Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

Azrael's body was a map of pain. The potion Isolde had given him was a cheap fix, a small candle fighting a great darkness.

Every single step sent a sharp jolt through his bruised ribs. He walked with his head down, focused on the agonizing task of moving.

Isolde led them with a calm grace that didn't belong in a death game. She looked like a princess taking a stroll in her royal garden.

'We're in a good position,' she thought, her mind a cold machine of strategy. 'Orion's team is out. That just leaves Kaelen's as the other major threat.'

'We need to build an untouchable point lead, and find a superior position for the final conflict.' She glanced back at her team, her eyes lingering on Azrael.

'And I need to see what my new toy can really do.'

Selvara walked near her, her face a cold, unreadable mask. But her mind was miles away, replaying her quiet conversation with Azrael.

I'd rather be the broken author of my own story, than the perfect star of someone else's.

She looked at him, struggling to keep up. He was weak. He was hurt. But he was not a puppet. He was fighting.

'He understands,' she thought, a strange and powerful feeling washing over her. 'He is the only one who understands.'

Seraphina stayed at the back of the group, a silent guard. Her mind was a storm of confusion, trying to solve the puzzle he had become.

He was not the boy she knew. The old Azrael was loud, proud, and foolish. This new Azrael was quiet.

He was clearly in agony, but he walked without a single word of complaint. He had won a fight he should have lost with a strange, clever trick.

'What happened to him?' she thought, chewing on her lower lip. 'Did I do this to him? When I told him I hated him… did it really change him this much?'

She felt a strange, heavy feeling in her chest. She didn't know if it was guilt, or just more confusion.

Suddenly, Isolde stopped. She raised a single, elegant hand, and the entire team froze in place.

"Company," she whispered.

From the bushes up ahead, three students burst out. They were running for their lives, their faces full of pure, animal fear.

"It's them!" one of them yelled, his voice cracking. "Team Seven! Run!"

They were clearly a broken team, their other three members already eliminated.

Isolde's smile was as sweet as honey and as cold as the grave. "Oh, don't run away," she called out. "We just want to play."

She turned her head, her ice-blue eyes landing on Azrael. "Senior Azrael, you look bored. Why don't you handle them for us?"

It was not a request. It was an order. A test.

Selvara took a small step forward, her hand on her sword, ready to intervene if he needed it.

Seraphina just stared, her eyes wide with doubt. She didn't think he could take on one person, let alone three.

The three students heard Isolde's command. They saw that Azrael was hurt. He was the weak link.

Their fear, for a single, foolish moment, turned into hope.

"It's just the weak one!" their leader, a big second-year with a battle-axe, shouted. "Let's take him out!"

They stopped running and turned around. They spread out and charged at Azrael from three different sides.

Azrael did not raise his sword. He just stood there, his head slightly bowed. He looked tired.

The axe-wielder swung his heavy weapon in a wide, powerful arc, aimed right at Azrael's head.

A girl with two daggers moved in from the side. A young first-year mage stayed back and began to chant a fire spell.

It was a good plan. A coordinated attack on a weak, injured target.

But Azrael was not the target. The forest was.

Just as the axe was about to connect, Azrael's hands moved. Dozens of silver threads, almost too thin to see, shot out from his fingertips.

They did not go for the students. They went for the world around them.

One thread wrapped a thorny vine. Another stuck to a loose rock. A third latched onto the axe-wielder's bootlace.

The axe came down. Azrael took a single step to the side. The massive weapon missed him by an inch.

At that exact moment, he pulled the thread on the bootlace.

The big student's foot was yanked hard to the side. He lost his balance completely. He stumbled forward, right into the path of the dagger girl.

Clang!

His axe slammed into her daggers. They both fell to the ground in a clumsy, tangled pile.

Azrael then pulled the other two threads. The thorny vine whipped down and tangled around the axe-wielder's arms.

The loose rock shot across the ground and tripped the dagger girl just as she was trying to get back up.

It was a complete mess. They were confused, tangled, and completely immobilized.

"What is this?" the girl yelled, trying to untangle the vine from her teammate.

The young mage in the back finally finished his spell. A small, weak ball of fire shot from his hands, flying straight at Azrael.

Azrael sent a single thread high into the trees. It wrapped around a thick branch heavy with wet, rotting leaves.

He pulled. A shower of cold, dirty water and soggy leaves fell right on the incoming fireball.

Pss.

The small spell was put out with a weak, pathetic hiss of steam. The mage stared, his mouth hanging open in shock.

The fight was over. Azrael had not swung his sword once. He had used his weak power to turn his enemies into their own weapons.

He was a puppet master, and they had all danced helplessly on his strings.

He walked over to the two tangled fighters. He looked down at them, his eyes cold and empty.

He lifted his sword and gently tapped the axe-wielder on the head with the flat of the blade. The boy's pendant glowed, and he vanished.

The dagger girl saw this and her eyes went wide with fear. She quickly crushed her own pendant and vanished too.

Azrael then looked at the young mage. The first-year was shaking. He crushed his pendant and was gone.

Three more victories. Thirty more points for the team. All his.

Azrael stood there for a moment, then let out a long, tired breath. He turned to face his teammates.

Isolde was clapping softly. "Wonderful, senior! What a clever little trick you have. You are just full of surprises."

'How useful,' she thought. 'A puppet that can move other puppets.'

Seraphina was speechless. Her jaw was literally hanging open. That was not a fight. It was a play.

The confused, painful feeling in her chest grew stronger.

Selvara did not smile. She just looked at him. The respect in her eyes was clear and bright.

He wasn't just a small fire in the darkness. He was the one who could show others how to fight back against the strings that bound them.

Azrael felt their eyes on him. He was so tired. The pain was back, sharp and angry. He had a job to do.

'System,' he thought. The familiar blue screen appeared.

[STATUS MANIFEST]

[Name: Azrael Ashveil]

[Title: The Unwanted Heir]

[Level: 1]

[Rank: Beginner]

[Condition: Injured, Fatigued]

[CORE ATTRIBUTES]

[STR (Strength): 12 / 100]

[AGI (Agility): 10 / 100]

[END (Endurance): 10 / 100]

[INT (Intelligence): 11 / 100]

[AET (Aether): 9 / 100]

[LCK (Luck): 5 / 100]

[CHA (Charisma): 8 / 100]

[AFFINITY]

[Primary Slot: Thread Affinity (Tier: Basic)]

He looked at his stats. A small, real smile touched his lips.

'My stats went up,' he thought, a spark of hope cutting through the pain. 'Strength is up by two, and Endurance by two as well.'

'All that pain… it's paying off. And Intelligence went up by one. Makes sense. That last fight was all about thinking.'

It was a small step. But it was a step he had earned. It was a step on a path he was making himself.