steel on stone. “Then let me lead the next mission. If Mason claims he failed, we’ll find another dungeon with something useful. And I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The Guildmaster’s jaw flexed, gaze sweeping between them. “Approved. Get me results, Kieran. I’ve got royal decrees stacked up my ass.”

Nathan’s blood iced. Babysat by Mr. Storm-Eyes, who kept looking at him like he was sharpening knives on Nathan’s bones.

Perfect.

The council broke with the scrape of chairs, voices low and grim. Nathan turned, desperate to vanish into stew and beer. But as he stepped past, his arm brushed Kieran’s. Just a fraction of contact. Skin to skin.

Lightning. A jolt up his arm. Nathan froze. Kieran stiffened too, his eyes flicking sideways, sharp as a drawn blade.

Nathan’s throat went dry. “…Uh. Excuse me.”
Kieran didn’t move. He stepped closer instead, forcing Nathan back until cold stone pressed into his shoulders.

Too close! How tall is this guy? The body I’m in is already huge!

Kieran jabbed a finger into Nathan’s chest, voice low and lethal.
“Watch yourself. Because I’ll be watching you, Mason. Be damned sure of that.”

Then he was gone, cloak snapping behind him like a warning.

Nathan couldn’t help himself. The mutter slipped out before he could stop it.
“You watch yourself…” He brushed at his chest where Kieran’s finger had jabbed, more reflex than confidence.

Two commanders snapped their heads toward him, eyes wide like he’d just spat on the crown jewels.
Nathan stared them down, forcing his voice into a gravelly Mason-growl.
“…What?”

They flinched and turned away instantly.
Hmph. That’s right. Mind your business.

Immature. Didn’t care.
He was so done with this entire scene.

Nathan staggered back into the Guild’s main hall, stomach still grumbling, nerves shot to hell. He scanned the counters hopefully. Clerks, parchment, quills. No food. The smell of stew was still out there somewhere, mocking him.

Hungry. And god, I reek. They must have baths here, right? Please, tell me they do.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Dragged into another world, can’t even explore, can’t even eat. Bucket list: travel, adventure, food tourism. Reality: politics, death glares, and zero beer.”

The world was supposed to be magical. This wasn’t magical. This was just… stressful.

Still, he wasn’t completely alone.

At the edge of the hall, two of his henchmen waited: Ronan, grim-faced and broad as a barn door, streaks of gray threading his long hair, and Dane, younger, his orange-red hair catching in the torchlight, sharp-eyed and restless.

“Boss,” Ronan said with a stiff nod. Dane echoed it, a little softer. They led him to a corner table. One of them slid a mug across to him.
“Beer. You look like you need it.”

They read my mind!
Nathan downed half the mug in one go and sighed, blissful enough to be mistaken for prayer. “God, finally.”

Voices buzzed around the hall. Nathan caught snatches between gulps.
“…border skirmishes with Altharos again…”
“…royal decrees piling up from Eryndral’s court…”
“…no reinforcements sent from Lirathe…”

He squinted down into his drink. Eryndral. Okay. Fantasy-country name achieved. Progress unlocked. He almost tapped the rim like a gamer hitting Quest Complete.
He forced a nod, muttering just loud enough to sound casual. “Right. Good ol’ Eryndral.”

Please let that land. Please let that not sound like I just read it off a menu.

Ronan inclined his head, taking it as confirmation. “The capital’s been thick with royal decrees. Every week another edict, another tax, another rallying cry. They say the court’s trying to hold the borders together with parchment and seals alone.”

Nathan swirled the mug, pretending to savor it like a connoisseur of medieval politics. “Mm. Sounds… official.”

Neither man so much as twitched. They just stared, waiting for orders.
Nathan had nothing. He was drained on all fronts.
He finished his beer.

Finally, Dane cleared his throat. “Shall we return to the manor, Boss?”
Nathan’s head snapped up. “Manor? Wait—you’re telling me Mas—I own… an actual manor?” His voice cracked with sudden hope.

He’d been wondering if he’d have to sleep in this Guild Hall until the dungeon expedition left. This was good news.
“…Will there be food?”

The two men exchanged a look. Dane actually chuckled. Ronan’s stone face cracked for a second before snapping back into place when nearby mercenaries glanced over.
“The cook always has something ready,” Ronan said carefully.

Nathan narrowed his eyes. “…The bad cook? The one you all were talking about in the dungeon?”

Dane rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing between Ronan and the Boss.

“They’re exaggerating, Boss. I’m not that bad a cook.”
The words came out lighter, half a joke, half a defense. A younger man’s attempt at easing the tension.

Ronan’s brow twitched, the faintest crease of disapproval — but he said nothing.

A couple of the mercenaries traded looks, testing how Mason would take it.

Nathan only raised a brow, lips twitching despite himself.

The shift was small, but it let the room exhale.

“No, Boss,” Dane corrected quickly, mouth quirking in a nervous half-smile. “The food will be good. Cooked by Erich.”

Nathan raised his mug in mock salute. “Then by all means, gentlemen. Take me home.”
They cocked their heads at the phrasing but rose anyway.

As they crossed the hall, a deep roar of laughter cut through the din. Nathan’s steps faltered. He turned his head just enough to see.

Kieran.
Surrounded by a cluster of commanders and soldiers, relaxed and smiling, one hand on a comrade’s shoulder as they swapped some story. The men around him leaned in, hanging on his words. When he laughed, they laughed with him. Effortless. Natural. Beloved.

Nathan lingered, caught off guard.
Human, after all. And what a pretty smile.
Probably the only time I’ll ever see it—like this, from a distance, surrounded by people who actually wanted him there.
Not like me. Nobody here wants me anywhere near them.

Nathan forced himself to keep moving, heat crawling up his neck.

Outside, instead of the rattling wagon, a dark carriage waited, sleek wood and iron fittings gleaming under lantern light. Horses stamped and snorted, better-groomed than the ones before.

A carriage now? Why? Eh, not complaining.

Nathan hesitated before climbing in, catching sight of the polished wood, the brass fittings, the thick cushions inside. His clothes were still stiff with dried blood, his skin sticky with grime. Guilt pricked the back of his neck. He didn’t belong anywhere near something this clean.

Still, he eased himself onto the seat like a kid sneaking into a luxury car he couldn’t afford, perching gingerly as if he might leave a stain. The plush cushion dipped under his weight, soft enough to make his whole body sigh.

Grateful, at least, that no one was inside to see him, Nathan let his shoulders sag for the first time all day. Ronan and Dane had taken the bench up top beside the driver, silhouettes against the lantern glow, leaving him blessedly alone with his thoughts.

For once, he didn’t have to look dangerous. He just had to sit.

The ride through cobblestone streets ended at high gates. Beyond them sprawled a looming manor, lanterns glowing in the windows, silhouettes of armed men standing like statues along the walls.

When the carriage doors opened, the courtyard filled with bodies. Dozens, lined up rigid as mafia extras waiting for the Don.

And then, in perfect unison: “Boss!”
Nathan jumped so hard he nearly toppled. The chorus thundered, too practiced to be anything but ritual.

Ronan and Dane didn’t miss the shift. Something in their boss had changed. Not badly. Just… changed.
Nathan groaned, dragging a hand down his borrowed face. “…Just feed me first, please.”

And maybe a bath. Please, for the love of all things holy, a bath

Seoul — the same time Nathan woke up in the dungeon

Night air knifed down the alley, smelling of rain and frying oil. Neon bled across wet pavement in strips of blue and pink, puddles turning into liquid sigils.

Mason staggered out, one hand braced on brick. Strange clothes clung damp to his body; unfamiliar shoes slapped against pavement. His skull throbbed with the tail-whip of ritual backlash.

A glimmer caught his eye. In the gutter, half-soaked in rainwater, lay a leather-bound book. Its cover shimmered faintly, glyphs pulsing through cracks in the binding, as if it had been spat out alongside him.

He stooped and snatched it up. The pages whispered under his palm—warm, hungry. His lips curled. It followed me.

Closing his eyes, he reached inward.
There. A steady pulse in the deep of him, familiar as breath. Mana—his. Soul-bound. Untouched.

He reached outward.
Nothing. No leylines. No hum beneath the stones. Only wires buzzing overhead, cars growling past, the white hiss of a convenience store sign.

Dead? He blinked. No. Not dead. Different.

A doorway sighed open down the street, spilling light and a chime. Words drifted out—quick, clipped, music he’d never heard—yet his mind caught them as if he’d grown up here.

I shouldn’t understand this. Why do I—

“Nathan?”

The name snapped his head up. A young man jogged from the corner, breath ghosting in the chill, concern pinching his brows.

“Hey—are you good?” he asked in rapid Korean. “You left ages ago. What are you still doing here?”

The man stooped, lifting something from the ground: a black rectangle, spiderwebbed with cracks, glowing faintly. “Is this yours?”

Mason took it. The weight was strange, the glow stranger still. When he tilted it—

A reflection stared back.

Not the scarred brute he’d worn like a shield. Smooth skin. Dark hair tamed. Younger. Softer. The face he’d seen through the shimmer.

His breath hitched. “It worked.”

“Huh?” the friend said, half-laughing, half-worried. “Okay, you’re gone. Come on—I’ll call a taxi. Or we can grab one up on the main road.”

A hand landed on Mason’s arm—steady, familiar. Instinct prickled; he almost broke the grip. He didn’t. He let the contact sit, weighing the easy trust of a man who thought he knew him.

Mason folded his fingers tight around the cracked phone, clutching it to his chest like a relic. No runes, no glyphs, yet purpose thrummed inside it, thin and vicious as a razor. The book he tucked flat against his side, its spine bleeding faint shimmer.

A tool. His mouth curved. This world has its own kind of magic. And mine is still mine.

“Stand here,” the friend said, thumb flying across his own screen. “I’ll ping a Kakao. Faster this time of night.”

The smile sharpened. The ritual hadn’t crowned him. No surge. No godmark. Not yet. But he’d slipped the noose and landed in a city so saturated with another power that the walls glowed and the doors obeyed—even as the world itself lay silent to mana.

He rolled his shoulders in strange clothes, testing the fit of the stranger’s heartbeat against his own.

Then, aloud, he forced steadiness into his voice. “I’m fine,” Mason said in flawless Korean—and the sound of it unsettled him more than the neon. “I can manage.”

The friend blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “Uh… okay. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

Mason glanced at the cracked glass, at the ghost of his new face staring back. Text? His lips twisted. “Okay.”

Headlights swept the alley as a taxi pulled up. The friend waved it over, gave the driver an address without hesitation, then leaned in with a sigh. “Don’t puke in the cab, man.” He tugged the seatbelt across Mason’s chest, clicked it into place, and stepped back.

Mason froze at the metallic snap, eyes narrowing at the strap locking him in. Another kind of ward. Another tool.

The friend slapped the roof twice, waved him off, and continued straight up the street, ducking into the convenience store—the very one Nathan had been aiming for before the alley swallowed everything.

Neon smeared across the window as the taxi pulled away. Mason stared at the glowing meter, the strap biting across his chest, and his grin widened.

A new world, he thought. A better bargain.