Transmigrated as the Villain: I Will Destroy Fate

Ronan stood near the edge of the scene, watching without expression as the two children conversed.

His stance was relaxed. His hands rested loose at his sides. His usual polite small wasn’t there. Right now he was alone in his mind. There was no need performing for an audience that did not exist here.

As Ronan watched, he realized this was not a dream.

It was a memory.

His memory.

But not from his perspective.

That bothered him a little bit.

He remembered Sophia. Not perfectly, but well enough. A girl from the orphanage. Too kind for her own good. Stubborn in small ways. Someone who kept coming back even when he ignored her.

She was his first friend. Before they split up, he had been fond of her.

Not in a dramatic way, but funnily enough, it had changed his life.

He hadn’t known himself capable of such emotions before that moment.

That made the memory strange.

Why would the ritual show him Sophia’s perspective?

Ronan thought through the possibilities.

The Soul Path ritual may not be testing what he remembers, but how he exists in the memories of others.

Or maybe the advanced soul path does not treat identity as something owned only by the self.

A soul is not just what a person thinks they are. It is also the shape they leave behind in other people.

That possibility interested him, even though it was just a theory. It seemed unlikely however.

Because if the soulspace could pull Sophia’s memory, then this test was not limited to his own mind. Or perhaps this was a projection of what he thought of Sophia, but that also seemed unlikely.

When he was Ren, he never thought people actually had a wide array of emotions. In his mind, everyone was like him, and they were all putting on an elaborate act for reasons he couldn’t understand.

He knew better now.

Ronan looked at the younger version of himself sitting beside Sophia.

Ronan watched him without emotion, standing right beside the two holographically.

He did not feel nostalgia exactly. Just mild interest. He was still trying to figure out why this scene was being shown.

Then, the orphanage memory cracked.

The walls bent inward, then shattered into falling light.

Ronan expected another memory from his life as Ren.

Instead, the floor beneath him became polished marble. The air changed, now smelling like candle wax, ink, and expensive wood. Heavy tapestries appeared along massive stone walls, and carved flame motifs that he recognized all too well decorated the furniture and paintings.

He recognized the Ashbourne estate immediately.

Not from his own lived experience.

From the original Ronan’s memories.

The scene settled into a private study.

Young Ronan stood in the center, maybe seven or eight years old, surrounded by several adults in formal Academy robes.

He held a thick mana theory text open in his small hands, reciting a complex passage about core stabilization during minor stage transitions.

He was not struggling.

He was perfect.

Calm voice. Clean posture. Every word was pronounced correctly, every concept explained with clarity beyond his far beyond his years.

When one of the tutors asked a follow-up question meant for students twice his age, young Ronan answered without pause. He explained mana pathway interference patterns, the risks of premature purification, and why most students plateau at Rank 1 peak stage before breaking through.

The adults were pleased.

One woman called him a child prodigy.

An older man said the Ashbourne heir had inherited the family’s brilliance, and he would be the future.

Young Ronan smiled because that was what he was supposed to do.

Current Ronan watched from the side, expression blank.

But the memory did not feel triumphant.

Young Ronan was not happy.

He was performing happiness because every adult in the room expected it.

The praise did not feel warm, to him. It felt like ownership in the most vague sense. Every compliment sounded less like "well done" and more like "continue being useful."

Vulcan entered near the end of the demonstration.

The room straightened around him.

Suddenly, Ronan felt emotions rush through him. Anticipation, fear, love. These were the emotions of the original Ronan.

Young Ronan became even more careful. His posture improved. His expression settled into one neutral and composed.

When Vulcan asked him to repeat his earlier explanation about core fracture risks, young Ronan did so immediately, this time with even better wording.

Vulcan listened without visible emotion.

Then he gave a small nod.

"Ronan, you mustn’t waste your talent, understood? You are my heir, we must cultivate you to your greatest potential."

Everyone treated that as praise.

Young Ronan did too, his small smile widening slightly. Ronan felt a sense of pride, love and happiness flow through him at Vulcan’s praise, which came from the Young Ronan.

But current Ronan understood the problem from that statement immediately. That statement was not praise.

The memory shifted.

The study dissolved into darkness, then reformed into a child’s bedroom.

Young Ronan sat alone on his bed, still awake even though moonlight filtered through the curtains and the rest of the estate had gone silent hours ago.

Books were stacked beside him. Mana theory. Noble etiquette. Ashbourne history. Flame pathway foundations. Political geography. Advanced arithmetic. Combat formation basics.

He was tired. Ronan could fell that through the link.

But not only that, current Ronan could see it in the way young Ronan’s eyes struggled to stay focused, in the way his small hands kept rubbing at his face. You didn’t need a mental link to see he was tired, anyone with functioning eyes could.

But he kept reading.

Because tomorrow someone would ask him questions again.

If he answered well, they would smile.

If he failed, the smiles would vanish.

Ronan knew those were the reasons for his actions. The Young Ronan wanted to be praised.

Young Ronan turned another page, his lips moving silently as he memorized a passage about lesser noble house hierarchies in the Central Domain. His eyelids drooped. He slapped his own cheek lightly, forcing himself awake.

Current Ronan watched without expression.

He understood now.

The original Ronan had not been lazy from birth. He had been praised for performance and valued for usefulness.

And when his mother died and his talent disappeared, the adults who once smiled at him stopped caring.

Young Ronan finally fell asleep over his books, still dressed, still sitting upright against the headboard. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Current Ronan turned away from the scene.

The scene cracked again.