Direct descendants.
The phrase landed with specific weight. Not administrators or representatives, but actual members of the Aulria bloodline. People with real power, real decision-making authority.
"Which ones?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
Roan hesitated, then added, "The youngest one will probably attend. Don't get your hopes too high though—she's not the primary decision-maker. Not yet."
The youngest one.
Sia Aulria. The name carried the weight of a prophecy. I knew her future—knew that she would eventually consolidate power, eliminate her siblings, and transform herself from an illegitimate, overlooked daughter into the most formidable ruler the continent had ever seen. She would build an empire on the corpses of her relatives.
There was a terrible poetry to it.
In this timeline, she was still relatively powerless. Still building her position. Still learning the contours of power. But she was watching. And she would remember.
"The youngest one is coming," I said quietly, and it wasn't a question.
Roan nodded, seemingly satisfied that he'd provided sufficient motivation. "So work hard. Don't waste your time sitting on benches contemplating your greatness. Prove it instead."
He stood to leave, then paused as if something had occurred to him.
"Kevin, you know what this orphanage means to the family. It's presented to the public as a charitable institution—a symbol of Aulria's humanity. Losing it would be... inconvenient. If you can demonstrate real potential, help preserve this place, it would matter. To them. To everyone here."
The appeal was designed to activate something in me—loyalty, gratitude, hope. The standard levers of manipulation that worked on idealistic adolescents.
I said nothing, only nodded.
But as Roan walked away, I understood something he didn't: the orphanage was already doomed. Leo had already decided its fate. Roan's words were his last-ditch attempt to inject meaning into a process he probably suspected was futile. He wanted to believe that effort and demonstration and loyalty could change outcomes.
They couldn't.
But Roan couldn't see that. He was trapped inside the system, unable to imagine its restructuring. For him, the hierarchy was a fixed constant.
For me, it was a machine waiting to be disassembled.
---
After Roan left, I sat alone with the weight of what I knew.
Sia would watch the match. She would see me—probably wouldn't remember me, probably wouldn't think I was significant. But she would be observing. And observation was the first step toward relevance.
If I could make myself visible to her, if I could demonstrate utility or potential or even just the kind of resilience that caught her interest, I might plant a seed.
The Aulria family operated on networks of obligation. Sia had clawed her way to power by cultivating alliances, understanding what people wanted, and either providing it or eliminating them. To approach her successfully, I would need to be:
First, non-threatening. A dying orphan with ambitions was pathetic, not dangerous.
Second, useful. What could I provide that she would want?
Third, patient. Building relevance was a process measured in months and years, not days.
The mana drug stored in my Journal added another layer: a weapon that could amplify my capabilities beyond expectations. But using it too soon would be catastrophic. Revealing hidden power too early would flag me as either a threat or someone worth analyzing more carefully. Neither option was safe.
I needed a strategy that worked across multiple timelines. I needed to appear loyal while planning betrayal. I needed to be visible while remaining invisible.
"This will require precision," I said to the empty night. "Not just revenge, but something more systematic. Something that survives discovery. Something that turns their own structure against them."
The words came out cold, clinical. Not angry. Anger was a luxury I couldn't afford. Anger led to mistakes, to impulsive decisions, to early exposure. I needed to be like water—adaptive, patient, inexorable.
The orphanage would close, yes. But I would be positioned to survive its closing. I would be someone that Aulria felt invested in, someone they believed they could control, someone whose potential made them think they could benefit from keeping him alive.
And then, once I was deep enough inside their structure, once they believed I was theirs...
That was when the real work would begin.
I stood from the bench and walked back toward the dormitories, my mind already mapping the requirements. I would need to pass the match—not win, but perform competently enough to register as a candidate for recruitment. I would need to create a persona for myself: ambitious but manageable, talented but not suspiciously so, loyal but with just enough independence to make me interesting.
I would need to become the perfect infiltrator.
The tumor in my skull throbbed—a reminder of the clock that was ticking, the limited time I had to accomplish any of this. Fifteen years in the previous timeline before the cancer finally consumed me completely. But I wasn't the same person who had failed in that timeline.
I had memories now. I had warning. I had a weapon.
And I had nothing left to lose.
As I passed through the orphanage's main building, I caught my reflection in a darkened window. The face staring back was lean, hollow-eyed, marked by illness. But there was something different in the expression now—a cold clarity that hadn't been there before.
This wasn't the face of a victim.
This was the face of someone who had already died and come back with a purpose.
The match would happen. The orphanage would close. The cascade of suffering would continue, measured out in the precise calculations of institutional indifference.
But I would be waiting when the system tried to destroy itself.