I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist

Urvan was terrified.

Summoned by Ivan to a secluded chamber beneath an old, crumbling house, he could feel the weight of fear pressing down on him. Urvan had always been afraid of Ivan, despite the deep respect he held for him. Ivan was the force that had driven Gevurah to greatness—conquering villages, towns, and now even an entire Empire, one of the most strongest on the Holy Continent.

Ivan had the respect from everyone in Gevurah; his value was unquestionable. It was no surprise that the Father had entrusted Camelot, the very heart of Britannia, into Ivan's capable hands. That was the level of trust he inspired.

And he deserved it.

Urvan had seen the transformation of Camelot with his own eyes. The once ugly city of Arthur Pendragon now bore an otherworldly aura, almost as if Seraphiel himself had laid a divine hand upon it. But despite the awe and reverence, Urvan's fear of Ivan had only deepened—especially after sensing the monstrous aura of Ivan's Stigma.

Tonight, however, Urvan's fear reached a new peak. He had caught a fleeting glimpse—perhaps a mere whisper—of the rumored Devil that Ivan was said to control. Many had dismissed it as a tale spun to amplify Ivan's already legendary reputation. But today, Urvan knew better. There had been no exaggeration. The horror he witnessed was real.

And now, alone in the dead of night, he had been summoned.

He couldn't tell if this was a blessing or a curse, especially given Ivan's blackened mood following the recent rape case. Everyone knew of Ivan's disdain for such vile acts; it was one of the few things that truly enraged him.

And no one wanted to witness an enraged Ivan.

Urvan prayed silently that Ivan didn't intend to offer him as a sacrifice to the Devil. It seemed unlikely, but the fear gnawed at him regardless.

As he descended the creaking wooden stairs leading to the underground cave, the sound of wet, fleshy slicing echoed through the narrow corridor. It was as if someone were carving through slabs of meat.

Each step felt like a march toward his own doom, but Urvan pressed on until he arrived at a dimly lit room. A single, flickering lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow over what appeared to be a makeshift hospital bed.

His eyes widened as he caught sight of pale, naked legs stretched out on the bed. The rest of the body was obscured by a figure hunched over it—a man clad in a blood-stained lab coat, his back turned to Urvan.

The room reeked of death and decay, and Urvan's stomach churned. He stood frozen, every nerve in his body screaming for him to run, yet he remained rooted to the spot, trapped in the grip of a terror he could not shake.

The wet, squelching sounds abruptly ceased as the gloved hands that had been busily cutting into flesh paused their work. A heavy silence filled the room, so oppressive that Urvan felt his throat tighten. He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening.

Then, the man in the lab coat slowly turned to face him. Urvan instinctively took a step back, his eyes widening.

"W-Who are you?!" He blurted out, releasing his Stigma but the man didn't even flinch.

The figure before him was a young man, his face obscured by a mask, with strands of white hair spilling over his brow. He was not Ivan—at least, not the Ivan Urvan knew.

But then, the stranger spoke.

"Urvan."

That single word, uttered in Ivan's cold, detached voice, sent a chill down Urvan's spine.

"Y-Your Eminence? H-How…?" Urvan stuttered, his mind struggling to reconcile the appearance with the unmistakable voice.

"Don't waste my time," Adam snapped, a bit irritated. Though it would have been simpler if Ivan had retained his usual appearance, there were limitations even to Ivan's abilities. The truth was, Ivan couldn't perform Adam's specialized tasks without switching personas. Each identity had its own set of talents, and while Ivan possessed all of Adam's memories, he couldn't replicate Adam's unique skills.

"But… why are you… like this?" Urvan's voice faltered, eyes darting nervously between the masked face and the blood-soaked lab coat.

"It's me," Adam—said, releasing a wave of Stigma so intense that Urvan recoiled. It was unmistakably Ivan's Stigma.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Urvan's confusion only deepened. The mask, the white hair, the lab coat—it all defied explanation. But the aura was Ivan's, without a doubt. He had questions, countless questions, yet fear clamped his mouth shut.

"Why did you summon me, Your Eminence?" Urvan managed to ask, his voice trembling as he cautiously approached.

As he drew closer, his eyes were drawn to the horrific sight on the bed. What he had assumed was a corpse was, in fact, a teenage boy, his chest grotesquely split open from collarbone to abdomen. The ribcage had been forcibly pried apart, exposing the heart, lungs, and other vital organs in a macabre display.

This... this was not the Ivan he knew. He had never imagined Ivan indulging in such grim practices. It was really out of character.

"Who is this boy, my Lord?" Urvan asked.

"You don't need to know," Adam replied curtly. His focus had already shifted, his gloved hand reaching for a scalpel. With a precise, practiced motion, he pierced the exposed heart. Blood spurted out, dark and thick, which he promptly collected in a small vial.

Ignoring Urvan's horrified gaze, Adam turned to a workbench that bristled with an array of unfamiliar equipment. Among them was a sleek, high-tech microscope, unlike anything Urvan had ever seen before. It was, of course, one of Adam's inventions—a piece of technology far beyond what anyone in Gevurah could comprehend.

Suddenly, the screen of a nearby computer flickered to life, casting a white glow over the dark room. A cascade of data scrolled rapidly down the monitor, lines of text and symbols flashing by in a language that was utterly foreign to Urvan. He squinted, trying to make sense of it, but it was no use. This was a secret script, a complex code crafted by none other than Victor Frankenstein—a scientific language designed to forever conceal his discoveries from prying eyes. Only two people could understand this language and Adam was one of them.

"Something's adhering to the blood cells... Mana particles, perhaps? Mana Cells? But it's different from my world's configuration…" Adam muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the cryptic data. His words were a jumble of technical jargon that flew over Urvan's head, leaving him even more bewildered.

"Y-Your Eminence?" Urvan called out hesitantly.

"I'll need more test subjects," Adam murmured, almost to himself. "This one might be useful for a different experiment." He jotted down a series of notes in a worn, leather-bound notebook, the pages filled with arcane diagrams and illegible scrawl.

Without another word, Adam turned back to the lifeless body on the bed. He then stripped off his bloodied gloves, revealing pale, slender hands stained with crimson.

"I need you to stabilize my Stigma with yours, Urvan," Adam ordered abruptly.

"Eh? Your Eminence… you must be joking," Urvan said, forcing a nervous laugh. "I could never hope to control your Stigma. It's far beyond my capabilities."

"I will suppress it to a manageable level. I need you to handle the remnants. This isn't a request—it's an order."

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"Yes… of course," Urvan conceded, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had no choice in the matter. Refusal was not an option.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Urvan moved to the opposite side of the bed, directly across from Adam. Without a moment's hesitation, Adam extended his hand, and black tendrils of Stigma began to snake out from his fingertips. They writhed like living shadows, slithering toward the exposed heart of the teenager on the table. The tendrils slipped into the slit Adam had carved, and to Urvan's utter astonishment, they began to knit the flesh back together, sealing the heart with eerie precision.

More tendrils poured forth, weaving their way through the other organs that had been dissected and laid bare. They closed the gaping wounds with a dark, unnatural fluidity, as though time itself were reversing. Even the ribcage, which had been brutally cracked open, was pulled back into place with a grotesque, bone-grinding sound.

Urvan watched, his eyes wide with disbelief. The entire scene was surreal, like something out of a nightmare. The dead teenager's skin began to darken, turning an inky black as Adam's Stigma seeped into his flesh.

Realizing the danger, Urvan quickly summoned his own Stigma, forming a protective barrier around the body. He was uniquely skilled in stabilizing Stigma—a rare talent that had earned him a reputation within Gevurah. As he channeled his power, he managed to contain the destructive force of Ivan's monstrous Stigma, preventing it from consuming the corpse entirely.

Now, he understood why he had been summoned. Ivan needed his specific expertise to rein in the chaos of his own Stigma. Urvan's role was crucial in this delicate operation, serving as a counterbalance to the rampant destructive Stigma of Ivan that threatened to obliterate everything it touched.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, and finally, the tendrils retracted, slithering back into Adam's hand. The body on the table lay still, its wounds now sealed until the chest, though the pale skin remained an unnatural shade of black in some parts.

All the organs were sealed shut, though they now pulsed faintly with the taint of Ivan's Stigma. But Adam wasn't finished. With a swift motion he extended his hand toward the teenager's nape, and this time, finer, needle-like tendrils erupted from his fingertips. They pierced the base of the skull with surgical precision.

A moment later, black arcs of lightning crackled violently through the body, sending jagged streaks of energy directly into the brain. Adam watched with a keen gaze as his Stigma surged, the black lightning repairing damaged neural pathways, reconnecting severed synapses.

-Boom!

Suddenly, a deafening explosion reverberated through the chamber. The entire room quaked, dust cascading from the ceiling as the walls shuddered under the force of the explosion. Urvan instinctively flinched, his skin crawling with the sensation yet he forced himself to maintain control over his own Stigma.

The corpse on the table spasmed violently, the black lightning coursing through it. Adam's lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he watched the cells react, sparking back to life. For a full minute, the body convulsed uncontrollably before suddenly jerking upright, as though struck by a massive electric shock, only to collapse back onto the bed with a heavy, lifeless thud.

Then, there was silence.

"Y-Your Eminence?" Urvan whispered, with confusion and dread. He couldn't understand what he had just witnessed. The implications of it were too horrifying to contemplate. Perhaps, he thought, this was an attempt at some unholy resurrection, but even Ivan couldn't possibly—

"...!"

A shiver ran down Urvan's spine. Slowly, he turned to look back at the body. What he saw made his blood run cold.

The boy, who had been undeniably dead mere moments ago, was now sitting up on the bed. His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated, staring blankly into the void. His mouth hung agape, but no sound escaped his lips.

Urvan's legs wobbled, and he staggered backward, his face as pale as a corpse. "I-It can't be…"

"Urvan," Adam called, his voice as calm as before.

"Y-Yes, Your Eminence…?" Urvan muttered, taking his gaze away from the abomination to face Adam. He wasn't sure what terrified him more—the impossible spectacle before him or of Ivan himself.

"I need your assistance in dividing my Stigma," Adam said. "Find suitable receptacles—preferably weapons and Artifacts, the best ones from the Cathedral capable of withstanding my Stigma. Say it is for me."

It was Ivan's idea to keep his Stigma from spiraling out of control. Then he would be able to use these fragments of his Stigma as much as he wanted separately from himself.

"Yes, Your Eminence... But what about... this?" Urvan nodded but asked, casting a fearful glance at the reanimated youth whose lifeless gaze seemed still looking at nothing.

Adam's eyes, a bright shade of brown, narrowed with a glint of sick satisfaction.

"He is my first Apostle."