Sometimes, in the dead quiet of the castle, I think about my old life. It feels like a dream, or a story about someone else. It was a simple life, mostly. School, friends, the usual worries. Nothing special. Nothing that screamed "future cult leader in a hell-dimension."
But there was always a part of me that didn't fit. I never really liked the classic heroes. They were too perfect, too predictable. They always followed the rules, even when the rules were stupid. They were boring. I was always drawn to the other side of the story. The villains were just more interesting. They had ambition. They wanted to break the world and build something new from the pieces.
Then there were the anti-heroes. They were my real favorites. The ones who lived in the gray areas. They weren't trying to save the world, but they weren't trying to destroy it either. They had their own code, their own messy, complicated reasons for what they did. They did bad things for what they thought were good reasons, or good things in the worst ways possible. That felt more real to me. The world isn't black and white; it's a million shades of gray.
But my absolute favorite trope was the hidden mastermind. The quiet one in the background. The one everyone dismissed as harmless or irrelevant. While the heroes and villains were busy fighting their loud, obvious war, the mastermind was moving pieces on a chessboard no one else could see. Their power wasn't in strength, but in knowledge. In seeing the patterns everyone else missed.
I used to fantasize about that. About being the one pulling the strings. It wasn't about being evil. It was about the intellectual challenge. It was the ultimate puzzle. It was about control in a world that felt chaotic. To have everyone underestimate you, to see you as a side character in their story, when you're actually the one writing the plot. That was the real power.
It was why I originally got into this novel, why I was so hooked with Sunny at the start. Really, Guiltythree was nothing short of a genius with that-creating such an intricate and compelling beginning and world, all with as little as actually possible. Credit where credits due, and all that. Still, I preferred the world of Mysteries, with its crimson moon and steampunk monstrosities. Adam and Klein and Roselle and Amon...they were so interesting to me back then.
And chaos… I've always had a strange relationship with chaos. It terrified me, like it does everyone. But I also found it fascinating. A perfectly ordered system is predictable, stagnant. But chaos… chaos is potential. It's a blank canvas. In the midst of chaos, the old rules don't apply. The playing field is leveled. Anyone with a sharp enough mind can step in and start shaping the chaos into a new order. Their order.
Coming here, to the Forgotten Shore, was the ultimate chaos. It was the end of every world I knew. The terror was real, the pain was real. But so was the… opportunity. This place is pure, unadulterated chaos. Society has collapsed into squalor and tyranny. Power is the only law. It's a perfect breeding ground for a new system. For my system.
So when I put on this act, this mask of the gentle, praying boy, it's not just an act. It's a role I was born to play. It's me finally stepping into the fantasy. I get to be the unassuming face that hides the calculating mind. I get to be the one everyone laughs at, while I'm quietly mapping their weaknesses and ambitions.
Gemma thinks I'm a useful oddity. The Host thinks I'm a hilarious joke. The Handmaidens think I'm a kind soul. They're all looking at the mask. They see the anti-hero doing questionable things for a "good" cause, or they see the harmless fool. They don't see the mastermind lurking beneath the surface. They don't see the person who is perfectly comfortable with chaos, because I know how to wield it.
Their laughter, their pity, their condescension—it's all fuel. It's the perfect camouflage. In a world of brutal strength and obvious power plays, no one suspects the quiet young man who talks about God and helps the poor. They don't see the strings I'm attaching to them. They don't feel the gentle tugs that are already starting to guide them.
This world is a tragedy. But for me? It's the ultimate sandbox. It's a world of chaos waiting for a new order. And I'm in the perfect position to provide it. They're all players in a game, fighting for scraps on the board.
They haven't realized yet that I'm the one who owns it. And when I've made my order, when I've shifted this world to my way? Well, I'll probably retire to the countryside and spend the rest of my days sipping alcohol by the beach.
That is, if the Curator doesn't yank me back for round two.