Reincarnated As A First Rate Villain: I Don't Know How To Play My Role-Chapter 45

At the southern edge of the Valderian Empire, where the sun shimmered like molten gold across the endless waters, the Duchy of Rheimara stood as both guardian and gateway to the sea. The Rheimara estate was vast, shaped like a waxing crescent moon whose ends dipped into the great ocean beyond. Its grand outer walls, fortified with ocean-carved stone and layered with maritime enchantments, curved protectively around a bustling, vibrant civilization of over five million souls.

Massive aqueducts and curved stone bridges connected sky-reaching towers, many of which were constructed with almost artistic disregard for symmetry. Rheimaran architecture was both elegant and wild, as if the sea itself whispered into the dreams of its masons. Tall buildings leaned into one another across cobbled streets, their upper levels often linked by arcane walkways or narrow sky-bridges. Even from the skies, the estate looked like a tide-frozen swirl of civilization locked in graceful chaos.

At the very heart of it all was the Rheimara family’s ancestral mansion—a sprawling coastal palace that gleamed under the morning light. Its glass domes and obsidian towers pierced the sky like elegant spears. Surrounded by flowering sea-lilies and mana-fed gardens, the estate overlooked the ocean like a silent monarch watching over its domain.

The docks at the farthest end of the estate were a kingdom of their own. Enormous wooden ships bobbed gently along the curved coastline, their white sails flapping in rhythm with the waves. All bore the sigil of House Rheimara—a silver trident crossing a circle of stars. Some vessels were galleons, laden with precious seafood, while others were military dreadships reinforced with leviathan bone and spell-forged steel.

Loud mechanical cranes, powered by azure mana cores, hissed and clanked as they lifted massive cargo crates from the ships. Blue smoke drifted into the air. The scent of salt, oil, and dried fish danced across the wind. Dockworkers shouted over one another as they pushed carts, catalogued imports, and coordinated shipments. Rheimaran mages hovered above unfinished ships, weaving support sigils into the skeletons of new hulls. Wooden beams floated mid-air under telekinetic guidance, locking into place with metallic clicks and bursts of warm light.

This was the beating heart of the Rheimaran economy—the empire’s lifeblood of seafood and marine resources. From glistening rainbow-scaled fish to mana-rich sea creatures used in prestigious banquets and noble alchemy, House Rheimara was the undisputed ruler of the southern supply chain.

All of it was under the rule of Grand Duke Thane Blackwood Rheimara, a man whose presence commanded both silence and reverence. He was tall, draped in regal robes of sapphire and jet, and though his face bore the wisdom of age, his posture was unyielding. His long violet hair was always tied back in a high knot, and his eyes—deep violet like twilight over the sea—never missed a detail.

Beside him stood his wife, Archduchess Rhiannon Astrid Rheimara, a vision of golden poise. Her hair flowed down her back like liquid sunlight, and her golden eyes mirrored the warmth of coastal dawns. Born of one of the wealthiest Marquis families in the Empire, her influence ran deep within merchant guilds and aristocratic circles alike.

Beyond its trade fleets and vigilant sentries, the Rheimara Estate bore one of the Empire’s most delicate responsibilities—maintaining ties with the Oceanic Thalassari Union.

An empire of the sea, hidden beneath the endless blue where sunlight met coral thrones and bioluminescent palaces, the Thalassari Union was home to the Meranths—a race known to surface dwellers as sea dwellers. Almost indistinguishable from humans at first glance, the Meranths possessed a serene, ethereal beauty, their skin often kissed with a faint shimmer of sea-glow. But it was their serpentine tongues, long and forked like a snake’s, that marked their otherness—an unsettling and yet captivating trait that whispered of their oceanic lineage.

The Meranths were amphibious by nature, able to breathe underwater and walk freely upon land, making them uniquely suited to diplomacy between two worlds.

Now, however, peace prevailed. And under that fragile treaty, it was the House of Rheimara, with its sea-bound dominion and ancient maritime authority, that upheld the Empire’s bridge to the deep. Whether through trade in enchanted sea-beasts or rare saltwater alchemy ingredients, or through quiet councils in hidden underwater domes, the Rheimaras walked a narrow path of diplomacy with the Thalassari.

But together, they walked not with fear, but with legacy—a union of noble sea-blood and shrewd governance.

And within this maritime bastion of prosperity, a small figure walked quietly along the main boulevard, her form shrouded in a white robe. She was no more than five years old, but her steps were deliberate, her gaze hidden beneath the hood’s shadow.

Next to her strode a towering man—also in white, his entire form obscured save for the faint glint of metal at his hip. To strangers, they looked like travelers or monks. But to the citizens of Rheimara, the sight was unremarkable. This estate had seen dignitaries from distant archipelagos and mages in ceremonial cloaks; a robed pair was nothing strange.

Yet the child was far from ordinary.

Galadriel Xanthe Rheimara, daughter of Thane and Rhiannon. One of the sixteen heroes chosen by the goddess Elyssira.

She walked silently, absorbing the warm breeze that carried the scent of roasted shellfish and sweet ocean bread from nearby stalls. Her small hands were hidden beneath her sleeves, her eyes shielded, but within her mind burned memories far older than her physical body. She had lived through war, betrayal, and the collapse of hope. And she had died with regrets too heavy to carry into eternity.

And now, she had been reborn—in the same body, in the same place, under the same crescent moon-shaped walls.

The system shut down yesterday.

The thought gnawed at her. She hadn’t felt its presence since then—no status window, no skill logs, no messages. It was as if the guiding hand that once marked the chosen had vanished. Yet the world continued. Her people laughed. Her guards still patrolled. The ships still docked.

Perhaps... this time, I can protect them. Truly protect them.

She paused briefly by a fruit vendor selling iced sea grapes, her tiny gaze flicking toward the towering ships beyond. Children chased each other across the stone streets, and couples walked hand-in-hand beneath blue-flamed streetlamps.

So much peace. So much to lose.

Before her thoughts could spiral into dread, the robed man beside her—Sir Valtor, an SS-ranked knight before the system’s collapse—bent slightly and pointed toward a cozy stone building near the harbor.

It had rounded windows glowing with orange light, a wooden sign shaped like a whale, and the scent of grilled sea meats wafted invitingly through the air.

"Young mistress," he said with a voice like velvet and steel, "would you care to eat?"

Galadriel blinked, surprised.

The haze in her thoughts lifted slightly. She turned to him, lifting her hood just enough to smile—a small, hopeful smile that cracked the frost of her solemnness.

"Yes," she said softly. "I would like that very much."

As they stepped inside, the door chime rang, and the sounds of waves lapping against the docks seemed to harmonize with the distant chorus of ship horns.

And far above the ocean, as if in silent approval, the sun dipped lower, casting a trident-shaped shadow across the shimmering sea.

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From high above the clouds that blanketed the Valderian Empire, where the wind whispered secrets only the heavens could hear, floated a marvel of both arcane and mechanical ingenuity—a massive, drifting island suspended in the sky. At its center stood a mansion so majestic and refined it could rival the royal palace itself. Polished white marble walls shimmered under the sun, gilded trim traced every edge, and arching spires pierced the sky like fingers reaching for the stars. Around the mansion spread a self-contained paradise: vibrant flower gardens in full bloom, exotic trees with curving silver-veined trunks, and a large pond stocked with rainbow-scaled fish that danced through the water with lazy grace. A white stone gazebo overlooked the pond, nestled under a pair of gently swaying trees whose branches interlocked like lovers in an eternal embrace.

But the true miracle lay beneath the island.

Beneath its floating mass, intricate patterns of glowing runes pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a stabilizing web of arcane formulas that defied gravity itself. Interwoven among these magical arrays were mechanical contraptions—massive bronze turbines, wing-like rudders, and several arcane devices that bore a striking resemblance to airplane engines from Earth. These formed the foundation of House Solcrux’s greatest achievement: the floating isle they called "Aetherhold."

House Solcrux bore no provincial lands, no territory under its governance. But those who assumed this meant weakness quickly found themselves corrected. The Solcrux bloodline did not rule people—they ruled knowledge. And in the Valderian Empire, that was often more dangerous.

Their family sigil bore a simple image: an open book, pages fluttering in wind only the wise could feel. But behind that symbol lay an overwhelming legacy. Across the centuries, House Solcrux had produced the greatest scholars, inventors, and theorists in the history of the empire. It was said that if one opened a book about runic theory, mana gem refinement, or magical engineering, they were reading the work of a Solcrux. Indeed, almost every textbook used in the Imperial academies had the Solcrux name written in small but reverent print somewhere inside.

Their isolationist tradition had shaped their culture deeply. Children were taught from a young age to value seclusion, to pursue mastery over the arcane, and to leave matters of the mundane to lesser minds. Only one among the children would be chosen to inherit the family’s secrets—the heir—and all others, no matter their talent, would be discouraged from advancing further.

The current patriarch of House Solcrux was none other than Grand Duke Owen Korvus Solcrux. His brown eyes carried the weight of centuries of knowledge, and his brown hair, though touched with gray, remained combed with exacting neatness. With pale skin and a tall, commanding frame, he looked less like a man and more like an embodiment of arcane intellect. Before the system shutdown, he was an SSS-rank mage, the leading professor of arcane innovation, and head of the Imperial House of Magical Engineering. It was he who designed the modern airships, and the floating mansion was his personal magnum opus. Across the empire, nearly seventy percent of all practicing mages idolized him, and some cult-like mage circles worshipped him as the ’Runefather.’

By his side stood his wife, Archduchess Valentin Ursula Solcrux, a woman of elegance and aristocratic power. She hailed from one of the wealthiest Marquisse families in the Valderian Empire and brought with her the golden hue of nobility—both in blood and appearance. Her flowing orange hair shimmered like autumn fire, and her orange eyes gleamed with an intellect that matched her husband’s. Rumors spoke of her managing an underground network of magical merchants and controlling the rarest magical resource exchanges within the empire’s elite.

Inside the mansion’s quiet halls, protected from the hum of machinery and the distant murmur of wind, one particular room held a tender stillness. Sunlight filtered through enchanted glass, casting golden patterns across a large, plush bed where a small child slept soundly. Her breathing was slow, even, utterly undisturbed by the cataclysmic system shutdown that had rippled across the world just a day before.

She had the delicate features of a doll—skin a soft, radiant brown that seemed kissed by sunlight, and long, messy black hair that spilled over her pillow like spilled ink. Her tiny hands were curled under her cheek, her legs tangled in the silken sheets. She looked peaceful.

But her words were anything but.

"I finally killed you... damn Lucien," she mumbled in her sleep, her brow twitching slightly. "That’s what you get for insulting me... for being born of a different father."

Then came another whisper: "You dared to mock my beautiful skin."

She stirred faintly, her thoughts drifting in and out of painful memory and seething pride. This girl—this child—was Yseult Brynhild Solcrux, one of the future sixteen heroes, a regressor, and the next heir to House Solcrux. Though only five years old in this life, the bitterness and fire behind her unconscious murmurs belonged to someone who had seen the end of the world... and lived to spit on its ashes.

Her skin tone had been a matter of whispering intrigue among certain Solcrux relatives, but to Grand Duke Owen, there was no mystery. His studies in genetic inheritance had gone far beyond what anyone else in the empire could even comprehend. He knew well the dormant traits that surfaced once every dozen generations. Indeed, there had been a past heir whose complexion matched Yseult’s exactly—records sealed and guarded in the Solcrux archives confirmed it.

He had looked upon her at birth and seen not anomaly, but prophecy.

As Yseult rolled over in her bed, a soft gust of air blew through the crack of the door. Outside, the floating isle drifted with slow grace across the heavens, kept steady by countless spells and gears, stabilizers and soul-bound mana cores.

The system may have shut down. The world below may have grown restless.

But here, in Aetherhold, a storm was preparing to rise.

And it slept in the form of a child who would one day burn the sky with her wrath.