Reborn

The night was dark, and the rain pounded against the windows of a small apartment, the sound a constant reminder of life's unpredictability. Malcolm had always known that his life was far from ordinary. An accomplished writer in his early thirties, his stories were the kind that made readers squirm in their seats, portraying villains who reveled in chaos and destruction. It wasn't just a hobby; it was an obsession.

Malcolm sat hunched over his laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard as he crafted another wicked plot. His latest novel was taking a sinister turn, one that would leave the hero shattered, the city in ruins, and the readers questioning their own sense of morality. It was the kind of story that his loyal fan base had come to expect from him.

As the clock ticked past midnight, Malcolm leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, and stared at the screen. He had always been proud of his work, but tonight, something felt different. He found himself staring at the words he had just written, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He realized that, deep down, he wasn't just writing fiction anymore. He was writing his own manifesto, his twisted dream of becoming the villain he had always created.

The realization sent shivers down his spine, but instead of turning back, he plunged further into the darkness of his thoughts. This was who he wanted to be, the mastermind behind chaos and despair. The world needed a new kind of villain, and he would gladly step into that role.

Just then, the apartment's doorbell rang, jolting Malcolm from his dark reverie. He glanced at the clock – 12:30 AM. Who could be visiting at this hour? He pushed his chair back and stood up, walking to the door. His small apartment was filled with his own literary creations – posters of his novels adorned the walls. He couldn't help but feel an eerie sense of connection to them now.

He peered through the peephole, and his heart skipped a beat. A shadowy figure stood on the other side, barely visible through the pouring rain. Malcolm's palms began to sweat, and a surge of fear coursed through him. He'd never been particularly fond of visitors, especially unannounced ones.

Gathering his courage, he unlocked and opened the door a crack. A gust of cold, wet wind rushed into the room. The figure outside was drenched and shivering.

"Are you Malcolm?" the figure asked, voice trembling.

Malcolm hesitated, the name feeling like a noose tightening around his neck. He had never used his real name in connection with his writing.

"Who's asking?" he replied cautiously.

"I'm a fan of your work," the figure replied. "Please, can I come in? It's freezing out here."

Reluctantly, Malcolm opened the door wider, allowing the stranger to step inside. The visitor's face was hidden beneath a hood, making it impossible to discern their identity.

"Who are you?" Malcolm asked, his voice trembling.

The hooded figure turned, their eyes piercing through the dimly lit room. "Call me your biggest fan."

The stranger's words sent a chill down Malcolm's spine. This was not the kind of fan he was accustomed to. As his visitor moved closer, the hood fell back, revealing a face distorted by fanaticism and obsession. In their hands, a glint of steel.

Before Malcolm could react, the stranger lunged at him, the knife slashing through the air. Desperation fueled Malcolm's reflexes, and he managed to deflect the attack, but not without a deep cut on his arm. Blood seeped from the wound, mingling with the ink stains on his shirt.

The struggle between writer and fanatic continued, the room becoming a battleground. The rain outside raged on, and Malcolm's heart pounded in his chest as he fought for his life.

With a final, desperate lunge, Malcolm disarmed the stranger, sending the knife clattering across the room. Both of them were panting, their faces mere inches apart. Malcolm stared into the crazed eyes of his attacker, realizing that he had never written a villain quite like this one annoyed that he might be some kind of Side character or main character.

"I won't let you ruin my ending," the stranger hissed.

As the two locked in a battle of wills, something unexpected happened. The room seemed to blur and shift, and a blinding light enveloped them both. Malcolm felt a strange sensation, like being torn apart and put back together.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was the crazed smile on his attacker's face, and the rain falling like a torrential downpour.

When Malcolm regained consciousness, he found himself in a different place, a place that felt strangely familiar yet entirely foreign. He was no longer in his apartment, but instead in a grand, opulent bedroom. The memories of the attack and his assailant were still fresh in his mind, but this new reality was something he couldn't comprehend.

Confusion and fear swirled within him as he realized that he was no longer Malcolm, the writer of villains. He was someone else entirely. He tried moving around to realize that he couldnt, he looked down to see baby hands.

' A baby? ' He asked himself full of confusion.

" Malachi you're awake! " A woman walked inside the room and shouted excited.

' What kind of name is that? ' He asked himself cringing.

The woman started using toys trying to attract Malcom's attention.

" Is my son finally awake? " Someone asked slowly nearing outside the door.

" Yes! " The woman shouted excitedly grabbing Malcom before walking towards the man's voice.

" He has your beautiful hair~ " The man said with love.

' That crest- ' Malcom instantly realized who he was,

The crest of the strongest swordsman clan, the Bladeforge clan. The crest had 2 swords make a cross to show their belief to their God.

The irony of this family is that instead of having a god given child, they had the devil, Malachi Bladeforge. And Malcom had become that devil.

…