The continent of Runiya existed in precarious balance—a world where power determined survival, and survival determined everything else. At the apex of this hierarchy stood the Seven Monarchs, great houses that embodied the principles of order, strength, and civilization. They were the pillars holding back the chaos.
And opposing them, dwelling in shadow and fear, were the Seven Sins—entities of such power and malevolence that their very names inspired dread across the land.
House Lionhart was one of the Seven Monarchs. Masters of the frozen North, commanders of ice and winter, their influence stretched across territories that would have comprised entire kingdoms in lesser lands. To be born into such a house meant inheriting legacy, expectation, and the weight of history itself.
Klaus stared up at Roman Lionhart, his tiny infant body utterly dwarfed by the old man's presence, and thought: This might actually be worse than House Zagerfield.
The Ice Monarch held him with the clinical precision of someone evaluating livestock. There was no warmth in his grip, no grandfatherly affection—just cold assessment. Klaus could feel something washing over him, a subtle pressure that made his infant senses prickle with awareness.
That's his aura. He's scanning me.
The sensation was strange. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but invasive in a way Klaus couldn't articulate with his undeveloped vocal cords. It felt like sunlight—warm and pure—flowing through his tiny body, chasing away a chill he'd been carrying since rebirth.
Why does it feel warm? Klaus had noticed he was more sensitive to cold in this life. He'd assumed it was just the weakness of an infant body, but this warmth suggested something deeper. Something wrong with his constitution that Roman's aura was temporarily fixing.
The old man's expression didn't change. No concern. No interest. Just the same cold evaluation, as if Klaus were a weapon being tested for structural flaws.
"Elisabeth," Roman said finally, his voice carrying the absolute authority of someone who had never been questioned.
"Yes, Father-in-law." Elisabeth stood straighter, unconsciously deferential.
"The child's name will be Klaus."
There was a pause. Klaus felt Elisabeth's grip on him shift slightly—not quite tension, but something close to it.
"Klaus," she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "That's... an old name. A strong one."
"It has two meanings in the old languages," Roman stated, still not looking at her. His eyes remained fixed on Klaus. "'Guide of the people' in one. 'Shadow that brings death' in another. A name that carries weight. He will need to grow into it."
Elisabeth nodded, and Klaus noticed she didn't argue. Didn't suggest alternatives. Whatever hesitation she'd felt, she swallowed it down and accepted Roman's decision without protest.
So that's how this family works, Klaus thought. Absolute hierarchy. The Ice Monarch speaks, and everyone else obeys.
It was familiar, in a way. House Zagerfield had operated on similar principles. But there was something different here—something colder, more ancient. House Zagerfield had been ruthless. House Lionhart felt inevitable.
Roman handed Klaus back to Elisabeth with the same clinical detachment, then turned and left without another word. The warmth of his aura faded immediately, and the chill returned to Klaus's small body.
Elisabeth held him closer, perhaps trying to compensate for the sudden cold. "Klaus," she murmured, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You have a heavy name to carry, little one. But I'll make sure you're strong enough to bear it."
Klaus stared back at her, his infant face expressionless, and wondered if she understood just how heavy names could be.
* * *
One hundred days had passed since his naming.
Klaus lay in his crib, eyes open in the darkness, listening to Elisabeth's steady breathing from the nearby bed. She was asleep—finally, truly asleep, not just resting while keeping one ear open for his cries.
Perfect.
The crib had been Michelle's idea. The head maid had suggested that Klaus sleep separately to "establish healthy independence" and to give Elisabeth better rest. Klaus had never been more grateful for efficient household staff in either of his lives.
He took a slow, careful breath and began the meditation.
The Ten Eyes Mantra.
The technique was as clear in his mind as if he'd practiced it for years, despite never consciously learning it. Knowledge that simply existed, waiting to be used. It operated differently from conventional mana cultivation—instead of gathering energy in the abdomen through breathing techniques, the Mantra required mentally constructing a rotating sphere around the heart. A conceptual magic circle that enhanced physical capability, willpower, and mana sensitivity simultaneously.
More importantly, it was nearly undetectable. The energy flow was so natural, so seamlessly integrated with the body's existing functions, that even master mages couldn't sense it being practiced.
Damien Zagerfield never knew. And Klaus intended to keep it that way with everyone in this life too.
He drew in mana from the air, feeling it filter into his pathways, and immediately encountered the problem.
Darkness.
His mana pathways—the channels through which magical energy should flow freely—were partially blocked. Dark, dense obstructions clogged nine critical points throughout his body, restricting flow and making cultivation agonizingly slow.
Klaus had discovered this two weeks ago, and the shock had nearly made him cry out loud. A baby's mana pathways should be completely open, pristine and ready for development. Instead, his were half-choked with some kind of dark impurity.
If I don't clear this before my body fully develops, these pathways might close permanently.
That thought terrified him more than death had. To be reborn with the potential for magic, only to lose it again to some inherited defect? Unacceptable.
So he worked. Slowly, painstakingly, using the Ten Eyes Mantra's flow to chip away at the darkness. He drew in ambient mana and shaped it into thin, needle-like constructs, then drove them into the obstructions like picks into ice.
Crack.
A tiny fragment broke off. Klaus guided it carefully, mixing it with the natural mana flow rather than dispersing it. The darkness was pure—too pure to simply waste. He could feel it melding with his circulation, adding depth and richness to the energy moving through his body.
This might actually work. If I can integrate this darkness instead of fighting it—
His body chose that moment to remind him that he was, in fact, still an infant. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy. His concentration fractured.
Damn it. Already?
Klaus tried to fight it, but his body had its own priorities. Sleep dragged him down despite his protests, and consciousness faded into darkness.
* * *
The moon hung low on the horizon when the door—still closed and locked—ceased to be an obstacle.
Roman Lionhart stood in the nursery, having entered through means that ignored conventional barriers entirely. He moved silently across the room and stopped beside Klaus's crib, looking down at the sleeping infant with an expression that remained as cold and unreadable as ever.
For a long moment, he simply observed.
Then his hand extended, and a soft, sunset-colored light began to glow between his fingers. It wasn't bright—barely more than candlelight—but the quality of the illumination was different. Ancient. Pure. Carrying the weight of something far older than human magic.
The light touched Klaus's forehead.
Inside the infant's body, the dark obstructions blocking his mana pathways began to dissolve. Not violently, not forcefully, but like morning mist burning away under gentle dawn. The darkness didn't fight back. It simply... dispersed, clearing nine critical pathways in the span of three heartbeats.
Klaus's furrowed brow smoothed. His breathing deepened. The residual tension in his tiny muscles released.
Roman watched for another moment, then withdrew his hand. The light faded. He turned and left the same way he'd entered—through a door that remained locked, past barriers that shouldn't have permitted passage.
When Elisabeth checked on Klaus the next morning, she found him sleeping peacefully, a faint smile on his infant face.
She never noticed that something fundamental had changed in the night.
And Klaus, still deep in dreams, wouldn't discover what had been done for him until he attempted his next practice session and found his mana pathways mysteriously, impossibly clear.