A Psychopath Reborn as a Third-rate Villain

Andras remained standing before the half-buried statue for several seconds longer than necessary.

The missing head, the damaged shoulder, the weathered stone sword locked in the figure’s grip, and the position relative to the fortress and the Silverflow River left no meaningful doubt. The three landmarks from the original story had converged. This was the correct location.

That did not mean the tomb was still intact.

He crouched again and ran his fingers along the base of the statue. The stone was cold and heavily weathered. Moss filled the shallow grooves of what might once have been carvings. He brushed more dirt away from the surrounding ground, expanding the cleared area in a careful circle.

Nothing. No seams. No pressure plates. No inscriptions that reacted to touch or mana.

Andras rose and stepped back.

In the original novel, Lucian had not found the entrance through brute force or random searching. The story had described him noticing a faint resonance when he placed his hand on the statue’s sword, followed by a mechanism activating after he followed a specific sequence of movements near the fortress. The details had been sparse, as was often the case with opportunities that had only been mentioned briefly in the early Chapters.

Andras lacked Lucian’s natural affinity for the sword. More importantly, he had no intention of relying on incomplete narrative cues.

He began a systematic examination of the area.

He started with the statue. He tested the hilt, the base, and the broken shoulder with light applications of mana. No reaction. Then he examined the ground within a ten-meter radius, clearing leaves, testing for hollow sections, and checking the surrounding stonework for irregularities that might indicate a concealed stair or pressure mechanism.

Still nothing.

He expanded his search toward the fortress.

The ruins were in worse condition up close. Entire sections of wall had collapsed inward, while thick roots had forced their way through the foundation. What remained of the inner courtyard was uneven and partially overgrown. Andras moved through it carefully, noting the layout. The old road continued past the fortress and ended near a steeper section of the slope, where the ground dropped toward the valley.

He stopped.

The drop was not a natural cliff. The edge was too clean in several places, and the stone beneath the soil showed signs of deliberate cutting. Andras crouched and brushed away the debris. Beneath the packed earth and roots, he found the remnants of what had once been a set of steps leading downward. Most had collapsed, but their shape was still distinguishable.

He followed the line of the ruined steps with his eyes. They did not lead into the fortress. They led beneath it.

Andras stood and looked back toward the statue.

The approach road. The fortress overlooking the valley. The statue serving as a marker along the path. The tomb wasn’t inside the fortress. It was beneath the slope the fortress had been built to overlook.

He returned to the edge of the drop and began clearing the area more carefully. It took nearly twenty minutes of methodical work before he uncovered a section of worked stone that had not fully collapsed. A narrow gap remained between two large blocks, just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Cold air drifted from the opening—stale, dry, and faintly metallic.

Andras placed his hand near the gap and released a thin thread of mana. He detected no immediate reaction. That did not mean there were no traps deeper inside.

He considered his options for a moment, then entered.

Andras lowered himself into the gap and pushed forward. The passage was tight at first. Broken stone scraped against his shoulders as he crawled deeper. After several meters, the space widened into a descending corridor of cut stone. The air grew colder. Faint residual mana lingered along the walls—old, structured, and largely dormant.

He continued downward.

The corridor eventually opened into a small antechamber. Dust covered the floor in an unbroken layer. No footprints. No signs of recent disturbance.

Three walls were bare. The fourth held a sealed stone door. There was no handle. No visible hinge. Only a shallow circular depression in the center, roughly the size of a palm.

Andras approached it.

The novel had mentioned this. Lucian had activated the door by channeling a small amount of mana into a similar depression while focusing on the intent of challenging the First Sword Saint’s trial. The mechanism had been described as a test of will rather than raw strength. Whether it still functioned after centuries was another question.

Andras placed his palm against the depression and released a controlled thread of mana.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the stone beneath his hand grew warm. Faint lines of light spread outward from the depression, tracing geometric patterns across the door’s surface. The patterns locked into place. A low grinding sound echoed through the chamber. Dust shook loose from the ceiling as the stone door began to sink into the floor.

Andras stepped back and waited. The opening was slow and deliberate, as if the tomb itself had been waiting for someone to arrive.

When the door disappeared completely, darkness stretched beyond it. Andras looked inside, then stepped through.

The chamber beyond was larger. The air was still and dry. Ancient mana pressed lightly against his senses—not hostile, but watchful. The chamber was circular. Stone pillars lined the walls at regular intervals, their surfaces covered with carvings that had survived the passage of centuries.

At the center stood a raised platform.

And upon that platform rested a sword.

Andras stopped.

It was still there.

The blade was long and dark, its surface carrying a muted sheen that refused to reflect the faint light properly. The hilt was simple, wrapped in material that had somehow resisted decay. There were no extravagant ornaments. No glowing runes. No overwhelming aura announcing its importance. It simply rested there, waiting.

Andras did not approach immediately. His gaze moved across the chamber—the pillars, the floor, the ceiling, the residual mana patterns. In the original story, claiming the sword required surviving a trial, a manifestation of the First Sword Saint’s techniques. Whether that trial would still activate was unknown.

He took one step forward. Nothing happened. Another. Still nothing.

Andras reached the edge of the central platform.

The moment his foot crossed the boundary, the air changed. Pressure descended from above—not crushing, but assessing.

Andras stopped.

A faint distortion appeared above the platform. Mana gathered. The distortion slowly took shape. First came the outline of a body, then shoulders, arms, a head. Finally, the vague shape of a sword appeared in its hand. The figure remained incomplete, its body translucent and unstable, but the pressure surrounding it was unmistakable.

The residual will of the First Sword Saint.

Andras watched silently as the figure stabilized.

So the novel had been right. The sword was here. The trial was activating.

But one question remained.

Was the trial still the same one Lucian had faced?

Andras’s eyes narrowed slightly. His knowledge had brought him to the tomb. It had not guaranteed what awaited him inside.

The translucent figure slowly raised its sword. A single step forward. Then another.

Andras’s expression remained calm. He had come here months before the Hero was supposed to arrive. He had stolen the Hero’s opportunity. But taking it would require more than simply knowing where it was.

Andras lowered his stance.

If the First Sword Saint wanted to test him, then he would answer.

The trial had begun.