Lucien turned eight this year.
The seasons had passed like whispered promises—fleeting, but each one stacking meticulously atop the last. He had measured them not in months, but in milestones. Every inch of growth, every new insight gained, and every training breakthrough had become a step on the winding path he had begun the moment he first opened his eyes in this world.
The Arkanveil estate had grown busier too.
Aleron Arkanveil, the golden firstborn and Lucien's eldest brother, had awakened his Trait last year—an SS+ ranked force of terrifying potential. The very moment the panel had manifested on his fourteenth birthday, Aleron had marched into the training fields and hadn't looked back since.
From morning till night, the clash of metal and the roar of mana echoed through the manor's backyards. His greatsword cleaved the air in endless drills, each strike a shout of promise, a vow to reach further than anyone before him.
Lucien often watched him from the balcony, eyes narrowing in thoughtful calculation.
The Crimson Death Knight, he mused. That was what the world would one day call Aleron—one of the pillars of humanity's power, a figure that even dragons gave pause to. But now, he was still a teenager, yet to shed the last of his boyhood softness. Not that anyone could call him soft anymore.
"You're basically a golem now," Celia would say, lounging dramatically across the training benches while twirling her fingers. "Do you even remember how to smile?"
Aleron wouldn't reply. He'd simply grunt and continue swinging, the wind howling with each arc of his sword. He had no time for comebacks. His focus had turned razor-sharp. There was a fire inside him now—a need to prove himself worthy of the title he hadn't yet earned.
Celia Arkanveil, the tempestuous elder sister, had grown in an entirely different direction. She was blooming into her power with fire in her veins and sarcasm on her tongue. Beautiful and wild, with the Flame Lotus Seed pulsing at her core, she'd become a walking contradiction—half noble lady, half chaos incarnate.
Lucien found it hilarious.
Their sibling squabbles were like watching a tiger prod a sleeping bear with a stick, just to see what would happen. And yet, for all her teasing, Lucien saw it—the fierce, burning pride in her eyes whenever Aleron trained. She never said it, but she admired him, deeply.
The Arkanveil estate was a world unto itself—filled with training grounds, mana towers, lush orchards, and endless halls of polished stone. But recently, its heartbeat had changed.
Their mother, Aria Arkanveil, was pregnant again.
Lucien had known long before the others suspected it. She'd begun walking slower, breathing heavier, pausing often when climbing stairs. He noticed everything. The curve of her stomach had grown by the week, and soon, the news was official.
A new child.
A new Arkanveil.
Lucien knew who it was. Caelron. The name was not yet spoken, but in his mind, it echoed with familiarity—his future younger brother, a boy of still-hidden brilliance. He remembered fragments from the novel. A support character. Kind, strong, underestimated. A boy who would one day die in battle… too young.
Not this time, Lucien promised silently.
The day of the birth arrived on a storm-kissed afternoon. Clouds loomed low, fat with rain, as the estate fell into an unnatural silence. Even the mana birds nesting atop the towers chirped no songs that morning.
Inside the manor, the grand hallway outside the family birthing chamber was tense. Raelam Arkanveil—Lucien's father, the stormwalker, the man whose name made cities tremble—paced back and forth like a nervous apprentice awaiting a duel.
He was a tall figure, wrapped in regal black and crimson robes, though now they hung with slight disorder. His silver hair was tousled from dragging fingers. His red eyes—usually so cold—flicked toward the warded door again and again.
Lucien sat on one of the benches, legs crossed, back straight. His mind was calm, but his fingers tapped against his knees in a rhythmic pattern. He wasn't worried. He had seen this scene once before, in hazy recollection. Everything would go as it must.
Then—
A baby's cry.
Sharp. Alive.
The warded doors opened as a healer stepped through, her robes faintly glowing with mana threads. She gave a crisp bow.
"The child is born. A healthy boy."
Raelam moved like lightning.
He disappeared through the door before the healer had finished her breath. When he returned minutes later, he carried a swaddled bundle in his arms. His usually severe expression was split by something… softer. A curve of lips. Almost a smile.
He looked stunned.
But fate, as always, had a sense of humor.
The baby stirred. His tiny brow furrowed. And in one tragic, golden-arched moment, a stream of warm liquid burst forth—splashing across the great Raelam Arkanveil's proud face.
Time froze.
Lucien blinked. He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it.
Celia let out an audible gasp and slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Raelam didn't move. His expression was blank. His lips twitched once, twice.
Then the baby started wailing.
Chaos followed.
The healers rushed to retrieve the child. Raelam stood frozen like a statue while someone handed him a towel with trembling hands. For once in his life, the war hero had been defeated—by a newborn bladder.
Lucien, for all his control, couldn't help it.
He burst into laughter.
Later, the incident became legend. Celia retold it at every family dinner for the next three months. Even Aleron cracked a smile the third time she mimicked their father's stunned expression.
But more importantly, Caelron Arkanveil had entered the world.
And Celia had claimed him as her personal ward. She hovered constantly—reading to him, feeding him, cradling him as if he were forged from glass. She even intercepted their mother at times.
"Mother, please. You're holding him wrong."
"I gave birth to him."
"Yes, but I've been watching healers all week. I am now more qualified."
Lucien let them squabble.
He simply observed.
A new piece had been placed on the board. The game was growing.
And he—
Lucien Arkanveil, once Ashok of Earth—was still setting his pieces.
Carefully. Relentlessly.
He looked out the window again.
The world won't wait. But neither will I.