The system wants me to be the Villainess Omega

The noodles were congealing in their broth again. Seren jabbed her chopsticks into the soggy clump, lifted them high, and shook her head like she was disappointed in humanity itself.

“Pathetic,” she muttered. And she wasn’t sure if she meant the noodles, the book glowing on her laptop screen, or her own sad existence — hunched over her desk at two a.m., hair in a nest, bathrobe stained with soy sauce.

On the screen, bold italicized letters announced the chapter title: The Mate Ceremony.

Seren narrowed her eyes. “Oh, here we go. Time for the poor little omega heroine to get ‘tragically’ rejected by the cold Alpha. What a fresh, innovative concept. Haven’t seen that nine hundred times before.”

She slurped half the noodles in one go and leaned closer to type into the comment box.

“Honestly, author, what are you even doing? Why does every heroine in these stories get rejected at the same public ceremony? Why can’t she be rejected via text message? Or an email with a frowny emoji? You people need to expand your horizons.”

Fingers clacked furiously as she poured scorn onto the glowing screen. Her review blog was infamous for this exact thing: Seren Han, scourge of bad webnovels, destroyer of overused tropes, wielder of sarcasm sharp enough to decapitate.

“Oh, and here comes the rival omega girl,” she narrated aloud, scrolling. “Seren Nightwind. Gorgeous, petty, jealous. Let me guess: she’s going to laugh at the heroine, then spend the next twenty chapters humiliating herself. Why do they always name the evil one something vaguely moon-related, anyway? Can’t villains be named, like, Brenda? And why does she bear the same name with me?”

She stuffed another mouthful of noodles in her face and typed:

“ Seren Nightwind is literally brainless. Why are we pretending this makes her a good rival? If you’re going to write a villainess, at least give her a working frontal lobe. And why the fuck did you think naming her after me was a good idea?!”

Her laptop fan whined, trying to keep up with her assault. Seren kept going, a woman possessed.

“And cue the Alpha,” she groaned, scrolling down as he appeared. Kael Duskbane, broad-shouldered, silver-eyed, icy as the Arctic. Seren held up her chopsticks like a microphone and put on a deep, brooding voice: “I reject you, frail omega girl, because destiny makes me an asshole.”

The noodles dangling from her chopsticks plopped back into the bowl.

“You know what, Kael? Therapy. That’s what you need. Not a mate.”

She hit enter to post her tirade in the comments section, then shoved the laptop back an inch, stretching her arms overhead. The ceiling creaked above her, a reminder that her apartment was a shoebox with thin walls and even thinner dignity.

Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at it, saw it was another “Your review has been reported” message, and snorted.

“They can report me all they want. Truth hurts.”

That was when she noticed her noodles had gone cold. She grimaced, shoved them aside, and reached for the kettle to make tea.

And tripped over the power cord.

The laptop spun off the desk, the bowl of noodles flipped into the air like some tragic slapstick gag, and Seren’s flailing hand knocked the kettle’s cord loose. Sparks snapped from the wall socket, the lights blinked, and the last thought that crossed Seren Han’s mind before she hit the floor was:

Oh, come on. I can’t die like this. Death by noodles and faulty wiring? That’s not even dramatic enough for a prologue.

The world blinked to black.

---

When Seren opened her eyes again, she thought she’d woken up in a sauna. Her skin burned, her throat was dry, and every joint ached like she’d been steamrolled by her own sarcasm.

She groaned and pushed herself up, expecting to see her cramped apartment. Instead, a carved wooden ceiling loomed above her, painted with curling silver designs that shimmered in the firelight. The sheets under her hands were fur, not cotton. The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and something coppery.

“What the—”

She sat up too fast and nearly toppled back down. Her head was pounding. Fever. Her whole body radiated heat like a furnace.

A bronze mirror stood on the dresser across from the bed. Seren staggered toward it, gripping the bedpost for balance, and froze when she saw the reflection.

Not her own round glasses, messy bun, and noodle-stained bathrobe.

A girl with luminous pale skin, dark hair cascading down in silky waves, and sharp amber eyes. A face straight out of a gothic perfume ad.

Seren’s jaw dropped.

“No way.”

She spun toward the bed, heart thudding, brain racing. The fever. The ornate room. The reflection. The sheer moon-aesthetic of everything.

“No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare tell me I transmigrated into that stupid book—”

Her voice cut off when a glowing blue screen popped into existence in front of her eyes.

[System Initialization…]

[Welcome, Seren Nightwind. Role: Jealous Rival Omega.]

[Objective: Ensure the heroine’s rise to Luna status by fulfilling all assigned quests.]

[Failure to comply will result in penalties.]

Seren stared at it.

“Nope. Nope. Not doing this.” She waved her hand through the glowing text. The box followed her vision.

[First Quest: Mate Ceremony Event.

Action Required: Laugh at the heroine when she is rejected by the Alpha.

Reward: +50 Survival Points.

Failure: -10 Luck (Minor Misfortune).]

Seren sank back onto the bed, dragging her hands down her borrowed face.

“I can’t believe this. I mocked this story so hard I got isekai’d into it. And not even as the heroine. I’m the petty rival? The idiot whose only function is to spill drinks and get slapped?”

The System chimed pleasantly. [Countdown to Ceremony: 1 Hour.]

Seren groaned into her hands. “I’m going to kill those noodles for this. This is their fault.”

But deep down, she knew exactly whose fault it was. Hers.

She had torn the story apart — and now the story wanted revenge.

---

The heavy oak door creaked open.

“Seren.”

She jumped, hands flying down from her face. A man stepped into the room — tall, broad, streaks of gray in his hair, but eyes as sharp and calculating as a loan shark’s. His scent hit her first: musk, tobacco, and something acrid underneath. Her new memory whispered his name into her skull like an intrusive thought: Lord Nightwind. Her father.

“Are you decent?” he asked without waiting for an answer, already striding in with a bundle of silken fabric draped over one arm. In his other hand, he carried a steaming cup that smelled bitter and medicinal.

Seren’s tongue went dry. The memories kept bleeding into her like static on a bad channel — this man was her father, minor noble, desperate for power, willing to use his daughter as currency.

“I brought your tonic.” He set the cup on the nightstand and turned toward her, appraising her flushed cheeks. “The fever must be gone by tonight. You cannot stumble during the ceremony. The Alpha must see you radiant, charming — not like some weak invalid.”

Seren blinked at him. “...Did you just call me weak and charming in the same sentence?”

His brows drew down. “Do not start with your nonsense. This is the most important night of our lives.” He lifted the gown in his hand, shaking it out so the silver embroidery glittered in the firelight. “Wear this. It will make you look celestial.”

Seren eyed the dress. Floor-length, plunging neckline, sleeves made of sheer gauze that would probably itch like fire ants. “Looks like it’ll make me look like a chandelier.”

Lord Nightwind ignored her, thrusting it into her arms. “Remember your role. Tonight, you must stand beside Alpha Kael. He will not choose you as his mate — the Goddess has decreed the omega girl, that pathetic Nova creature. But if you can ensnare his interest, even briefly, it will raise our family’s standing. A mistress in the Alpha’s bed is worth more than any alliance.”

Seren choked. “Mistress?”

“Do not say it like it is an insult.” His lips curled into something sharp, greedy. “It is an opportunity. Seduce him. Make him want you. That is your duty.”

Seren stared at him, then at the cup of medicine steaming on the table, then at the glowing System box still hovering in her vision.

[Reminder: Quest Deadline Approaching.]

Her laugh came out half-hysterical. “Oh, this just gets better and better.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “What is that tone?”

“Nothing.” Seren hugged the dress to her chest like a shield. “Just… overwhelmed by how much you believe in me, Father.”

“Good.” He patted her shoulder, oblivious to the venom dripping from her voice. “Do not disappoint me tonight, Seren.”

As he left, closing the heavy door behind him, Seren slumped onto the fur-draped bed, gown still in her arms.

The System pulsed again.

[Quest: Laugh at the heroine when she is rejected. Failure: -10 Luck.]

Seren flopped back on the bed, staring at the carved ceiling.

“So let me get this straight,” she muttered. “I’m sick, stuck in chandelier cosplay, forced to seduce an emotionally constipated wolfman, and my literal dad is pimping me out for political gain.”

The System chimed, perky as an elevator voice. [Affirmative.]

Seren groaned. “I knew those noodles were cursed.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the fever still pounding through her blood. She could already hear the drums and voices echoing outside the manor, the pack gathering, the night of destiny approaching.

And she, Seren Han — now Seren Nightwind — was expected to play the jealous rival’s part.

She gritted her teeth, sat up, and muttered, “Fine. Let’s see how bad luck you can throw at me, System. But I’m not laughing at some poor girl getting rejected. Not today.”

The blue box flickered ominously, like a warning.

Seren yanked the gown over her head and muttered under her breath, “Let’s get this train wreck started.”