Lucien Arkanveil was now Ten years old.
Though his body was that of a child, his mind—seasoned from a lifetime on Earth and sharpened by years of quiet calculation—never rested. He had lived an entire life before this one, clawed his way to power in a brutal world, and now, with the Proficiency Panel guiding him, he was preparing to rise even higher.
But even schemers need their quiet seasons.
And right now, peace came in the form of sweat, laughter, and the warm hum of family life.
---
Every morning, just before sunrise, Lucien stood in the courtyard with his sword gripped in both hands. His small frame cast a long shadow across the dew-covered stones, and beside him stood a taller, broader figure: Aleron Arkanveil.
Though only fourteen, Aleron had already awakened his Trait—Crimson Edge, an SS+ grade ability known for fusing mana into blade strikes with devastating effect. Since then, his training had reached near-militant extremes. He was on the path to becoming the Crimson Death Knight—the legendary war-slayer Lucien had read about in the novel.
But now, that same future legend guided Lucien with patience and persistence, offering corrections and demonstrating stances again and again.
"Lower your center of gravity," Aleron said, adjusting Lucien's foot. "You're not swinging. You're controlling. Always control the blade."
Lucien nodded silently, repeating the movement. His Proficiency Panel flickered in his mind's eye:
> [Swordsmanship Lv. 3 – 872/2000]
[Magic Control Lv. 2 – 1403/1500]
[Footwork Lv. 4 – 300/4000]
Each swing, each perfect arc, each successful parry added to the invisible numbers that only he could see. Progress was slow—but steady. Real. Earned.
In the evenings, the training shifted. Aleron would hand Lucien a mage's staff, and under the soft orange light of the twin moons, Lucien practiced elemental control—water, fire, wind—harnessed into simple spells. It was rigorous. Exhausting.
But in his soul, Lucien felt something he hadn't felt for decades in his last life.
He felt alive.
---
The rest of the day was a balance of chaos and calm.
Celia Arkanveil, now eleven, had entered what their family affectionately called her "Queen of Trouble" phase. She was brilliant, beautiful, and terrifying in equal measure. If she wasn't picking fights with Aleron, she was trying out strange alchemical mixtures in the greenhouse—or pranking Lucien with misfired spells and collapsing wardrobes.
And Lucien gave as good as he got.
One bright spring morning, her scream echoed across the estate.
"Lucien Arkanveil! Did you switch my shampoo with slime essence again!?"
He was already sprinting down the hall, laughing like a maniac.
"I was testing its anti-frizz properties!" he called over his shoulder, ducking just in time as a fire-infused pillow scorched the air above his head.
Aria Arkanveil, their mother, merely shook her head in exasperated amusement. Radiant and wise, she moved through the estate like a walking song—graceful, calm, and loving. Despite her SS-grade healing abilities and noble status, she insisted on checking Lucien's scrapes herself after training.
"Boys who train too hard without healing grow up into stiff old men," she said one evening, gently tending to his bruised knuckles.
Lucien only smiled. If only you knew, Mother.
Raelam Arkanveil, his father, was often away—handling matters with the royal court, patrolling the borderlands, or leading negotiation parties with other great families. But when he was home, he was present in every way that mattered. Stern but fair, strict but warm.
When Lucien broke a mana crystal during a magic control test, Raelam didn't scold him. Instead, he simply said, "Control means restraint. Even power must kneel to discipline."
Lucien committed the words to memory.
---
The brightest part of his days, however, was Caelron.
Now two years old, Lucien's baby brother was a whirlwind of giggles, mischief, and drool. He had taken to following Lucien everywhere, often waddling after him during sparring practice or babbling nonsensical words during quiet reading hours. Caelron had discovered a particular fondness for Lucien's hair and books, often attempting to chew both.
Lucien never stopped him. Not really.
Once, he caught himself staring at the toddler's tiny fingers curled around his thumb, and a strange emotion welled in his chest—one he hadn't expected to feel so deeply again in this new life.
This is real. This is mine. I won't lose it.
And so, he trained harder.
Planned more precisely.
Watched everyone—and everything.
Because the world outside their estate was not kind.
And peace, as gentle as it was, never lasted forever.
---
Seasons passed.
The trees bloomed, shed, and bloomed again.
Lucien's skills rose slowly but steadily. His combat forms became fluid. His control over mana grew sharp and disciplined. And with each improvement, his plans matured—refined with the clarity of someone who had seen the world burn once before.
And now—
On the eve of his fourteenth birthday, Lucien stood in front of the full-length mirror in his chambers.
The candles flickered behind him, casting shadows over his lean frame and youthful face. He brushed his fingers through his golden hair, staring into his own blood-red eyes—the signature mark of the Arkanveil bloodline.
He didn't see a child.
He saw a predator biding his time.
> "It's finally time."
The day of Trait Awakening.
The day every person in the world received their system.
The day where destiny unveiled itself—marking geniuses and discarding the rest.
But for Lucien Arkanveil, reincarnated titan of another world, that day was not a beginning.
It was merely the second act.
The prelude had passed.
And now, it was time for the world to witness what he had always known:
He would not follow the path of the villain.
He would write the story from the throne.