Ascension Of The Villain-Chapter 317: Existential Crisis

Vyan pressed a palm to his chest, as if sheer touch alone could tether his soul before it drifted too far. He felt the pressure settle behind his ribs, heaviness creeping into his lungs.

Breathe. Don't shatter. Not here. Not now.

Not in a world that didn't even know his name.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, a controlled effort, then another, slower one. Tall glass buildings sliced the sky above him, their reflections jagged and sterile. Voices layered atop each other in a language he understood, yet none of it felt like it belonged to him. Cars blared in the distance—metal beasts too fast, too loud.

He started walking, letting his feet carry him not out of purpose, but as a protest against inertia. Stillness was unbearable.

Eventually, the city unfolded open just enough to reveal a pocket of green—a weak imitation of calm. A yellow banner flapped overhead: Sunshine Park, it announced cheerfully, like the world hadn't just dropped him into a hell without maps.

He stepped inside.

The shift was instant and jarring. Children squealed, chasing bubbles that shimmered in the light. Dogs barked and tongues lolled. Laughter rose like birdsong. Joggers glided by, people lounged on blankets, carefree and warm and oblivious. As if joy was the default. As if suffering was an abstract idea.

Vyan lowered himself onto an empty bench beneath the wide shade of a tree. His limbs resisted the motion; they didn't want rest—they wanted answers. His spine curved with exhaustion, but not the kind that passed with sleep. This was soul-deep erosion. A gnawing dislocation.

He exhaled slowly. Not from relief but from resignation. If he didn't sit, he'd collapse.

His eyes closed. The breeze touched his face gently, rustling leaves above. A peaceful sound, he supposed. But it grated against him. The calm was false. Too calm. It mocked him.

This world wasn't quiet. It was indifferent.

What even is this place?

His gaze drifted over the people—women in tiny sleeveless tops, men in shorts, children in clothes that barely clung to them. There was so much bare skin, so little fabric. Scandalous by his world's standards, but strangely practical here. The heat made sense now—this place was sweltering, the sun glaring without mercy.

Maybe it was a desert. Or something close.

Whatever. It made him miss Ashstone. It had the most perfect weather—not too hot, not too cold.

His brows drew together as a memory surfaced.

Leila, with her sharp grin and eyes full of stories, once described a place like this.

"Modern Earth," she'd called it.

Vyan could still hear her voice rattling off absurdities.

"Overcrowded cities, cars and buses instead of horses, people working 9 to 5 in glass towers, classless society, no nobility, no fuss over lineage, no magic. Money rules."

And now here he was, right in the middle of that madness.

To him, it was bizarre. A classless society? Haha. Never happening in his world. Not anytime soon at least.

Vyan had grown up steeped in the class structure of nobility, living in a world where bloodlines defined your fate. He'd been a victim of it. Then a beneficiary. For fifteen years, he'd suffered, and for the rest of it, he had lived in silk-lined comfort.

He had played the game of a powerless person because he had no choice. And when he had power, he didn't question it. That was just… how the world worked. Normal, even.

He wasn't deluded enough to think he was righteous. He had never claimed to be noble in heart. He wasn't the kind of man who stood for ideals. He wasn't the kind of man who tried to change the world. And frankly, he didn't want to be. Hypocritical? Maybe. Selfish? Absolutely. But he had never pretended to be anything else.

He just wanted to go home.

To the warm halls of Ashstone. To the weight of duty that made sense, even when it hurt. To the people he knew, the rules he understood. A world where he existed.

Here… in this strange, bustling, sun-drenched land, he was just a shadow. An anomaly. A man out of place. He was certain of one thing: there was no Vyan Blake Ashstone in this world.

And without that name… without that identity…

Who was he here?

He placed his elbows on his knees, letting his weight collapse forward, and stared at his feet—feet that no longer felt tethered to the ground. The grass beneath him might as well have been air. His soles could've been hovering an inch above it, or sinking through it, and he wouldn't have known the difference.

Everything was off.

He tried to ground himself. Pressed his fingers to his knees. Dug his nails into his palms. Swallowed hard against the nausea curling in his gut. But his body wouldn't listen. His breaths came too fast, too shallow. His chest ached with the pressure of something he couldn't name—panic, maybe. Or worse, the terrifying suspicion that he didn't fully exist here.

Not really.

He wasn't fading out. But he wasn't quite here either.

The world around him looked like it had been painted vividly, but he couldn't feel any of it. He felt the sweltering heat, but the warmth of the sun didn't touch him. The voices nearby felt muffled, far away, even when they were right behind him. It was like trying to stand on water.

He took off his suit and clutched at his shirt near the collarbone, fingers trembling slightly. I can't stay like this. I need something to hold me still.

He was caught in between worlds—one foot stuck in the life he came from, the other failing to land in this one. Not accepted. Not rejected. Just suspended.

As if the universe didn't know what to do with him. As if he could simply stop existing at any moment.

A leaf in the wind. A static-ridden image flickering on and off.

The fear wasn't loud—it was subtle, silent, invasive. The kind that wraps around your spine and squeezes until you're not sure if you're breathing or drowning.

What if I vanish here? Without ever seeing my world again? Without anyone even knowing I was gone?

His fingers dug harder into his knee. "Ah… help," he whispered, voice hoarse and dry. "Someone, please… hold me. Ground me…"

He didn't expect an answer. He didn't expect anything from this strange world.

But then…

A pair of tiny arms wrapped around his neck. The warmth hit him instantly.

"Daddy!"

The word broke through him like sunlight cracking through thunderclouds.

Vyan froze. Confused and puzzled.

Then he slowly closed his eyes as a rush of air escaped his lungs—not from exhaustion, but from overwhelming, near-agonizing relief.

The small hands around his neck were real. The voice—high-pitched, cheerful—was real.

He didn't even realize his own arms were moving until they pulled the boy in tight, holding him like a lifeline. The child's small body was warm and familiar in a way he couldn't quite put his name to. It anchored him in a way only Iyana could.

His heart steadied.

The tremors eased.

The flickering stopped.

His feet were on the ground. For the first time since he'd arrived in this strange world, he really felt the earth beneath him. Felt present.

He wasn't floating anymore.

Vyan held on tighter, his face buried in the boy's shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was from the return of gravity—of self.

This was his anchor. The one who stopped him from falling apart.

"Daddy, what are you doing here? You said you were going to work. Did you come to play with us?"

The soft, lisped voice broke through the haze like a gentle tug on Vyan's soul. He didn't process the words at first—just the warmth of the little arms looped tightly around his neck and the light puff of breath near his ear.

He hummed, barely aware, his thoughts still tangled in the storm he'd just barely calmed.

But then the question actually landed.

His eyes snapped open. "Huh? What?"

He leaned back, pulling gently away from the hug. In front of him stood a tiny boy—no older than five—with wide amber eyes that gleamed with curiosity and certainty, and a mop of chestnut brown hair that curled ever so slightly at the ends. His face was round, flushed, and undeniably adorable. But also… oddly familiar.

Way too familiar.

"I'm not your daddy, kiddo," he said, trying for a gentle tone as he held the child at arm's length. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have accepted your hug."

The boy tilted his head, expression pure confusion. "No, you are Daddy."

Vyan shook his head, baffled. "I'm not. I can't be. I don't even have a kid."

The boy frowned in the way only little kids could—lips puckered slightly, brows scrunched, like he was offended on Vyan's behalf. He leaned closer, squinting up at him with dramatic scrutiny, his little nose almost touching Vyan's. "Hmm… Your eyes look different. So pretty. Did you buy colored lenses, Daddy? I want sparkly ones too."

"What? No, I don't even know what—"

"Elian!"

The name rang through the air. Vyan's breath caught in his throat as he turned toward the voice. His heart dropped, then kicked back up.

She was beautiful. No, familiar.

A woman was walking toward them, one hand pushing a stroller, the other brushing her wind-blown waves of chestnut brown hair from her face. Her eyes were a soft, pale blue, and there was a fierceness in them that stopped Vyan cold. Her posture, the lines of her face, the way she carried herself—it all screamed of someone he knew too well. The resemblance was uncanny.

It was Iyana… but not.

She was like a sun-warmed echo of the commander he knew—less steel, more softness—but undeniably similar. Enough to make his chest twist.

"Elian," the woman scolded as she drew near, her tone sharp with worry. "Why did you run off like that?"

The baby in the stroller cooed and kicked her tiny legs, eyes twinkling like her brother's. "Dada," she babbled happily, her chubby hands clapping once.

Elian beamed. "See! I told you you are Daddy! Amy also agrees."

His mother froze. "Elian, sweetie, what are you—" She trailed off mid-sentence as her gaze finally landed on Vyan's face. Her expression shifted—eyes widening, breath catching. "…Adrian?"

Vyan's mind ground to a halt. Adrian who?

The name hung between them like a question no one had the answer to.

The woman blinked rapidly, shaking her head, flustered. "God, sorry. You just—you look exactly like my husband, just ten years younger."

Vyan said nothing. He just stared.

Because he was still trying to make sense of it all—of the boy who insisted on him being "Daddy," of the woman who could've been Iyana's twin from another life, of the little girl who looked up at him like she'd known him forever.

Why did this woman look so much like Iyana?

And why the hell… did he look so much like the kids' father?