Brad the Baron: Rewrite of Villain

A horn sounded—low, resonant, commanding.

Every head turned.

On the upper balcony stood Count Adrion Vexmere, flanked by two armored knights and his steward. No theatrics. No pose. Just presence—the quiet kind that demanded respect without asking for it.

He raised a single hand.

Silence.

"Runners of the race," his voice carried through the subtle thrum of an amplification rune. "You stand here today not as children of privilege—but as candidates of legacy."

"The Interstellar Academy is not a noble right. It is a responsibility. One forged in the fires of near-annihilation."

His gaze swept the gathered crowd—not cold, not detached. Measured.

"When the devils came, it wasn't your family names that held the line. It was talent. That is what the Academy seeks—wherever it hides."

"This tournament is not for formality. It is a door. And you will either prove worthy of walking through it… or be passed by."

The wind caught his cloak slightly, just enough to accentuate the silence.

"I speak not just as a Count of Westward—but as one who stood where you now stand. I was seen. I was chosen. And I take pride in knowing that Elaris has forged more blades than most."

He paused—just long enough for his words to land.

"Today is not a game. It is the first strike. The first judgment. Those who think otherwise… may leave now."

Nobody moved.

With a final nod, the Count stepped back. His steward raised a scroll and spoke sharply:

"Match brackets will be posted at the north gate in one hour. Participants are to remain within the lower tier until summoned."

The murmur of anxiety, bravado, and overcompensation returned.

I took a deep breath, retreating toward the shadowed columns for space—

And spotted him.

Lucard Ashborne.

Golden-blond hair, grey formalwear. That same sour expression he always wore—like someone farted in his wine.

He stalked through the crowd, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto me.

Here we go.

"Brandy," he bit out.

I gave a half-smile. "Lucard."

"You look… comfortable."

I sipped from my water flask like it was vintage wine. "You look constipated."

He didn't blink.

Still sore about Elric wiping the floor with you, huh? Can't blame you.

"You think you've got this wrapped up," he said lowly, stepping in too close. "Because of your name. Your colors. The attention."

I tilted my head.

"I think I'm exactly where I need to be. But if you're jealous of attention—" I looked past him, "you should work on your entrance. You're not even the most impressive Ashborne anymore."

A twitch. Barely noticeable.

But there.

He spun and walked away without another word.

Loudest dogs bark least. Let's see if he even gets a match before being knocked out.

⮞ Elric POV

The tiles hummed with ambient mana. Dust floated in golden beams of morning light. From the viewing slit above the lower arena, I stood still—remembering.

This was the place.

In my last life, this was where it all spiraled.

My first match?

Brandy Valemont.

He didn't just beat me.

He humiliated me.

Laughed. Toyed with me. Then walked away like I was an insect he stepped over by accident.

My father left the stands. The barons whispered. My name? Erased before it even mattered.

Everything that followed—every piece of pain, rejection, and quiet desperation—started here.

But now?

I wasn't an afterthought.

I had a name. A reputation. A blade with weight behind it.

I looked toward the crowd, and there he was.

Brandy. Calm. Polished. Composed.

He didn't look at me like a rival.

He looked like I didn't exist.

He doesn't remember.

And I don't mean the duel.

He doesn't remember our childhood.

The jabs. The cold looks. The way he'd shrug me off, and the others followed suit.

That was real—in both timelines.

But now… it's like it never happened.

His voice. His posture. His restraint.

Detached. Like I'm new.

Honestly? I can't even blame him.

This world doesn't reward empathy. It rewards advantage.

If I'd been in his place, born to his house? I wouldn't have cared about some poor kid either.

I gave myself a soft, bitter chuckle.

"And that's fine," I murmured. "Because this time, I'm not here to be remembered. I'm here to be seen."

I stepped away from the crowd, blade strapped tight, mind sharper than steel.

"This place is still a turning point. But not for collapse—for ascent."

The silent presence lingered behind me, as always.

Invisible. Intangible. Watching.

It didn't judge. It didn't command. But somehow, it understood.

I didn't speak to it—but I smiled.

This time, I'm not alone.

Back in the main coliseum, the Count's steward returned, scroll in hand. No flare. Just fact.

"Participants. This tournament will run for three days. You are two hundred contenders. To reach the final, you must win seven matches. Some may progress with six, due to bracket variations."

"Duels are single combat. All standard weapons, abilities, and mana techniques are allowed—except rare-grade artifacts or banned performance boosters."

"Healers and life-mages are present. The moment you lose or surrender, you will be brought to safety."

"You may fight to exhaustion, but not to death."

The brackets were unveiled a moment later.

Arcane ink shimmered on massive glowing boards—hundreds of names, tiered like a staircase to glory.

There I was—Brandy Valemont. No bracket skip. Seven matches lined up.

Alric DuVaine – Round 1

Garry Windson – Round 3

Leoric Caltherin – Round 6

The bastard who set me up during the banquet.

Others were no-name mobs

And then?

Elric.

Finals.

If I make it.

If he makes it.

I glanced toward the fourth board.

Elric Ashborne. Bracketed for six matches.

First match? Lucard Ashborne.

Third match? Luke Windson.

Others? Irrelevant.

Mob after mob.

His path? Cleared.

My smile returned—just a sliver, but sharp.

And as if drawn by the thread of fate itself, Elric looked across the crowd.

Our eyes locked.

A long moment passed.

We both smiled.

Not mockery. Not smugness.

Anticipation.

Let me know when you'd like to start Brandy vs Alric – Round 1, or include a breather before the match begins.