Reincarnated As A First Rate Villain: I Don't Know How To Play My Role-Chapter 34

The sacred sanctuary where the goddess Elyssira resided remained still in its haunting tranquility as Lucien’s form dissolved into golden light, drawn away by the threads of awakening. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the world around the divine garden shuddered.

The earth beneath the ethereal gazebo cracked with a low, throbbing quake, as if the very roots of the dimension groaned under a pain too ancient to name. Trees quivered. The sky overhead dimmed slightly, not from clouds, but from a quiet sorrow that blanketed the heavens. The wind trembled through the trees like the whisper of a dying prayer.

And yet, the goddess Elyssira did not flinch. Her eyes remained half-lidded, staring into the space where Lucien had vanished. The little girl beside her, still holding her snack with tiny fingers, gazed upward with wide but calm eyes. They were unmoved by the trembling cosmos, as though they had long grown familiar with divine quakes and cosmic mourning.

"So it begins," Elyssira whispered into the silence, her voice carried by the wind like a mourning hymn. "I must send immediate message to my followers."

—

Across the continent of Aerithrall, at the heart of the sprawling Valderian Empire, the tremors had not gone unnoticed. Deep within the marble halls of the Imperial Citadel, a gathering of immense consequence was underway.

Inside the Emperor’s Strategic Hall—grand, gilded, and encased with glass runes glowing in teal—a table shaped like a dragon’s spine stretched across the room. Scrolls, floating diagrams, and glowing maps flickered above it in layers. Magical technology crackled faintly.

Emperor Aurelian Valentino Aurum Vale, clad in a navy military coat etched in gold, sat at the head of the table. His silver-streaked golden hair was tied back, his gaze piercing as he overlooked reports. Across from him stood Sir Rutherford, his most loyal butler and advisor, with a refined bearing and a voice like velvet over steel.

"Regarding the redistribution of arcanium shipments to the southeastern border, Your Majesty," Rutherford began, his gloved hands hovering to manipulate the floating charts, "I suggest we delay the export by two cycles. The mining division of Argenfrost Citadel is still recovering from last month’s surge."

The Emperor stroked his chin, eyes narrowing. "And the research division in the Imperial House of Magical Engineering? Are they on schedule with the weapon integration models?"

Rutherford gave a polite bow. "As of this morning, yes. Though... they requested an increase in Soulfire Crystals by twelve percent. They claim it’s vital for stabilizing the experimental runes."

Aurelian clicked his tongue softly. "Those crystals are rare, Rutherford. Send word to the Lunar Guild in Thalor’s Reach. Offer them a double-tier contract in exchange for early priority."

"Understood."

They continued, exchanging details that would shape the Empire -talks of border diplomacy, a new proposed curriculum at the Empire’s own Academy, experimental runic shielding for airships—but just as Rutherford opened his mouth to present the next document, a sound cut through the air.

[BZZZRTT... ERROR. ERROR...] [SYSTEM... SYSTEM SHUTDOWN INITIATING...]

A crimson screen blinked into view in front of them. The divine interface every person of the world used—the one etched into their soul since awakening—flickered wildly. Lines of distorted characters scrolled across it. The system’s usual serene voice was now broken, stuttering, cracking like glass.

Both men froze.

The Emperor’s pupils shrank. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Rutherford looked down at his own trembling interface, his gloved hand barely touching it as if it might explode. His complexion paled visibly, sweat immediately beading down the side of his temple.

The Emperor slowly turned to Rutherford with a grave, silent question in his eyes.

Rutherford met the gaze and gave a subtle, almost reluctant nod. "I... I see it too, Your Majesty."

The tension thickened. The magical lights in the hall dimmed, as if the Citadel itself was holding its breath.

Aurelian stood up so sharply his chair groaned.

"Rutherford," he said, voice low but ironclad, "summon the High Emissaries of the Church of Elyssira. Now. Tell them to bring every divine interpreter, every oracle, and every archive seer they have. I want answers. Not an hour from now—now."

Rutherford straightened like a soldier. He bowed low, his expression composed but sweat glistened down his neck.

"With my utmost will, Your Majesty," he said, stepping back and vanishing like mist—gone in a gust of enchanted wind.

The doors to the hall slammed shut behind him.

Left alone, Emperor Aurelian sank back into his chair, his hands clasped before his lips. The system continued to twitch in front of his eyes, and for a long moment, he simply stared at it.

The air was heavy. The divine structure that had governed the very logic of power, mana, and authority for thousands of years was crumbling—and not even the Emperor of the greatest human empire could make sense of it.

He closed his eyes slowly and whispered:

"What in the name of the world is going on?"

________________________________________

Inside the walls of the Valderian Empire’s radiant capital, a wave of panic erupted across the many districts and layers of the kingdom. The outer wall, middle wall, and inner sanctum—all bore witness to an event no living being had experienced: the universal system shut down.

From dirt-smeared streets to gleaming marble towers, from the lowliest of commoners to the most esteemed noble households, one message blazed across the vision of every awakened being:

[SYSTEM ERROR: UNIDENTIFIED CODE] [SYSTEM MALFUNCTION...] [SYSTEM INTERFACE... SHUTTING DOWN] [SYSTEM SHUTTING]

The message was followed by flickering, glitching runes—and then nothing. Silence. Like a divine severance.

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"What the hell is this?!" shouted a man covered in soot, gripping his pickaxe tightly. "I was about to rank up my strength to E+!"

A younger boy beside him dropped his bundle of firewood, eyes wide in fear. "Father... Is this the end of the world?"

"Don’t be stupid," the man barked, but even his voice cracked with unease. "It’s probably just a tiny problem. Right? RIGHT?!"

Vendors closed their stalls. Mothers clutched their children. Whispers turned to shouting.

"Did the Church do this?!"

"Call the city guards! No—call the priesthood!"

"No way. This happened everywhere. Everyone’s seeing it."

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Valderian knights, clad in dark navy armor etched with a sword emblem, stood frozen in formation during routine drills. Their commander, Sir Baldric, stared at the flickering system window in front of him with a clenched jaw.

"Report!" he barked. "Is this happening to all awakened knights?"

"Aye, Commander!" replied a younger knight, his hand trembling over his sword hilt. "Mana, aura, even holy power initiates... Everyone’s getting the same error. No tracking. No ranking. It’s all... gone."

"Then don’t just stand there gawking," Baldric growled. "Dispatch riders to the Church of Elyssira. Now. If the Church can’t explain this, the entire order will lose its damn mind."

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Inside a raucous hall packed with mercenaries and awakened adventurers, the once-lively atmosphere turned to stunned silence.

"Oi," muttered a burly axe-wielder with a scar across his eye, tapping his now-blank system window. "It’s not coming back..."

"I just ranked up last week," someone mumbled from the corner. "D-rank... gone. What does this even mean?"

"The guild ranking boards are frozen too," said a girl flipping through glowing parchment, her voice tight with fear. "None of our mission reports are being accepted. The interfaces are just... blank."

A chorus of murmurs followed.

"Could this be sabotage?"

"Some forbidden spell?"

"This has never happened before. Never."

"Someone go to the Church!"

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In a sprawling estate adorned with white-and-gold banners, Marquis Emeralde’s household was in disarray.

Servants were rushing. Attendants were crying. And within the main drawing room, the Marquis slammed a jeweled cane on the polished marble floor.

"What do you mean your power ranking vanished!?" he barked at his third son.

"I mean it’s gone, Father!" the boy shouted back, panicked. "It happened while I was training my sword form. The system cut out! It said ERROR!"

"This must be a divine omen," muttered the Marquis’s wife, clutching her rosary. "Perhaps we’ve displeased the Goddess."

"No," said the Marquis coldly, eyes narrowing. "This is too widespread. This reeks of interference beyond mortal reach. I want word sent to the High Emissaries of the Church tonight!"

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In the westernmost reach of the Human Empire, where cold winds rolled off the jagged and vast forests whispered of unseen monsters, the estate of House Velebrandt stood in solemn majesty.

Stone walls of white obsidian towered like a bastion of divinity and war. Within, the city-fortress bustled with six million souls—commoners, merchants, alchemists, blacksmiths, warriors, knights, and magicians—each a cog in the grand machine that was the Velebrandt dominion.

Today, however, that machine stuttered. freewebnøvel.coɱ

The skies were clear, the banners bearing the golden winged lion sigil of House Velebrandt fluttered proud and high—but a shadow far more subtle than night crept into the hearts of its people.

The system interface had vanished.

A single line remained on their HUDs—those familiar glows embedded within the mind’s eye, where stats and information once elegantly floated:

[ERROR. SYSTEM INTERFACE: UNRESPONSIVE. POTENTIAL EVALUATION DISABLED.]

And then, nothing.

A blank, silent void.

Panic rippled like wildfire.

Across outer walls and inner circles, nobles and servants alike poured into guild halls, barracks, training fields, and churches, their voices rising like a chaotic hymn of confusion.

"What does this mean? Has the Goddess forsaken us?!"

"Does this mean we’re powerless now!?"

"Where’s the Church? Get the emissaries! Let them explain this!"

At the Knights’ Plaza, dozens of captains and commanders shouted orders to keep order among their subordinates—many of whom looked around with unsure eyes, gripping their weapons tighter than usual. Some still tried to manifest aura blades or test mana currents, feeling their strength respond as always—yet unnerved by the sudden blindness.

Even the Velebrandt’s elite—a household of nobles that had guarded the West from abyssal horrors for centuries—were shaken.

But not the man standing atop the balcony of the Grand Marshal’s Tower.

There, wrapped in a white cloak that billowed against the wind like the wings of the lion he bore on his back, stood Aldric Throne Velebrandt, Grand Duke of the Western Territories, Warden of the Western frontlines, and the Western Shield of the Empire.

Silver-white hair fell down his back in noble strands, tinged slightly darker with streaks of war-earned age. A neat beard clung to his chin, trimmed like a commander’s blade—every inch of him was both regal and militant.

His eyes, a piercing steel-gray, swept across the chaos beneath him.

He had only just returned from the Western Front—where twisted Abyssian beasts prowled and endless nights burned with torchlight war. He had come back, not for politics nor war councils, but for something more important:

Lucien’s tenth birthday.

His son’s awakening.

The castle was still half-decorated. Tables half-filled with feast dishes. Ornate silver banners had only just been hung when the system failed.

And now...

He exhaled, calmly reading the silent, blank board that hovered faintly in his vision. His own system interface had collapsed into the same void as the others. But he wasn’t concerned.

Not even slightly.

Because he still felt it.

The thrum of power. The dense weight of battle-hardened aura that coiled around his body like a silent dragon. He had cultivated this strength not through numbers or glowing letters—but through blood, sweat, years of carnage and command. The system was a mirror. Nothing more.

Let others panic.

A lion does not fear a shattered mirror.

Behind him, a pair of knights burst into the room with hurried steps.

"M-My Lord! The estate is falling into unrest. Panic is rising even in the inner circles. Some fear an abyssal invasion—or worse!"

Aldric didn’t turn to them. He simply lifted his hand. Calm. Commanding.

"Summon the commanders," he said, his voice a deep thunder that rolled across the marble hall. "Have them gather at the Plaza. I will speak to them directly."

The two knights saluted with clenched fists and bolted.

Minutes later, amidst a sea of clanking armor and booted discipline, dozens of Velebrandt knight-commanders stood in orderly ranks—faces uncertain, brows furrowed.

Aldric stood before them, cloak billowing, arms behind his back.

He stared them down.

Then, he spoke.

"Calm yourselves."

The word carried not just authority, but weight. It sank deep into the marrow of every commander present. Silence gripped the courtyard.

"You have not lost your powers," he said. "You have just lost your ability to measure them."

"We are the Velebrandt’s," he continued, pacing slowly before them like a general before battle. "We have defended the Western frontlines since the day we have awakened. With sword. With blood. With grit. Not once have I relied on a glowing panel to tell me if I was strong. We are not weak."

The commanders looked to each other. Breath steadied. Spines straightened.

"Spread word throughout the estate," Aldric commanded. "To every knight, every merchant, every peasant. Tell them that anyone caught inciting unrest will be arrested. And remind them: power is not what the system shows—it is what we carry."

"Go."

With a salute and a resounding warcry of acknowledgment, the commanders dispersed—like arrows loosed from a great bow.

Aldric turned back to his balcony, gazing once more across the endless rooftops and streets of his territory.

"Lucien..." he murmured beneath his breath, eyes distant.

The wind brushed past him.

"May your path remain steady—even without a system to guide it."