In a random street, deep in the heart of the city's bustling nightlife, chaos erupted.
Two rival organizations clashed in a full-blown war — and now, only one survivor remained.
Silas.
The best of the best.
"Get him!"
A voice barked from behind him.
Silas sprinted through the streets, weaving between speeding cars and startled vendors. Bullets whizzed past, so close he could feel the air shift against his skin.
He had been in worse scrapes, but it was getting harder to shake the feeling that this time might be different. That sense of inevitability, gnawing at the back of his mind, telling him this was the end of the line.
"Seriously? You still think you have a shot?"
Silas shouted back, diving into a garbage bin for cover. Instantly, a hailstorm of bullets riddled the metal skin of the bin, punching holes around him.
Rolling out with practiced ease, Silas brought up his fully-kitted AK-47.
He squeezed the trigger — and in the blink of an eye, ten men dropped, each with a bullet between the eyes.
"How many are you willing to throw away for one man?"
A sudden noise behind him made Silas twist instinctively.
Gripping the AK tight, he smashed the butt of the rifle into the head of the assassin sneaking up on him.
"You bastard!" the man growled.
"I'm the bastard?" Silas sneered, tossing the rifle briefly into the air.
He delivered a brutal high kick to the assassin's jaw, catching the falling rifle without missing a beat.
"This makes fifty already," he muttered, laughing — a broken, bitter sound.
But before he could move, a sharp crack split the air.
Silas froze.
He felt... nothing. Just an empty, hollow ache blooming in his chest.
"Well... shit," he chuckled, his voice dry as his body slowly betrayed him.
A cold rush swept through him, his heart stuttering for a moment. He glanced down—
a clean hole, right through the center of his chest, blood soaking his shirt. The world seemed to tilt sideways.
Through the blur of pain, he saw it — a glint on a rooftop in the distance, a sniper scope reflecting the dying light.
Only one person could shoot like that.
"Arthur..." His voice was barely a whisper. You bastard.
"Goddamn it! You backstabbing bastard," he muttered.
A bitter laugh escaped him as he clutched at his dying heart, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright.
"Fifty cal for a little guy like me? I'm honored," he whispered.
Those were his last words before he crumbled to the ground.
As Silas's consciousness began to fade, a soft hum filled his ears, like the faintest whisper at the edge of his mind.
It wasn't the voice of anyone he knew, but it sounded... mechanical. Synthetic.
[Welcome, Silas Greenfield, to your new life.]
The voice echoed inside his mind.
In the emptiness of death, Silas hadn't expected... well, anything, much less a voice.
What?
New life...?
What kind of joke is that?
Still, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
Well... I just hope it's better than the last one.
Then — he woke up.
Silas's eyes snapped open, heart pounding. His body moved on reflex — leaping out of bed, hitting the floor in a crouch, every muscle tensed.
His gaze darted around the room, still wired from the rush of combat — but instead of crumbling concrete and scattered debris, he found... white marble floors? Polished wooden furniture, golden patterns etched into the walls.
What the hell? This wasn't the alley. It wasn't even the city.
His heart raced, still trying to make sense of the sudden shift from the cold concrete to this... this palace. He hadn't even felt it happen.
One moment, he was dying in a hail of bullets, and the next, he was lying in a bed fit for royalty. What was this place? Was he dead, or...?
"What in the everloving—"
The room was grand — white marble floors, polished wooden furniture, golden patterns etched into the walls.
It looked like the bedroom of some French royal straight out of a history book.
"Young master!"
A feminine voice rang out from behind the door, laced with worry.
"Are you okay? I heard something fall!"
The voice knocked politely — but insistently — filling the silence with her concern.
[Transmigration successful. Welcome to the world of The Villainess and the Righteous Prince.]
Silas blinked.
"Isn't that... the game I used to play as a kid? The one with the overpowered prince, the scheming villainess, and all those ridiculous plots? And now I'm stuck as... some random extra? What the hell kind of cosmic joke is this?"
He muttered the words under his breath, still piecing things together — when the door slammed open.
A man stepped inside — his butler's uniform immaculate, but his physique more suited to a bodyguard than a servant.
His broad shoulders blocked the doorway, muscles rippling under the fabric as he moved. He could've crushed Silas with a single swipe. Yet his gaze held a strange, almost calculating calm.
"Young master, Lady Diana has been calling for you! Are you alright?"
Silas stared, wide-eyed.
That's— that's him.
His favorite character from the game. The buff butler with more brains than half the cast combined.
[Have fun!]
The voice inside his head chirped cheerfully one last time.
Silas exhaled a slow, disbelieving breath.
"Well... I guess I got my wish after all."
His gaze flickered back to the butler, but something still didn't sit right. How much of this was real?
And more importantly, what was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to play along with the game's plot, or could he rewrite it?
For the first time in years, Silas wasn't sure what came next.