The meeting concluded, and the days bled into weeks.
The Empire held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Voss family was known for its blood and iron; retaliation was not a possibility, it was an inevitability.
Yet, silence reigned.
To the shock of the aristocracy, the Voss family did not lash out. Instead, they recoiled.
Like a beast retracting its claws to hibernate, every external force, every merchant caravan, and every detached battalion under the Voss banner was recalled to the main estate.
The sudden vacuum left the other major powers on edge. Paranoia spread like a plague. What are they planning? Why are they quiet?
High atop the Royal Palace, the Second Prince, the man who had orchestrated the mission that nearly claimed Theron Voss, stood by a window, swirling wine in a glass.
He had a vague suspicion of the cause, but he remained tight-lipped, his eyes narrowing at the distant horizon.
In the eyes of the common folk, the once-tyrannical Voss family simply faded into legend.
One year turned into two. Two turned into five.
Before the Empire realized it, twelve years had vanished into the currents of history.
…............................
Whoosh—!
The sharp sound of wood cleaving air echoed through an empty courtyard.
"One hundred and fifty-one…"
"One hundred and fifty-two…"
Sweat dripped from the tip of a nose, crashing onto the stone pavement.
Damien stood in the center of the training grounds. He was no longer the infant who had been swaddled in silk, but a young man on the cusp of adolescence.
At twelve years old, he stood at an impressive five-foot-eight, towering over peers his age.
His waist-length silver hair was pulled back into a high, utilitarian ponytail, revealing a sharp jawline and sea-blue eyes that shone with the hardness of a diamond.
His torso was bare, revealing a lean, corded musculature carved by years of discipline, a physique that would put seasoned warriors to shame.
"One hundred and fifty-four…"
His chest heaved. His lungs burned. Yet, his control remained absolute.
Inhale.
The ambient mana in the air swirled, drawn into his pores by the rhythm of his breathing.
He felt the earth beneath his bare feet, the subtle vibrations of life, the flow of energy.
Exhale.
"One hundred and fifty-five!"
Damien froze mid-swing, the wooden sword trembling in his grip. His muscles screamed in protest, reaching their absolute limit.
He held the pose for a second longer, letting the burn settle into his bones, before lowering the blade.
"Hah..." He collapsed onto a nearby stone bench, wiping his forehead with a rough towel. "The old breathing techniques from the lore books still hold up."
He took a swig of water, his gaze drifting to the high walls of the family estate.
"If I hadn't retained the combat memories from the original novel, I would have begged to leave this gilded cage years ago."
His mind wandered back over the last decade. The timeline had shattered completely.
In the original story, his father, Theron, returned from the ambush half-crippled and consumed by rage.
He had launched a suicidal crusade against the cults and the Second Prince's factions, branding the Voss family as traitors and leading to their eventual extermination.
But this reality was different.
His parents had retreated into seclusion. His mother, Elizabeth, was on the verge of the Seventh Order.
Theron was secluded in the forbidden grounds, attempting to breach the legendary Ninth Order.
Even the four Great Elders, led by Magnus, had vanished into the shadows on secret missions.
"Dad is about to break through to the Ninth Order," Damien muttered, tapping his fingers against the wooden sword.
"That alone should be worth a fortune in Destiny Points. But the system only gave me 500."
He frowned.
"Is the Void Mark on his arm suppressing the reward? or is the system waiting for the breakthrough to be official?"
Curiosity piqued, he narrowed his eyes.
"System. How much DP to remove the Void Mark from Theron Voss?"
He asked with a hint of sarcasm, expecting the worst. A translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before him.
[Target Analysis: Theron Voss]
[Condition: Void Mark (Active)]
[Trace Detected: Abyssal Energy / Demon Lord Signature]
[Complexity: Multiple Laws interwoven]
[Purification Cost: 5,000,000 DP]
Damien rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Five million. Of course."
He checked his own balance: 1,500 DP.
"I'm broke," he sighed, dismissing the window.
"But this stagnation won't last. The timeline is about to kick into gear."
He stood up, pacing the courtyard as he recited the timeline of doom he had memorized from his past life.
"This is the year."
"In the North, the Human Coalition launches the crusade to capture Elven slaves, igniting the racial war."
"In the South, the Dwarves crack the code on ancient rune-tech, beginning the Age of Mechanical Guardians."
"In the West, a random adventurer stumbles upon a Dragon's Nest, sparking the Gold Rush that leads to the awakening of the Dragon Monarch."
"And in the Holy City..." Damien's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Goddess of Light descends to deliver the Oracle: The Demon Lord Azazel will return."
He looked down at his hands. They were calloused, strong.
"Year 2025 of the Dragon Calendar. The year the Protagonist is born."
A chill ran down his spine. The clock had officially started.
In the original novel, Damien Voss was a cannon fodder villain who died miserably at age thirty-seven, a puppet of the demons.
"I have twenty-five years before the world ends," he thought, his grip tightening on the wooden sword until it creaked.
"I can't waste another second rotting in this house."
The original protagonist, the heroines, the future villains, most weren't even born yet. There was no point in searching for them now.
"My best window of opportunity is in sixteen years," Damien calculated.
"The Empire's Academy of Knights and Magic. That's the convergence point. That's where the main cast gathers."
Plan:
One, Accumulate DP by interfering in pre-plot events.
Two, Reach a level of strength where I can ignore the family's restrictions.
Three, Enter the Academy, not as a student, but as an instructor.
He was deep in thought, plotting the trajectory of the next decade, when a familiar, bright voice pierced his concentration.
"Young Master! Good news!"
Damien blinked, the cold calculation vanishing from his eyes as he turned.
Isabelle burst into the courtyard, her skirts fluttering. Twelve years had treated her kindly; likely due to her mana affinity, she hadn't aged a day.
Her orange hair was as vibrant as a sunset, and her green eyes sparkled with excitement. She was no longer just a servant, but his appointed personal maid and confidant.
She skidded to a halt, beaming.
"The Master has approved your request!" she announced, struggling to catch her breath.
"You have permission to travel to the Elf Empire... under the condition that you take the Shadow Guards with you!"
Damien's lips curled into a smile. The first step of the plan was a go.
"Finally," he whispered, tossing the wooden sword aside. "It's time to go hunting."