Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

He was a dead body in a chair.

That's what it felt like. Azrael sat slumped at his desk, the professor's words fading into a meaningless buzz.

'This isn't right,' he thought, his mind slowly rebooting. 'This is all wrong.'

First, the heroines. Then, the hero. And now, the villains. All of them, closing in on him.

Isolde Valerius. The main villain of the novel's sixth act, the war for the throne. The mastermind who nearly brought the continent to its knees.

And Selvara Tharros. The villain of Act Two. The Ice Witch. A deadly threat the hero was supposed to face much, much later.

'And we're only in the middle of Act One,' he thought, a wave of hysteria bubbling in his chest. 'So many things are changing, and it's happening too fast.'

He remembered the original plot for Selvara. In the novel, she was supposed to be on the hero's team.

She was there on a mission from her mysterious demon-blooded clan, sent to observe a strong body.

She was meant to develop a strange fascination with him—not romance, but a cold assessment of his power.

She was supposed to stay by his side until Act Two. Then, when her plans to manipulate him failed, she would betray him, leading to her eventual death.

The readers knew, from little hints dropped here and there, that she was being forced.

During her time with the hero's group, she had started to change, to feel a confusing sense of camaraderie she couldn't understand.

She was powerful enough to have killed the hero, but her hesitation, born from those confusing feelings, had been her downfall.

The hero's plot armor wouldn't let him lose.

'The plot has been torn to shreds,' he thought, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. 'If I don't fix it, who knows what will happen.'

It felt like his responsibility now. He had to get Selvara and Kaelen together somehow.

Maybe he could plan a fight between their teams. It was a long shot, but if she could just see the hero, maybe her original mission would kick in.

He thought about his own team. Two villains. Selvara, a monster of a third-year. Isolde, a first-year, but ten times more dangerous than him.

And one heroine, Seraphina, who was incredibly powerful. Then there was the other third-year, Zeyric, and himself.

'Our team is strong,' he realized. 'Maybe too strong. We could probably wipe the floor with most of the other teams.'

"That will be all for this class."

The professor's voice cut through his thoughts. "You have lunch break now. Afternoon classes are cancelled so you can prepare for the test tomorrow."

As students began to file out, he saw Kaelen and Seraphina looking his way. Kaelen's stare was a physical thing, a promise of violence.

Azrael simply stood up and left, heading straight for the cafeteria. He grabbed a cup of bitter, black coffee and found an empty table.

But a moment was all he got.

A graceful figure came to a stop in front of his table. It was Isolde.

"Senior, I was looking for you," she said, her smile as bright and fake as a glass flower.

"For me? Why?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Did you forget?" she said, her tone light and teasing. "We have our big test tomorrow, and we're on the same team. We need a strategy."

He took a sip of his coffee. "We don't need to do that. And I don't have time for it."

Pss. She let out a small, amused laugh. "Oh, come on, senior. You have plenty of time."

He looked into her eyes. He saw the charming mask she wore. And underneath it, the cold, calculating mind of a true villain.

He stood up, placing his cup on the table. "I'm leaving."

As he turned to go, he felt a gentle but firm pressure on his back. It was her hand. She was pushing him.

He let it happen. She led him towards a large, circular table in the center of the cafeteria.

And there, sitting in tense silence, were the other members of his team. Seraphina was there. The third-year, Zeyric, was there.

"It would be rude to leave when everyone else is already waiting," Isolde said sweetly. "Come on, sit."

He was cornered. He sat down, the tension so thick he could have cut it with a knife.

No one spoke.

Seraphina was sipping juice, her eyes fixed on the table. Zeyric, a tall boy with sharp eyes, just watched everyone silently.

The only one who seemed relaxed was Isolde. She was the conductor of this silent, awkward orchestra.

"Oh," she said, looking towards the entrance. "I almost forgot. Senior Selvara said she might be a little late."

She smiled. "And look, there she is now."

Azrael's head turned. And his breath caught in his throat.

She was walking towards them, and the entire cafeteria seemed to get colder. She was tall, with skin as pale as snow and hair the color of obsidian.

But it was her eyes that were the most terrifying.

They were the color of a frozen winter sky, a pale, piercing blue that held no warmth. They scanned the room with bored, predatory arrogance.

She moved with a deadly grace, like a panther made of ice.

She reached their table and stood there, looking down at all of them, her expression one of utter disdain.

Azrael slumped in his chair, a low groan escaping his lips.

"It really would have been better if classes weren't cancelled," he muttered to himself.