It had been seven days. Seven days since Azrathion had awakened in a body that was not entirely his own, reborn as the sole scion of the Uvall Clan. Seven days since he had realized that the blood in his veins now carried not only the weight of inheritance but also a burden of expectation—of decay, of duty, and of silent, patient enemies.
The System hummed faintly in his mind, an invisible presence he could not yet comprehend. It pulsed sometimes like a heartbeat, sometimes like a distant warning, but always, always, it reminded him that he was… different. Stronger than the weak, fragile shell he had been in his old life. Smarter, faster. A survivor.
Yet, he felt… small.
Smaller than the butler who had guided him through the halls that first day. Smaller than the veteran soldiers who still spat quietly about the incompetence of their leadership. Smaller than even the ambitious, younger nobles whose schemes had begun to shape the clan's future even before he had fully remembered who he was.
In his previous life, Azrathion had been ordinary. Invisible. Weak. Ineffective. He had known failure, and he had known despair. And now, standing in the crumbling halls of his inherited home, he understood that those failures were not entirely gone.
They had been… amplified.
The Uvall Clan was dying. That much was painfully clear. The walls, once blackened to prideful perfection, were chipped and peeling. Dust coated the floor in thick layers, disturbed only by the few loyal soldiers who still walked their posts with the faintest semblance of duty. The banners—symbols of conquered territories, of past glory, of allegiance to the Old Satans—sagged like withered tongues from the rafters. Their once-bold sigils were faded, threadbare, a mirror of the clan itself.
His father… claimed by the Sleeping Disease, was not but a silent, unmoving husk of authority. The clan's strength had always been tied to him, his presence alone enough to command respect from allies and fear from rivals. Now? Now the branches whispered. They plotted. They measured. They waited.
Azrathion walked the halls, feeling the weight of the System in his mind, yet still unable to make sense of it.
[System: Pillar Scion Activated]
[Scion: Azrathion of Uvall]
[Level: 1 / XP: 0]
[Stats: STR: 10 | DEX: 10 | VIT: 10 | INT: 10 | MAG: 10]
[Abilities: None]
[Perks: None]
Nothing. Nothing made sense. He had tried everything. Fought imaginary battles in the training grounds. Tested every skill his mind could conceive. Even attempted meditation in the prison pits below the stronghold, hoping that danger or desperation might trigger *anything* from that accursed System. Nothing.
And yet, he could feel the power. A subtle pulse beneath his ribs. The echo of possibility, of potential, of latent strength.
He had been given everything—and yet, he had nothing.
The branches were restless. Lesser nobles, ambitious scions of minor houses, sensed weakness. Lands, resources, even trivial privileges—all were up for grabs, quietly, meticulously. The strongest contenders were not the young nor the inexperienced, but the branch leaders themselves: cunning, seasoned, and aware that the clan's collapse could elevate them to positions of power faster than any battle could.
Azrathion remembered his butler, Liraeon, standing silently behind him that morning, her sharp gaze piercing through him. She had served the Uvall Clan for decades, a servant of discipline and knowledge from a better age. Stronger, sharper, more aware than any of the nobles he now faced. And he felt… small again.
"You need to understand," she had said quietly, "this clan does not respect weakness. It never has. The branches do not wait for you to grow into strength. They will seize your stead if you hesitate."
Her words had echoed in his mind ever since. Hesitation. Indecision. Mistakes.
He had tried, in these seven days, to assert himself. Tried to issue commands, negotiate alliances with minor houses, even broker a truce between two factions who had long feuded over a border of worthless desolated land. Every time, he had felt the invisible strings of politics wrap tighter around his limbs, forcing his words to stumble, his tone to falter, his resolve to waver.
Even now, he felt it. The lingering impressions of old memories, flashes of his previous life, of moments when he had been ignored, dismissed, mocked. They resurfaced unbidden in the quiet hours before dawn, when the halls were empty, the fires dim, and only the ghosts of past failures accompanied him.
Yet he was stronger than before. He could have crushed those old shadows. In raw power, in capability, in potential… he was already a step above the weak human he had been. But raw strength did not win battles of wit, influence, and patience. And that was what gnawed at him most. He was trapped between two worlds: the shell of weakness he had once been, and the unrealized strength of the System within him.
Even the butler, even the silent servants who remembered the Uvall Clan at its height, seemed… steps ahead. He envied them, even as he felt the pulse of potential within his chest.
Azrathion wandered to the balcony. The valley stretched below him, hazy with smoke from neglected fires and the distant glow of lava pits. The air smelled faintly of ash and decay, a reminder that this land—this legacy—was slipping through fingers he had yet to grasp.
The branches were plotting. He could feel it. The nobles who whispered behind closed doors. The scions who bowed in the halls but laughed in the shadowed corridors. They were all calculating, testing, probing, measuring him. And he had no idea how to play. Not yet.
The System hummed faintly.
[System: Observation ongoing. Rewards pending special events.]
Observation. Watch. Wait. The words were meaningless to him. He had no guide, no mentor, no rules. The world expected him to act—to lead, to manipulate, to secure the clan—and yet the accursed System offered only a sliver of instruction.
He sank to the floor of the balcony, hands covering his face. The melancholy of his previous life, of his own failures, pressed down upon him like the weight of a mountain. This body, this world, this clan… it was nothing like the quiet failure he had known as a human. It was grander, more dangerous, and terrifyingly fragile.
Azrathion had glimpsed his power once, briefly. A faint pulse when he concentrated, when he focused on nothing in particular. But in comparison to the veterans, the soldiers, the butler, even the petty nobles plotting against him, he was weak. Weak in influence, weak in strategy, weak in understanding.
And that weakness will kill him.
He thought of his "father", pale, immobile, a shell of authority. Not someone he would mourn, but someone who he could emulate. Now, he only felt a cold determination. He could not fail. He would not fail.
Yet doubt lingered. The System offered no comfort. No guidance. Only quiet hums, cryptic messages, and the faint pulse of unseen power. He had been reborn to strength, yet he felt weaker than ever.
Azrathion stood. The wind tugged at his black robes, snapping them against the stone. The banners above, sagging and faded, reminded him that he stood at the centre of a crumbling empire. The branches watched, the nobles schemed, the soldiers doubted. And he—the last scion—had to rise amidst it all.
Not through brute force. Not yet. Nor in a week.
He would need patience. Subtlety. Calculation. Strategy. And above all, endurance.
He could not fail.
Because if he did… He would be lost again.
The System hummed.
[Special Event: Observation continues. Hidden opportunities detected.]
He closed his eyes. He let the weight of the clan, the decay, the political intrigues, and the unfamiliar body sink in. The melancholy of a past life, the nervousness of inexperience, the gnawing sense of being outplayed at every turn—all of it pressed on him.
And yet, somewhere deep in the pulse of the System, he felt a faint spark of hope. Not power. Nor glory. Nor vengeance. But possibility.
Azrathion opened his eyes. The banners sagged. The walls cracked. The branches whispered. The nobles watched.
And he smiled, faint, bitter, and small.
One week, seven days, and the last scion of Uvall had only just begun.