"Infancy is a prison with silk walls"
That was my first conclusion.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even control when I slept. But what I could do—what no one suspected—was observe. And in a ducal household, observation was more valuable than strength.
House Valenrowe functioned like a fortress pretending to be a home.
Servants rotated in silent shifts. Knights changed guard at precise intervals. Conversations lowered whenever politics surfaced, as if the walls themselves might report what they heard. This wasn't paranoia.
It was experience.
The duke—my father—left before dawn most days and returned long after sunset. When he did appear, the atmosphere shifted. Not because he demanded attention, but because attention naturally aligned around him.
He was not loud.
He was absolute.
Duke Alaric Valenrowe spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened—not out of fear, but certainty. He carried himself like a man who had already weighed every possible outcome and accepted them all.
In the novel, this was why he died.
Too rigid.
Too loyal.
Too unwilling to bend.
I watched him closely.
---
By my first year, I confirmed something important.
The timeline hadn't changed yet.
The empire still stood united. The factions were still forming beneath the surface. The future protagonist—still a nameless child somewhere in the capital—had not awakened.
The story was dormant.
That was my advantage.
---
Children are expected to be slow.
I made sure I was.
I learned to crawl late. Walk late. Speak late. Not enough to worry anyone—but enough to stay invisible. Nobles fear prodigies almost as much as they fear incompetents. A child who is merely average invites no scrutiny.
Meanwhile, I listened.
The tutors hired to test my aptitude spoke freely in front of me, assuming I understood nothing. They discussed academy quotas, noble rivalries, and—most importantly—the coming reform of the Imperial Academy.
A reform that, in the original story, preceded the fall of House Valenrowe.
So that hasn't been altered yet.
Good.
---
Magic came next.
In this world, children with mana affinity typically awakened between ages four and six. Early awakenings were celebrated. Late ones were pitied.
I ensured mine stayed silent.
Suppressing mana wasn't easy—especially not with an adult mind in a child's body—but restraint had always been my strength. I allowed only the faintest leak, just enough to appear normal when tested.
That night, the pressure returned.
> [Status Recorded]
[Self-Imposed Limitation Detected]
No praise.
No reward.
Just documentation.
I understood then: the System was not impressed by cleverness.
Only by impact.
---
On my third birthday, I saw the first crack in the future.
A visiting noble—Count Edrien—laughed during dinner. Loudly. Carelessly. He spoke of border movements and Arcadian troop drills as if they were rumors, not preparations.
In the novel, this man would later testify against my father.
Here, he was relaxed.
Too relaxed.
My father corrected him. Calmly. Publicly.
The count smiled and apologized—but his eyes hardened for half a second.
That was all it took.
The System reacted.
> [Minor Deviation Logged]
So even awareness caused ripples now.
I committed the moment to memory.
---
By age five, I could read.
By age six, I could understand military reports.
By age seven, I knew which servants were loyal to the house—and which were paid to listen.
None of this came from the System.
It came from patience.
The greatest difference between a child and an adult wasn't strength.
It was time.
Children had it.
---
My mana finally awakened at seven.
Late enough to disappoint no one.
Strong enough to surprise a few.
The tutors tested me thoroughly. My results placed me comfortably above average—nothing alarming. The duke approved with a nod.
That night, alone in my room, I allowed my mana to flow freely for the first time.
It hurt.
Not physically—but conceptually.
As if the world resisted my attempt to step fully into it.
The System responded immediately.
> [Notice]
[Fate Sensitivity Increased]
I exhaled slowly.
So this is the line.
The moment I truly begin… the story starts pushing back.
---
At eight years old, I overheard my parents arguing.
Not loudly. Never loudly.
The academy letters had arrived.
House Valenrowe was being encouraged to send its heir early.
In the novel, this was framed as an honor.
It was a trap.
Early entry meant early exposure—to politics, to factions, to enemies who preferred heirs young and malleable… or dead.
My mother opposed it.
My father was silent for a long time.
Then he said, "We cannot appear afraid."
That was when I understood something critical.
House Valenrowe wasn't destroyed because it was weak.
It was destroyed because it was predictable.
---
That night, I made my first real decision.
I would enter the academy.
Not to shine.
Not to dominate.
But to observe from inside the storm.
I allowed my mana to settle. My breathing slowed. My resolve sharpened.
The System did not respond.
Which meant—this choice aligned with the story.
For now.
---
Standing before the mirror weeks later, dressed in the formal black-and-silver of House Valenrowe, I looked exactly as the novel described.
A quiet duke's son.
Polite. Reserved. Forgettable.
Perfect.
Because when the academy doors opened…
The story would finally begin moving.
And this time—
I would be ready to move with it.