"You stop him!"
"No, you stop him!"
"Are you insane? He'll kill me!"
"He'll kill me too!"
The frantic whispers bounced between the towering bookshelves, growing more panicked as the two librarians clung to each other, too terrified to act. Their wide eyes flickered toward the massive oak desk at the heart of the library, where the monster—no, the young master—was tearing through books like a storm of chaos.
Zelo sat hunched over the desk, crushing the books at a manic pace.
Rip. Crumple. Toss.
Another book. Another page. Again, and again.
"No pictures. No diagrams. Just words. Boring!" Zelo hissed, his voice sharp and unhinged.
Another book flew across the room, smacking against a bookshelf with a dull thud making librarians flinched.
"We should call the head butler—"
"Are you stupid? That monster will have our heads for disturbing him."
"Then what do we do?"
"Just hide."
Another loud rip! followed by the soft patter of shredded paper hit the marble floor. Pages scattered around Alaric's feet, a paper graveyard marking his descent into madness.
And then—CRASH!
A book soared through the air, slamming into the library window. Glass shattered down like jagged stars, catching the dim candlelight.
Then Zelo now Alaric stood and walked away.
One week ago, Zelo stumbled upon a chilling truth.
The pills.
They had been prescribed to Alaric by the Drakonis family's head doctor.
That alone was alarming because head doctor was a high-ranking member of the family's inner circle.
If someone of that stature was responsible for administering his medication, there was only one conclusion—someone with enough influence to control even the highest officials wanted him dead.
But why?
To search for the reason, Zelo started digging about Alaric and his family.
And what he uncovered wasn't just a scheme.
It was a war.
Despite having three sons and two daughters, the Drakonis patriarch had issued an unthinkable decree—the next ruler of the family would not be chosen from his children. Instead, the succession rights would be fought among his grandchildren.
And Alaric wasn't just another noble's son.
He was one of the grandsons of the Drakonis head. A contender in a deadly battle for one of the strongest and wealthiest legacies on the continent.
And that answered the Zelo curiosity, the doctor wasn't acting on his own; someone from Alaric family wanted him dead.
Everything Zelo had uncovered about the Drakonis family made his stomach churn.
It was the same.
A family bound by greed, drunk on power, tearing itself apart in an endless struggle for control.
Just like before.
Disgust curled in his gut.
In his past life, he had never truly lived. His days were dictated by the whims of others, his fate sealed by hands stronger than his own. He was used, discarded, and forgotten—a pawn in a game he never agreed to play.
And now?
It was happening again.
Reborn into another battlefield, shackled to a name drenched in blood and ambition. A contender for a position he never wanted, forced into a fight he never asked for.
His first instinct screamed at him to run.
But running wasn't just impossible.
It was suicide.
The Drakonis family never let its own leave. Those who tried were either imprisoned for life or executed. It didn't matter how far they ran or how well they hid—Drakonis always brought its bloodline back.
And forfeiting his succession rights?
That wasn't an option either.
A successor had only two choices: submit to another contender or fight until death.
Forfeiting meant pledging loyalty—becoming someone else's puppet.
It meant bowing to another.
And that was something he refused to do.
He had no intention of living the way he had in his past life, trapped under someone else's rule.
What he wanted was freedom.
To live on his own terms.
Thats why he was in the library gaining knowledge and information to forge a plan.
A plan to hold in this succession battle until he finds a way to get away from Drakonis grasp.
And Alaric had already devoted thousands of books in the last week.
But it wasn't because he was some kind of prodigy—no, that credit belonged to Aster.
The AI's scanning abilities were monstrous. Anything Zelo's eyes landed on was instantly processed, broken down, and fed directly into his mind. Knowledge no longer required effort; Aster absorbed it, stored it, and delivered it in a fraction of a second.
Alchemy, politics, combat theory, family history, magic—what once lay confined to books now pulsed through his mind like second nature.
Aster's voice echoed in Alaric head.
[He followed you again.]
Zelo didn't even pause as he walked through the hallway.
Yeah, I noticed.
That presence—it had been there since the first day Alaric stepped outside. At first, it was nothing more than a nagging suspicion. A flicker of awareness at the edge of his senses. But as the days passed, the feeling sharpened.
Someone was following him. Watching him. Studying him.
And they weren't just observing out of idle curiosity. They were persistent. Intentional.
Most likely, a faction had sent them—another player in the game of succession, keeping an eye on Alaric.
And that was why Zelo never broke the Alaric character.
Let them think he was nothing more than a crazed, spoiled young master, a ticking bomb of arrogance and instability.
The more they underestimated him, the safer he was.
Alaric stepped onto the stone platform, his eyes sweeping over the Iron Yard. From here, he had a full view of Drakonis' training ground.
It was a vast stretch of packed dirt and stone, worn down by years of battle practice. The ground was covered in deep footprints, proof of the warriors who trained here every day.
Along the edges, racks held rows of swords, spears, and axes—all well-used but carefully maintained. Training dummies stood nearby, some with deep gashes, others missing limbs from relentless strikes. At the center of the yard, a dueling ring drew the most attention. This was where warriors clashed in fierce, unforgiving combat.
The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, steel, and dried blood.
Around him, the sounds of training filled the space.
Swords clanged in fast, sharp rhythms. Knights sparred under the watchful eyes of their instructors, their movements precise and controlled. Some engaged in hand-to-hand combat, striking with skill and power, while others drilled in formations, their steps perfectly synchronized—like a well-trained army preparing for war.
This place was a battlefield in itself.
Alaric had found it four days ago, during his long walks around the mansion. He had been mapping every corridor, every hidden path, every weak point. And in doing so, he discovered this place.
A place of strength. Of discipline. Of survival.
Since then, he had returned every day. Not to fight—not yet—but to observe.
In eight months, Alaric would turn ten. And would be send to the Drackonis academy.
But that wasn't just a school. It was a battlefield. A place where mistakes were fatal. Where enemies could bury you under the guise of an "assigned mission." And Alaric?
And Alaric had nothing. No allies. No power. No one to stand by his side.
If he entered the academy as he was now, he would be killed by his opponents.
To survive, he needed more than just intelligence and strategy.
He needed to learn how to wield a sword. How to fight. How to kill.
So, he watched. And he learned.