There had been no outward signs of magical awakening in my current body—no sudden bursts of power, no elements surging to the surface, no visions or surges of ancient memory. But I knew it was coming. I could feel it simmering beneath the surface, like a storm gathering behind the clouds, waiting for the right moment to break free. I had no doubt about it. Especially not after what happened when my younger siblings were born.
The moment Edward II and Milena took their first breaths in that private hospital in Shanghai, I felt it—the unmistakable presence of magic. It pulsed faintly from their fragile bodies, quiet and untrained, but present nonetheless. Not nearly as potent as the energy humming inside me, but there. Alive. Awake. Real.
And they weren't alone.
All the babies born in that hospital during those weeks—their cries echoing through pristine halls, their lives just beginning—carried the same whisper of magic within them. I could feel it each time I concentrated, a subtle thrumming under their skin. Weak. Raw. Dormant. But unmistakable. That was when I knew with certainty: magic had spread to Earth, and it had begun with our generation.
What terrified me wasn't the magic itself. It was the absence of any elder mages—no instructors, no cultivators, no guiding hands to help shape what was coming. This realm, this Earth, had no foundation in magical theory, no understanding of mana, no traditions to draw from. When the magic truly awakened in children across this world, chaos would erupt. A chaos born from power unrestrained by knowledge.
And yet, I wasn't entirely powerless here.
Though I hadn't yet awakened a specific affinity—be it fire, water, wind, shadow, or any of the others—I could feel the mana circulating through my channels. Each day, I spent time in silent meditation, tuning in to the rivers of energy that coursed through my new body. I could feel where it flowed easily and where it met resistance, and with practice, I was learning to smooth those paths, preparing my system for full activation.
Back in the Thorian Realm, our first Grandmaster—whose name has long been lost to time—was the first to document the cultivation process. He taught that discipline, breathwork, and mental clarity were essential to awakening one's true magical affinity. Over the centuries, his teachings were refined and expanded by successive Grandmasters until a complex and deeply respected art of magical mastery emerged. It was that same system that I now practiced in secret, the techniques etched into my memory like holy scripture.
I had a powerful advantage in this new life—one that no other soul in this realm likely possessed.
Before the King murdered my mother and seated his favorite concubine Juliette on the throne, before he legitimized his bastard son and stripped me of my birthright, I was Crowned Princess Anna Valentine of the Queendom of Valentine. And as the heir to the throne, I had been forced to absorb every shred of royal knowledge by the time I was nine. It had been grueling, often torturous, but now... now it was my salvation.
Much of that knowledge had come from the Royal Library, an ancient and sacred vault of wisdom, its contents locked away from all but those of true royal blood. Inside were not only historical records and royal decrees but also forbidden tomes—grimoires, scrolls, alchemical texts, prophecies, and manuals of magic long outlawed in the rest of the realm. Texts that whispered secrets of power, danger, and creation. Knowledge others would have killed for. Knowledge I still carried within me.
I used to loathe my magical training. Back then, it had been suffocating—a daily burden forced upon me because of my title, my lineage, and my unwanted destiny. I resented every hour spent perfecting spells, mastering theory, and drilling elemental control when all I wanted was freedom.
But now?
Now I thank the gods for every drop of discipline that had been beaten into me, for every page I was forced to memorize, for every lesson I thought I would never use.
Because without it, I would be hopelessly lost in this foreign world, surrounded by latent mages with no guidance, no control, and no comprehension of the power beginning to bloom inside them.
And if I don't take control of my own awakening soon… someone else might.
Someone who isn't prepared.
Someone who could shatter this fragile realm before it ever has the chance to understand what's coming.
Jiehong and Xialing finally got a taste of what I felt when they were born, the moment they turned three years old. It happened when our mother gave birth yet again—to her and Father's fourth child—on March 2nd, 2036, just a few months ago. We'd just relocated once more, this time to Geneva, Switzerland, leaving behind the familiar buzz of Shanghai. In fact, we moved literally overnight, ringing in the New Year between December 31st and January 1st in the air, as if the turn of the calendar demanded a change in geography too.
This fourth child, the second son in the family, was named Edmund Dongyang King Qin. Dongyang—meaning eastern sun—was a name chosen by my paternal grandmother, Yaling, who claimed it was a name meant to embody hope and rising warmth. A symbolic new light for the family. And strangely… it worked. Dong-Dong, as I soon began calling him, was a beam of light I hadn't expected to welcome.
Alongside him, Jie-Jie and Ling-Ling—as I had also taken to calling my younger twin siblings—suddenly became bearable, even... likable. Something inside me shifted. Maybe it was biological—perhaps some coded instinct in my genes clicking into place, unlocking that elusive older sister temperament I'd previously lacked. Or maybe, as strange as it sounds, it was alchemical, an internal reaction between dormant magic and a soul desperate for connection. Whatever it was, for the first time, I felt something almost like love toward them. Something honest and warm, without bitterness tainting it.
Oddly, it was also a relief.
With Dong-Dong's birth, all the remaining scraps of attention from our family's elders withered and vanished completely. No more strained smiles from Mother when I entered the room. No more subtle comparisons to other "gifted" children or lectures about excellence. All their focus, their pride, their exhausting expectations, shifted to the new baby. But instead of feeling that familiar sting of rejection... I felt relief.