"Come in," Ethan called out, his voice steady despite the knot of uncertainty twisting in his gut. He straightened his posture on the bed, drawing on years of presenting to skeptical executives—project confidence, even when the data was incomplete.
The door swung open with a soft whoosh, revealing a tall figure in the threshold. The man was in his mid-forties, broad-shouldered and clad in a dark tunic embroidered with silver runes that seemed to shimmer faintly, as if alive. His hair was cropped short, streaked with gray, and his face bore the lines of someone who had seen too many battles—sharp jaw, piercing steel-blue eyes that scanned the room like a security algorithm checking for vulnerabilities. A longsword hung at his belt, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, practical rather than ornamental.
"Young Master Lysander," the man said, his voice the same calm command from before, now laced with a hint of relief. He bowed slightly, a gesture of respect that didn't quite hide the appraising glint in his eyes. "I am Darius Blackthorn, steward of House Varyn and your father's right hand. It's good to see you awake. The healers feared the worst."
Ethan's mind raced, cross-referencing the name with the fragmented visions. Darius—loyal, but watchful. Part of the household guard. He nodded, gesturing to a nearby chair carved from dark wood. "Darius. Please, sit. I… appreciate the concern." He glanced at the maid, who curtsied and murmured, "I'll fetch some tea, Young Master," before slipping out, leaving them alone.
As Darius settled into the chair, his gaze lingered on Ethan a moment too long. "You seem… composed, for one struck by demonic lightning. The bolt that hit you three nights ago was no natural storm. It carried the taint of the Abyss—crimson veins, whispers in the wind. Your survival is a miracle, or perhaps a sign."
Demonic lightning. The term triggered another flash: a stormy sky, runes failing, a shadowy presence laughing. Ethan pushed it aside, focusing on the present. In his old life, he'd dealt with crises by breaking them down—gather intel, identify patterns, mitigate risks. This was no different. "Tell me everything," he said, his tone direct. "What happened exactly? And why me?"
Darius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression grave. "You were in the training grounds, practicing basic mana circulation as per your tutor's orders. The storm came suddenly, unnatural in its fury. The bolt struck you directly, shattering the ward stones around the courtyard. We found you unconscious, your body etched with faint scars—like veins of shadow under your skin. They've faded now, but the mages are concerned. Demonic energy doesn't just vanish; it lingers, corrupts."
Ethan absorbed the information, mentally filing it under "threat assessment." Targeted attack? Or coincidence? He touched his chest absently, feeling no pain but remembering the alley knives all too vividly. "And the House? Is everyone safe? Any other incidents?"
Darius's eyes narrowed slightly, as if surprised by the boy's poise. "The estate is secure for now. But tensions rise. Your father, Lord Arcturus Varyn, is at the Capital, negotiating with the Arcane Council. House Varyn holds sway over the eastern ley lines—veins of magic that power our wards and artifacts. Rivals like House Kael envy that control. Whispers suggest they've dabbled in forbidden pacts, summoning lesser demons to tip the scales."
Politics and power plays, Ethan thought. It reminded him of corporate mergers—alliances forged, betrayals lurking. He needed more data. "What about me—Lysander? What was I like before? And what's expected of me now?"
A faint smile tugged at Darius's lips, the first crack in his stern facade. "You were… studious, Young Master. More at home with scrolls than swords. Your father hoped the training would toughen you, prepare you for inheritance. Now, with this incident, you'll need to accelerate. The Council may demand proof of your fitness, especially if demons are involved."
Ethan nodded, his analytical mind already mapping out a plan. Step one: Learn the basics of this world's "systems"—magic as code, combat as algorithms. Step two: Identify assets and liabilities. "I want a full briefing. Maps of the estate, lists of allies and enemies, details on magic fundamentals. And arrange training sessions—mana control, swordplay, whatever it takes."
Darius blinked, then chuckled softly. "You sound like your father in his prime. Very well. I'll prepare the materials and summon Master Thorne for instruction. But rest first; pushing too hard could reopen the demonic taint."
As Darius rose to leave, Ethan felt a surge of determination. This wasn't just survival; it was optimization. He'd turn Lysander's weaknesses into strengths, using his modern edge to outthink the fantasy threats.
The next few days blurred into a regimen that tested Ethan's limits, both physical and mental. The maid—whom he learned was named Lira—became his quiet confidante, bringing meals infused with healing herbs and answering his "forgotten" questions without judgment. Through her, he pieced together Eryndor's lore: a continent scarred by ancient wars between humans, elves, and demons sealed in the Abyss. Magic flowed from ley lines, harnessed through runes, chants, or innate talent. Martial arts blended with sorcery, creating warriors who could shatter boulders with qi-infused strikes or summon firestorms.
House Varyn's manor sprawled across a forested hill, warded against intruders. Ethan pored over the maps Darius provided, noting chokepoints and blind spots like vulnerabilities in a network firewall. "The eastern courtyard is exposed," he muttered one evening, tracing a finger over the parchment. "If that's where the lightning hit, it's a weak link. We need redundant wards—layered defenses."
Darius, reviewing the documents with him, raised an eyebrow. "An astute observation, Young Master. The wards are ancient; updating them would require a rune-master."
"Then get one," Ethan replied. "Or teach me the basics. I can figure it out."
His first training session with Master Thorne, a wiry elf with pointed ears and a perpetual scowl, began at dawn in a sunlit dojo adjoining the manor. Thorne's skin was etched with glowing tattoos—mana circuits, he explained. "Magic is will imposed on the world," Thorne intoned, demonstrating a simple spell: a orb of blue light hovering in his palm. "Draw from your core, shape it with intent."
Ethan closed his eyes, visualizing his "core" as a database—raw data waiting to be queried. He felt a warm tingle in his chest, like caffeine hitting his system. Extending his hand, he willed the energy to form. A faint spark flickered, then stabilized into a wobbly glow.
Thorne's eyes widened. "Impressive for a novice. Your focus is unnaturally sharp."
It's just pattern recognition, Ethan thought. In his old job, he'd debugged code by isolating variables; here, it was channeling mana without waste. By session's end, he could summon a steady light, earning a grudging nod from Thorne.
Sword training was harsher. Darius oversaw it personally, handing him a wooden practice blade. "Form first, power second." Ethan's young body lacked strength, but he compensated with strategy—observing Darius's stances, predicting moves like forecasting market shifts. When Darius swung, Ethan sidestepped, using momentum to counter.
"You fight like a tactician, not a brawler," Darius observed after a parry. "Unorthodox, but effective."
Ethan wiped sweat from his brow, grinning inwardly. Data beats brute force.
Evenings were for study. In the manor's library—a cavernous room lined with dusty tomes and glowing crystals—Ethan devoured texts on demons, runes, and history. One book detailed the Abyss: a realm of chaos where entities fed on mortal fear. The crimson-eyed figure from his visions matched descriptions of a lesser demon lord, Azrath. Connected to the lightning? He cross-referenced incidents: similar strikes had hit rival houses, patterns suggesting sabotage.
"Lira," he asked one night as she brought a tray of spiced bread, "have there been strange visitors lately? Anyone from House Kael?"
She hesitated, her emerald eyes flickering. "Not that I've seen, Young Master. But the guards whisper of shadows in the woods—eyes watching."
Ethan noted it, adding to his mental dossier. Paranoia? Or a leak in security?
On the fifth day, progress felt tangible. Ethan's mana control allowed him to infuse his practice sword with faint energy, making strikes sharper. Thorne introduced martial forms: flowing movements that blended qi with magic, like tai chi on steroids. Ethan analyzed each pose, optimizing for efficiency—shorten the arc here, balance weight there.
But shadows loomed. During a solo practice in the courtyard—the same spot as the strike—a chill wind stirred, carrying whispers. Ethan froze, sword raised. The air thickened, runes on the ground flickering erratically.
"Darius!" he shouted, but no response came. A crimson glow seeped from the earth, forming tendrils that snaked toward him.
Analyze: Not random. Targeted. He channeled mana into a barrier, a basic shield spell Thorne had taught. The tendrils battered against it, hissing like steam.
A figure emerged from the treeline—cloaked, face hidden, eyes burning red. "The vessel awakens," it rasped, voice echoing unnaturally.
Ethan's heart pounded. Vessel? For what? He backed away, mind racing for options. Fight? Flee? Data insufficient.
The figure raised a hand, crimson lightning crackling. Ethan dodged, the bolt scorching the ground. "Who are you?" he demanded, stalling for time.
A laugh like grinding stones. "Azrath's herald. You bear his mark now. Surrender, and power awaits."
Mark—from the lightning. Realization hit: The strike wasn't to kill; it was to possess. Ethan's visions weren't memories—they were intrusions.
Guards burst into the courtyard, Darius leading with sword drawn. "Intruder!"
The figure snarled, dissolving into shadow as arrows flew. But its voice lingered: "We'll meet again, vessel."
As the guards secured the area, Darius approached, face pale. "Young Master, are you hurt?"
Ethan shook his head, but inside, alarms blared. This wasn't just a new world; it was a battlefield, and he was the prize. Need more intel. Allies, countermeasures. But as night fell, a new vision assaulted him: Azrath's crimson eyes, closer now, whispering promises of dominion.
In the darkness, Ethan wondered if his analytical mind could outsmart a demon—or if he'd become its pawn.
The manor's bells tolled midnight when a urgent knock echoed at his door again. Lira's voice, trembling: "Young Master! Your father's messenger has arrived—with grave news from the Capital."
Ethan rose, pulse quickening. What now?