The flames were the last thing he felt.
They clung to his bones, peeled away his skin, and devoured the last shreds of his soul as screams echoed across the broken capital—his enemies weeping in victory, his allies howling in betrayal.
His body burned atop a pyre of a thousand corpses.
A nation's funeral.
A villain's reward.
And then—
Silence.
His eyes snapped open.
No fire. No pain.
Only a ceiling—smooth, arched, and impossibly familiar.
This room…
He knew every crack in the stone above. Every dust trail the sunlight would leave by midday. A ceiling he had last seen seventy years ago, as a boy who still believed in honor.
Caelric Vaelthorn bolted upright.
His body felt too light. Too clean. Too... alive.
He stumbled to the window and flung it open with trembling hands.
The estate was still there.
Endless green hills rolled across the landscape, crowned with forests untouched by war. Sunlight dripped gently over tiled rooftops, and birds chirped—blissfully unaware of the blood that had once soaked this land.
Peace.
Too peaceful.
His breath hitched.
And then he saw it—not with his eyes, but in memory:
These same fields, ablaze.
The manor is in ruins.
His people were butchered.
His father's heads were mounted like trophies on the gate they once ruled.
His throat tightened.
He looked at the world—not in awe, but with fury.
And a sound escaped him.
Low. Cold. Wrong.
A chuckle—twisted and bitter.
Then it grew. Warped into something darker. Crueler.
He began to laugh.
"It worked," he said aloud, his voice trembling with triumph.
"It finally worked."
He gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles whitened.
"I'm back."
His laughter grew louder—richer, more frenzied—as the reality sank in.
"I'm back! Before it all started!"
CRASH!
The heavy wooden door slammed open behind him.
Steel boots pounded the floor.
Two knights strode in without permission, faces hidden beneath polished helms. The Vaelthorn crest gleamed on their chestplates—a sword wreathed in flame.
"Young Master Caelric," the first one barked, voice stern. "The Count demands your presence. Now."
His laughter died instantly—like a fire snuffed out by cold wind.
Caelric didn't move at first. Just stood there by the open window, fingers still gripping the stone ledge.
Then, slowly, he turned.
The smile was gone.
His eyes were unreadable.
But beneath that calm, the storm still roared.
Of course.
He remembered this day.
The knights.
The summons.
The judgment.
He gave them a faint nod. "Lead the way."
They crossed the manor's inner court, past stone archways and weather-worn banners bearing the Vaelthorn crest—a blade crossed over a bleeding sun. The symbol of an old family, once famed for honor and war…
Now a relic crumbling under its own legacy.
They hauled him across the manor's inner court, past stone archways and weather-worn banners bearing the Vaelthorn crest—a blade crossed over a bleeding sun. The symbol of an old family, once famed for honor and war, is now a relic crumbling under its own legacy.
Caelric stepped inside.
At the far end of the hall, seated beneath a cracked mural of the First Founding, was Count Alvaron Vaelthorn—his father.
The man who had once stood tall among generals.
Now slouched beneath a mountain of burdens.
His once-black hair had gone to ash, his armor dulled, and his boots cracked from too many marches. One hand rested on his blade—still sharp, still ready. The other gripped a report so tightly the parchment had torn.
Caelric looked at him in silence.
He hadn't changed. Still carrying this house on his back, even as it crumbled.
The borderlands were bleeding from constant raids.
The royal family had stopped sending support years ago.
And still… this man had never given up. He never abandoned his people. Never walked away.
And I... only ever spat on him for it.
He remembered it vividly:
His past self, young and furious, throwing tantrums over threadbare clothes.
Mocking his father for their declining status.
Lashing out when nobles whispered behind their backs.
He had been spoiled. Arrogant.
Blind.
"Caelric," the Count said finally.
His voice was graveled. Tired. Sharp enough to cut.
"I am... truly disappointed."
The words landed heavier than any blade.
"You lured your own brother into the forest," his father continued, the weight of his voice cutting through the cold air. "And left him to die."
Caelric flinched—but said nothing.
The memory still burned in him. Not like fire—but like poison. Slow. Bitter. Impossible to forget.
He had failed to awaken his aura at thirteen.
It wasn't unusual. Some awakened later. But in a house built on sword and blood, where power was earned and demanded, his failure wasn't just a delay—it was weakness.
Whispers followed him like a shadow. Servants looked at him like he was less than the blood that ran through his veins. A disappointment. His father's pride slipping further with each passing day.
And then came the final blow.
His younger stepbrother—only nine—awakened.
Not just awakened, but lit up the training grounds with a brilliant, powerful aura, sharper than any child should have had.
The prodigy. The golden child. The rightful heir.
And Caelric?
He was nothing.
Furious, Caelric became the shadow beside the sun.
He'd watched the family cling to the child, celebrated his every success, while he rotted in the dark corner of the estate. He didn't have the power they craved. He wasn't the one they believed in.
So, in his fury, he did the unthinkable.
He lured his brother into the forest, all smiles and false promises.
"Come with me. I found something. A hidden path. Maybe a monster's den—our own little secret."
The boy was only nine.
He looked up to Caelric.
He followed without hesitation.
And Caelric led him deep into the woods.
Not too far—just far enough. Past the old watchtower. Beyond where the guards usually patrolled.
Then he left him.
No second thought. No hesitation. Just... walked.
And when night fell, the wolves came.
The patrol found the boy the next morning—barely breathing, his clothes torn, and skin shredded by claws and thorns. But alive.
And Caelric?
He was brought before his father. Stripped of his title. Cast aside.
The boy he once was? Gone.
Now, years later—though only a few minutes had passed in this new life—Caelric stood before his father once more.
"You disgraced this family," the Count said, his voice low and sharp. "You tried to destroy your own blood. Over envy. Over pride."
Caelric said nothing.
"Is that what you are, Caelric? A name without worth? A blade without an edge?" His father's voice trembled with disdain.
Caelric felt the sting of those words. The same sting from years ago when his father had stripped him of everything.
But he didn't flinch.
"You shamed our name. You nearly broke the only thing we still hold—our code."
There was a tremor in his voice—so small it barely passed the lips—but Caelric caught it.
The Count wasn't just condemning a failure.
He was mourning a son.
"I raised you better than this," the Count said. "I placed my hopes on your shoulders. The weight of our name. Of our code. And this is how you carried it?"
Caelric remained still. Stoic. Unmoving.
In another life, he would've shouted back. Tried to explain. Blamed someone else.
But that boy… he was already dead.
"I had planned to send you to the capital," his father said. "To witness the Crown Prince's succession. You were meant to stand there as an heir—among nobles and the future rulers of this realm."
His voice cracked for the briefest second.
"But not anymore."
He stepped forward. His boots echoed across the cold floor, heavy with finality.
"From this day forward, you are no longer the heir of House Vaelthorn."
No gasps. No reaction.
Just silence.
"I will not exile you. That would be too simple," the Count went on. "Instead—you will remain here, while your brother travels in your place. He will begin the heir's path. He will take your future."
He stared at Caelric as if daring him to lash out.
But Caelric only lowered his head slightly.
"I will follow," he said softly.
The Count blinked. Just once.
No resistance. No outrage. No fight.
The boy he remembered would have cursed the walls, screamed injustice, and demanded another chance.
But this one?
He looked at Caelric like he didn't recognize him.
"…Very well," the Count said at last, a little slower than before. His voice lost its edge, unsure whether he was witnessing maturity… or a new kind of scheme.
He turned his back.
"Leave."
Caelric stood still for a moment, his chest tightening, but then he asked in a calm voice, "One request, Father."
The Count looked back, puzzled by the calmness in his son's tone. "What?"
"I want to leave the estate. I want to travel."
"So be it," he said at last, his voice weary. "Go where you will. Perhaps the world will shape you into something this house could not."
He turned away, his shoulders heavier than before.
Dismissed.
Caelric bowed and turned. He walked out of the war hall without a second glance.
This time, he wasn't angry.
This time, he wasn't sad.
He had no interest in reclaiming the title. Or begging for forgiveness.
His steps quickened as he walked through the stone corridors. His mind wasn't on his past mistakes, on the lost legacy of the Vaelthorn name.
It was on something much bigger.
He turned the corner, heading straight for the library—not to read, but to prepare.
Six months.
Six months before it all begins.
The relics. The dungeons. The rise to power.
He remembered where it all started.
And this time—he would shape the world.