I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The threshold was a jagged line between the world Cherion knew, the world of biting Northern wind and the lingering scent of Zarius’s expensive, cold-iron cologne, and something that felt distinctly like the inside of a rotted lung. Cherion stepped in first, his boots sinking into a carpet of what felt like damp moss and centuries of accumulated dust.

In his original life, the "other" world he tried very hard not to think about, fortune tellers were a specific aesthetic. They were neon-lit store fronts in busy city districts, smelling of cheap vanilla candles and air-conditioned desperation. They were "scams" with card readers and Venma QR codes.

But this? This was on a whole different level. No LED lights anywhere. Just the weak, greasy orange glow of fat-dripping candles that somehow made everything darker instead of brighter.

The air came in swinging like it had something to prove. It was suffocating, packed with the bitter smell of burnt herbs, mugwort, maybe, or something older, and that heavy, damp-earth scent that stuck in your throat. It felt like this place existed outside normal rules, like physics had just given up halfway through building it. Strange, unidentifiable things hung from the low ceiling: bird skulls wrapped in copper wire, bundles of dried roots that looked way too much like fingers, and jars filled with murky liquid where things with too many eyes floated like they’d been waiting forever.

"Welcome. Sit where the threads of fate can see you clearly."

It wasn’t so much a voice as it was the sound of dry leaves being crushed under a heavy boot. The fortune teller sat behind a table that looked like it used to be part of a tree. She was thin and withered, her skin all deep lines and shadows, and her eyes... yeah, those were the worst part. Milky, clouded over, but somehow still focused directly on Cherion, like she could see straight through him and poke at everything he didn’t want anyone to know.

Zarius stood behind him, quiet and solid, like a very dangerous wall. Cherion could practically feel the skepticism rolling off him, but for once, it didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse.

"Yeah, hi," Cherion blurted out. The words sounded ridiculously loud and out of place in the ancient, damp hut. He cleared his throat, trying (and failing) to look intimidating. "So... what’s the deal here? Are we talking crystal balls, or do we have to choose some cards?"

"Sit," she repeated. She gestured with a hand that looked like a bundle of sticks toward the two stools in front of the stump-table. "Your hands. Both of you. The skin remembers things the mind chooses to forget. I don’t read the stars. I read what’s written in you."

Cherion shot Zarius a quick side-eye that basically said "please just do it.". With a sigh that sounded like a collapsing mountain, Zarius finally lowered himself onto the tiny stool, looking like a wolf trying to sit on a doll’s chair. He didn’t say a word, but he laid his massive, scarred hand on the table next to Cherion’s smaller, paler one.

The old woman didn’t hesitate. She reached out, her movements surprisingly fast for someone who looked a thousand years old, and clamped her ice-cold fingers around Cherion’s wrist.

"Let us see," she whispered, her milky eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.

Cherion stared at her, his head tilted in a mimicry of her own. He blinked. Once, twice. He waited for a dramatic puff of smoke or maybe a raven to fly out of her sleeve, but nothing happened. It was just an old lady with her eyes rolled back, looking like her system had briefly crashed.

Wait. We didn’t even get to pick a topic. Is this a general reading? He really thought there’d be menu of options. That was optimistic of him.

Oh, whatever, he mused, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly. This was just for fun anyway. It’s not like she’s actually going to...

"A soul that fell from the stars," she whispered, staring straight at Cherion. "A traveler who walked through the dark between worlds, carrying a book with no ending."

Cherion’s breath hitched. A cold shiver, sharp as a needle, raced down his spine. To Zarius, this probably sounded like the usual poetic gibberish fortune tellers used to get money out of people. Poetic nonsense. Vagueness disguised as mystery.

But Cherion felt the blood drain from his cheeks.

"The ink is still wet on your fingers, little traveler," she continued, her hand, looking like a bird’s claw, gesturing vaguely toward him. "A vessel being filled with new ink. The words are changing. The script is being rewritten by a hand that does not belong to the Creator."

Cherion’s mind went blank for a second before a single, frantic thought surfaced, Is she talking about my transmigration? He felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He was a bug in the system, and this old woman was staring right at the glitch.

But then, her voice softened, losing some of its raspy edge. She leaned closer, the scent of bitter herbs clouding around Cherion’s face.

"You fear the end of the page," she whispered, her milky eyes scanning his palm with a strange, newfound intensity. "But for you... the path does not end in a cliff. I see a throne that smells of jasmine and snow. I see a name that was once whispered in shame being shouted in praise across the four borders. You are not a guest, you are becoming its master."

Cherion blinked, the metaphor hitting him square in the chest. It was almost too poetic for a swamp-witch.

But then, the old woman’s hand suddenly released him. The warmth vanished instantly as she turned her head toward Zarius’s hand with a sickeningly slow creak.

Whatever warmth the candles had was just... gone. Her cloudy eyes widened, and for the first time, there was real fear on her face. Not for Cherion. For Zarius.

"A throne built of bone," she hissed. "I see the beast. A great, dark beast consumed by the shadow of a golden spear. The light is blinding, and the ground is soaked in the blood of the protector. The spear finds the heart, and the North falls silent."

Cherion felt like someone had dumped ice water straight over his head.

He knew that description. He had read it a few times in the original novel’s climax. It was the execution of the Duke. It was the moment Yerel, the "True Hero," drove the legendary golden spear through Zarius’s chest to "purify" the North of its monster.

The woman leaned forward, her face twisting. "The shadows are lengthening! The gold is hungry! I see the end. I see the crows gathering over a corpse that refuses to stay buried..."

"Ok, enough," Cherion choked out.

He couldn’t listen to another word. Hearing his own tragic ending for Zarius spoken aloud in this wretched, damp hut made him feel physically ill, like he was going to vomit up all those expensive sweets they’d just bought.

Okay, yeah.. Zarius was right. This was a terrible idea.

In a fit of panicked movement, Cherion’s fingers fumbled at his belt. He grabbed the pouch, pulled out a few gold coins, and dropped it on the table with zero subtlety..

"We’re done. We’re leaving," Cherion snapped, his voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts to sound authoritative. "Thanks, I guess."

He didn’t wait for her to respond. He didn’t wait for Zarius to ask what was wrong. Cherion reached back, grabbed a handful of Zarius’s heavy, fur-lined cloak, and practically dragged the massive man toward the door.

They were halfway to the exit when the old woman’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Everything unbinds when two souls who were meant to remain strangers are forced to share a single path."

Cherion stumbled, his boot catching on the stone lip of the entrance.

"I sincerely wish you nothing but good luck, traveler."