The blade of the guillotine was freezing against the back of his neck.
Kian Roventia didn't struggle. The torrential rain soaked his ragged prison clothes, washing away the dirt and blood of a three-month interrogation. It chilled him to the bone, but it couldn't wash away his profound, soul-crushing irritation.
He tilted his head slightly, peering through wet black bangs at the VIP balcony above the execution plaza.
There stood his eldest uncle, Viscount Gillian, alongside his pompous cousin, Berris. They were huddled under a velvet umbrella, drinking expensive wine and celebrating. They had successfully pinned the family's entire financial collapse and their own treason onto Kian's shoulders.
In his first life, Kian had been a corporate team leader. He died of a heart attack at his desk after a hundred-hour work week, staring at a spreadsheet.
In his second life, he had reincarnated as the illegitimate third son of the continent's wealthiest Duke. He thought he had finally hit the jackpot. He thought he could just coast on his family's money, stay out of the succession war, and live a lazy, peaceful life.
Instead, these incompetent idiots had bankrupted the estate in less than a decade, committed high treason to cover their debts, and offered him up to the Royal Family as the scapegoat.
I worked myself to death, Kian thought, his dark eyes entirely devoid of fear as he stared at his grinning uncle. Then I reincarnated, minded my own business, and got executed to cover someone else's embezzlement. I didn't even get severance pay.
The executioner raised a heavy, gloved hand. The crowd roaring for the blood of a Roventia grew deafening.
If I have to do this a third time, Kian promised whatever gods were listening, I'm taking out the trash myself.
The executioner's hand dropped. The blade fell.
Shhhk—!
Kian gasped, violently jolting upright.
He didn't find the cold stone of the execution block. He didn't feel the sting of the blade. Instead, he was buried under a mountain of ridiculously soft, silk-spun blankets. Sunlight streamed through a stained-glass window, warming a bedroom larger than his entire modern-day apartment.
Kian froze. The rain was gone. The screaming crowd was gone.
He slowly looked down at his hands. They were tiny. Unscarred. Completely soft.
A normal person might have screamed. They might have had a panic attack, frantically touched their neck, or cried tears of joy. But a former corporate slave who had just been beheaded didn't have the energy to waste on a mental breakdown.
Instead, Kian calmly swung his short legs over the edge of the oversized mahogany bed. He padded barefoot across the thick rug, walked over to the gilded mirror, and stared at his reflection.
Black hair, pale skin, and the sharp, aristocratic features of the Roventia bloodline. He was eight years old again.
He turned from the mirror, his dark eyes scanning the massive room for hard data. They landed on a messy stack of tutoring assignments left on a nearby mahogany writing desk. Kian walked over and picked up the top sheet.
At the top of the parchment, written in his own clumsy, childish handwriting, was the date: May 14th, Year 812 of the Imperial Calendar.
"Year 812," Kian muttered, dropping the paper. The date was burned into his memory.
Ten years. He had exactly ten years before his iron-blooded grandfather passed away, his uncles took over the estate, and the entire dukedom went up in flames.
Kian sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. The exhaustion of two lifetimes weighed heavily on his small shoulders. He walked over to a plush velvet armchair near the window, climbed into it, and closed his eyes.
If he wanted to survive long enough to actually enjoy his retirement, he couldn't play the role of the lazy, ignored third son anymore. He had to monopolize the continent's economy, crush his uncle's faction, and become the Patriarch himself.
But first, he needed power. Not the kind that required swinging a sword for twelve hours a day until his hands bled—he was absolutely not doing that. He needed a cheat.
Kian adjusted his posture in the chair and changed his breathing pattern. Inhale for four seconds. Hold the mana in the core. Exhale for six. It was the Violet Emperor's Breathing Technique. Centuries ago, the Violet Emperor conquered the continent using this breathing technique. But over the last few hundred years, orthodox knights abandoned it because it didn't yield immediate, muscle-building results. They traded a technique with infinite potential for basic, sweaty sword-swinging.
Within seconds, a faint, terrifyingly pure purple aura began to shimmer around the eight-year-old boy. The air in the room grew heavy. The temperature dropped slightly.
Perfect, Kian thought, feeling the mana settle into his tiny core. Now, how do I bankrupt Uncle Gillian before lunch?
BANG!
The heavy oak doors of his bedroom flew open, slamming against the walls. The purple aura around Kian instantly vanished as he cut off the breathing technique, his eyes snapping open.
"Hey! Bastard!"
Standing in the doorway was a twelve-year-old boy wearing a velvet doublet that was far too expensive and slightly too tight around his waist. He had a smug, punchable face and a wooden training sword resting on his shoulder.
It was Berris Roventia. The arrogant cousin who, ten years from now, would be drinking wine while watching Kian's head roll off the chopping block.
Kian stared at him.
He didn't flinch. He didn't shrink back. He just looked at the wooden sword, let out a slow, exhausted sigh that belonged to a middle-aged accountant, and leaned his cheek against his knuckles.
"Cousin Berris," Kian said, his voice completely flat. "If you are going to wave that around, please don't knock over my tea. I haven't had a sip yet."
Berris paused, blinking in confusion at the lack of fear. He frowned, marching into the room like he owned it and kicking a stray toy block out of his way. "What is wrong with you? You're acting weird. Whatever. Grandfather is hosting the monthly family dinner tonight, and my father told me to make sure you don't embarrass us. Stay in your room."
"Gladly," Kian replied deadpan. "I hate banquets anyway. But you should probably worry less about my attendance and more about your father's investments."
Berris sneered, pointing the wooden sword at Kian's face. "What are you talking about, you rat? My father, Viscount Gillian, is managing the western iron mines right now. He's making a fortune."
The western iron mines. Memories from his past life clicked into place like puzzle pieces. Right. It was Year 812. Uncle Gillian was currently obsessed with proving his worth to Duke Magnus by managing the standard iron trade. But Kian also knew that in exactly three weeks, a massive vein of highly conductive 'mana-steel' would be discovered in the neighboring territory.
The moment that happened, standard iron would become entirely worthless. The market would crash overnight.
An idea formed in Kian's mind. It was a vicious, cutthroat corporate trap, and Berris was standing right in the middle of it.
"I heard the head butler talking," Kian said calmly, picking up his cold teacup. "The Royal Army is planning a secret draft next month. They'll need thousands of new weapons and armors."
Kian took a slow sip of the terrible tea, suppressing a grimace at the taste. "Standard iron is about to dry up in the capital. Whoever buys up the contracts right now will practically own the military supply chain."
Berris slowly lowered his wooden sword. His greedy little eyes widened. Even a child like him understood basic supply and demand. If a secret war was coming, iron prices were about to skyrocket. If his father bought up all the iron contracts in the capital before the announcement...
Berris stepped forward, grabbing Kian by the collar of his nightshirt. "Is that true? Did the butler really say that?"
Kian didn't even try to pull away. He just looked down at Berris's hand with profound, corporate disappointment.
"I just told you he did," Kian said softly, his dark eyes locking onto Berris with an unnerving intensity. "If your father is as smart as he thinks he is, he'll empty your branch treasury and buy those contracts before anyone else catches on. Now, let go of my shirt. You're wrinkling the silk."
Berris completely dropped Kian, taking a step back as his mind raced. A massive, greedy grin spread across the twelve-year-old's face.
"You really are an idiot, Kian," Berris laughed, turning toward the door. "Thanks for the tip!"
Without another word, Berris sprinted out of the room, slamming the heavy doors behind him. He was undoubtedly rushing straight to his father to share the 'secret' he had brilliantly uncovered.
Silence fell over the bedroom once again.
Kian smoothly brushed the wrinkles out of his collar. He leaned back, sinking comfortably into the cushions, and resumed his breathing technique. The purple aura flared to life once more, wrapping around him like a royal cloak.
Uncle Gillian was a greedy, desperate man. Once Berris told him the rumor, Gillian would empty his entire branch family's treasury to hoard standard iron contracts. He would bet everything on a war that wasn't actually happening.
And in three weeks, when the mana-steel vein was announced and iron prices crashed to zero, Viscount Gillian would be ruined.
Well, that was easy, Kian thought, feeling the mana circulate through his small body. Step one complete. Now, I just need to figure out how to sneak out of this estate and secure a shadow CEO before Grandfather realizes I blew up Uncle Gillian's bank account.
He closed his eyes, a peaceful sigh escaping his lips.
Maybe this third life won't be so bad after all.