The bell of the Imperial Palace tolled thirteen times, each chime rolling through the corridors like the heartbeat of some ancient beast. The sound stirred whispers and shifting silk, signaling the beginning of the Spring Convocation — an event where the nobility of the Seravonne Empire gathered to renew their oaths… and sharpen their knives.
In the far corner of the great hall, seated in a carved oak chair so far from the obsidian throne that it might as well have been outside, sat Edran Valerius — the third prince. His figure was a small shadow in the sea of brocade and jewels, a pale, sickly boy whose thin frame was draped in robes a season out of fashion.
At least, that was who the court thought they saw.
Inside this body, another soul stirred.
It had been three days since he awoke here — three days since the fire, the smoke, the crushing weight of a collapsing ceiling had stolen the life of Kael Marcellus, historian of empires, from Earth. In the final moment before darkness claimed him, he had expected oblivion. Instead, he opened his eyes to a chamber smelling of lavender and steel, attended by silent maids, in a body that coughed blood with each breath.
The memories of this body came in fragments — half-forgotten lessons from strict tutors, blurred faces of siblings who spoke to him with polished contempt, a father whose gaze passed over him as though he were an unwanted painting in a gilded hall.
The historian in him saw the pattern immediately. This was the son destined for erasure — the pawn too weak to be worth moving. In his old life, he had studied such figures in dusty tomes, reading about how they vanished before their names could be inked in history. In this one… he was that figure.
And he had no intention of staying that way.
The Emperor's voice thundered from the dais."Let the oaths of loyalty be spoken."
Nobles lined up before the throne, each bending knee and offering gifts that glittered under the sun streaming from the stained-glass windows. Gold inlaid swords, bolts of enchanted silk, casks of wine brewed with phoenix tears. The Crown Prince, Alaric Valerius, stood beside the Emperor like a statue chiseled from frost — tall, broad-shouldered, his silver hair catching the light like a halo. He nodded with perfect regal grace at each offering, the picture of imperial power.
To Alaric's left, Princess Selene watched with a soft smile, hands folded demurely. She was beauty wrapped in silk and venom, the darling of the court and rumored to have ended more political careers than the Imperial Inquisition.
And then, at the far end, Edran.
When his turn came to approach the throne, a murmur passed through the crowd — surprise that he had even been included in the ceremony. His knees wobbled as he rose, the weakness of the body a constant reminder that this world did not forgive fragility.
He bowed stiffly, presenting his "gift" — a modest book of court laws he had hastily rewritten in the last three days to close loopholes any noble might use to undermine the Emperor's decrees.
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall.
"A book?" one marquis whispered loudly enough for half the court to hear."Fit for a scribe, not a prince," another said, smirking.
Edran ignored them, his mind calculating. Every reaction was data — who mocked openly, who smirked in silence, who glanced to the Crown Prince for cues. In his old life, such observations had been academic. Now, they were survival.
The Emperor barely looked at the book before handing it to a servant."Accepted," he said flatly. No praise, no acknowledgment.
Edran bowed again and returned to his seat.
He knew, from the fragments of this body's memories, that the real danger came after the Convocation. The feast would follow, with wine flowing and tongues loosened — and in the chaos, it was the perfect moment for "accidents."
It was also when the princes and princesses would be summoned to present themselves before the Emperor privately. This was no honor; it was an unspoken test. Those who impressed him rose in influence. Those who bored him… vanished from the chessboard.
In the three days since waking here, Edran had discovered something else.
This body had been born with magic — every member of the royal bloodline had — but unlike his siblings, Edran's magic was crippled. His "Spirit Root," as they called it, was fractured, unable to hold mana for long. His siblings wielded fire, lightning, and steel-bending strength; Edran could barely light a candle without collapsing.
But Kael Marcellus had studied more than just history in his old life. He had been fascinated by esoteric martial traditions — qi cultivation, meditative breathwork, energy circulation described in ancient scrolls. And now, when he quieted his mind and traced the strange, pulsing threads of mana within this body, he realized something extraordinary:
The cultivation methods of old Earth were not just philosophy here. They worked.
The Spirit Root was not dead — it was sealed, like a cracked cistern with channels clogged by centuries of neglect. Mana leaked out uselessly… but what if he could repair it?
The process would be slow, invisible to others at first. But in this world of magic and politics, hidden growth was the sharpest blade. If no one saw his rise, no one would cut him down until it was too late.
At the feast, the hall roared with music and conversation. Nobles leaned close to whisper in ears heavy with gold, while servants glided between tables with trays of jeweled goblets. Edran kept to the edges, sipping water while others drowned in wine.
He had just begun mapping the table's seating arrangements — noting alliances and rivalries by who sat where — when a shadow fell across him.
"Little brother," said a voice smooth as oiled steel.
Edran looked up into the face of Crown Prince Alaric. The silver-haired heir smiled faintly, though his eyes were the pale, cold gray of winter skies.
"You've grown thinner," Alaric said. "I'd say you should eat more, but… perhaps the realm is better served with you occupying less space."
The surrounding nobles laughed.
Edran inclined his head, hiding the flicker of calculation behind his eyes."A wise suggestion, brother. After all, those who take too much too soon often find themselves choking."
The smile on Alaric's face didn't change, but a subtle stillness passed through him — a predator registering that its prey had unexpectedly bared fangs.
Before Alaric could respond, a herald's voice rang out: "The Emperor summons his children to the private hall!"
The private hall was smaller than the great hall but no less opulent, its walls lined with banners depicting the victories of the Valerius dynasty. The Emperor sat at a long table, a goblet of blackwine in his hand.
One by one, the heirs presented themselves. Alaric spoke of expanding the empire's borders through war. Selene proposed trade alliances wrapped in silk and honeyed words. The second prince, Darius, boasted of his victories in the gladiator pits.
And then Edran stepped forward.
He did not bow as deeply as before. Instead, he met the Emperor's gaze — a dangerous act for one so low in favor.
"I offer not war nor wealth, but stability," he said, his voice steady. "The empire is strong, but a single thread cut in the wrong place can unravel it. I have rewritten the court laws to close the gaps through which that thread might be pulled."
The Emperor sipped his wine, silent. The other siblings exchanged glances, some amused, others irritated.
Finally, the Emperor set down the goblet."Words," he said. "The court is filled with words. Show me actions, boy, or be forgotten."
Edran bowed, but inside, he smiled. He had expected nothing less.
As he turned to leave, he caught Selene watching him, her smile like a cat toying with a bird. And in that moment, he knew his survival would depend on more than politics or cultivation — it would depend on making every enemy believe he was too small to notice until it was far too late.
That night, while the palace slept, Edran sat cross-legged on the cold marble of his chamber, moonlight pooling around him. He closed his eyes and began the breathing pattern he remembered from old scrolls — the "Ninefold Circulation."
Mana stirred, sluggish and painful, like water trying to force its way through cracked stone. He guided it, repaired it, coaxed it along the blocked channels. Each cycle left him gasping, sweat soaking his robe, but he felt it — the tiniest spark of power settling deeper, held instead of lost.
It was the first stone laid in the foundation of his rise.
And in the shadows beyond his chamber door, a figure watched through the narrow crack — unseen, silent, but already plotting.