"According to reports from Elder Magnus, the continent is no longer holding its breath. It is beginning to choke."
Theron Voss stared down at the map spread across his desk, his voice low and gravelly.
"The Dragon Empire, the Kingdom of Light, and at least three minor satellite states have begun massing troops at their borders.
Cultist activity has doubled in the last quarter alone. Even the typically isolationist forces, the Beast-men tribes and the Elven conclaves, are mobilizing."
He dropped his quill. The ink splattered slightly, a dark stain on the pristine parchment.
"They claim it is retaliation for human aggression," Theron continued, not waiting for a response.
"But if we add the fact that the Second Prince has spent the last twelve years systematically targeting our Voss House..."
He looked up, his eyes burning with a cold, luminous intensity.
"A new era of chaos is dawning. And our family is standing directly in the eye of the storm."
Twelve years.
For twelve years, the Voss family had played the role of the dormant beast.
They had swallowed their pride, even knowing the Second Prince was the mastermind behind the ambush that had crippled Theron all those years ago.
It wasn't cowardice. It was calculation. With Theron forced to seal one of his arms to suppress a curse involving Demon Gods, waging open war against royalty would have been suicide.
"We needed time," Theron muttered, almost to himself.
"To fight back effectively, preparations were required. And the most vital preparation..."
"Is sending our son away from the blast zone," Elizabeth finished for him.
She sat on the plush sofa nearby, a porcelain teacup poised delicately in her hand. She took a slow sip, her demeanor calm, but the air around her suddenly grew heavy.
"Indeed. Twelve years have passed," she whispered.
"I hate the thought of my baby boy facing the world alone."
Crnnch.
Fine cracks appeared on the surface of her teacup.
"But it seems we have run out of choices."
A pitch-black mist began to seep from Elizabeth's skin. The shadows in the room elongated, twisting like living things.
Her eyes, usually warm, began to glow with a terrifying, violet light.
"They forced my hand. They forced me to send my son away." Her voice dropped an octave, vibrating with lethal intent.
"Once we stabilize the situation... I am going to hang their heads from the highest spire of the capital."
The mist expanded, frost creeping across the windows.
"And once I break through to the Seventh Order," she smiled, a beautiful, horrifying expression,
"I will launch a Bloodline Curse. I will scour every branch of their family trees. Royal or Cultist, it makes no difference. They will pay for the anguish they caused this family."
"Hahaha!"
Her laughter rang out, manic and filled with a decade of suppressed rage.
Theron watched her, a wry smile twitching at his lips. He sighed.
In twelve years, the enemy had almost made her a widow. They had targeted the Voss retainers.
They had stripped the family of rights and resources, trying to isolate the former 'Shadow of the Empire.'
But there were still variables even their best spies couldn't solve.
"My dear," Elizabeth said, her mood snapping back to normal instantly. The mist vanished. The killing intent evaporated. She was once again the elegant noblewoman.
"Speaking of enemies, is there any news on the organization backing the Second Prince?"
"None," Theron admitted.
"And that power... the one that preserved your life? The one that makes you nearly immortal?"
"Still researching," Theron replied, leaning back.
"A pity. If you could master that origin energy, you wouldn't need to fear a gaggle of Eighth Order experts, let alone the Prince." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity.
Theron chuckled, shaking his head. "You change moods faster than the weather, Liz."
He opened his mouth to explain his latest findings, but stopped. His gaze shifted to the heavy oak door of the study.
His wife sensed it a split second later.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Hey, Old Man! It's me! I'm coming in!"
The brash voice rang out from the hallway.
Elizabeth's face lit up, her smile so bright it could outshine the sun. Theron, however, felt a vein throb on his forehead.
"This kid..." Theron growled, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.
He had sensed Damien approaching the moment he entered the wing, with his maid Isabelle struggling to keep up.
….............….
[Damien POV]
Walking down the corridor, Damien adjusted his collar, ignoring the panting Isabelle trailing behind him.
He took a moment to absorb the grandeur of his home. Golden chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen tears.
World-famous oil paintings lined the walls, each worth a small kingdom's ransom. The floor was a mosaic of the finest marble, covered by a velvet runner that screamed royalty and power.
Through the windows, he saw the expansive grounds. Maids scurried like ants, gardeners tended to exotic flora, and in the distance, young mages sparred in the training yards, mana flaring as they pushed for their next breakthrough.
It's hard to believe, Damien thought, his eyes narrowing.
In the original novel, all of this burns.
Six years.
That was the timeline. Under the premise of the original story, the House of Voss would be eradicated in six years.
Six years isn't a long time, but it's enough, he mused. The Old Man isn't critically injured like he was in the original plotline.
I've already changed that variable. He might not be able to stop the flow of fate entirely, but he can certainly build a dam.
"He should be able to hold the line," Damien muttered under his breath.
His excitement bubbled up. He didn't just want to leave to escape the war; he needed to leave to get stronger.
I need to get to the Elven Forest. There are at least two 'destined encounters' waiting there for the original protagonist. If I snatch them first...
He clenched his fist.
I can protect this family. I can rewrite the ending.
But first, he had to clear the final hurdle. The Boss Level.
Father-son talk time.
He stopped in front of the heavy wooden door marked 'Study.' He took a deep breath, composing his features into a mask of youthful arrogance.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Hey, Old Man! It's me! I'm coming in!"
He pushed the door open without waiting for permission.
With a spring in his step, Damien walked into the room. This meeting was the key. This was the moment the tutorial ended, and his real life began.