The first thing Amon perceived was light—blinding, golden, and merciless.
His newborn eyes struggled to adjust, but as his vision cleared, the room revealed itself in staggering opulence.
Gilded arches stretched high above, their surfaces etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly, as though breathing. Gemstones the size of fists studded the walls—sapphires like frozen midnight, emeralds glowing with venomous allure, and rubies that dripped crimson shadows onto polished marble floors. A grand chandelier loomed overhead, its thousand crystal prisms scattering rainbows over silk-draped walls embroidered with silver thread. The air smelled of amber resin and something darker, sharper—magic.
This isn't just wealth. This is a fortress.
A wrinkled face swam into view—a woman with skin like crumpled parchment. Her bony hands shoved him into the arms of another.
The second woman was younger, her beauty severe: raven-black hair coiled into a braided crown, yellow eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness against alabaster skin. Her silk gown, embroidered with phoenix motifs, rustled like a serpent's whisper as she clutched him.
"Lily, why isn't he crying?" Her voice trembled, melodic yet edged with panic. "Is he… injured?"
The nursemaid, Lily, smiled. "Newborns are stubborn, Lady Elara. Let me."
Amon's tiny body tensed as he was handed back to Lily. Even as his mind reeled from the shock of reincarnation, an instinctual dread prickled at him. This woman feels dangerous.
Before he could process further, a sharp slap struck his back.
AGH! What the hell?! His tiny body convulsed, and a wail tore from his throat.
Tears blurred the grotesque splendor of the room. First reincarnation, now child abuse?!
"There," Lily said, smugness dripping from her voice as she returned him to Elara. "Healthy as a warhorse."
Elara's grip tightened, her nails grazing his swaddling cloth. "You struck him like livestock! He's fragile, Lily! Do you know what Klien would do if—"
That name lashed through Amon's mind like a whip.
Klien?
There was only one character in Eternal Conquest with that name. The Patriarch of Oltheros. The Destroyer of Worlds.
And he was Amon's father.
Memories of Eternal Conquest's lore surfaced: Klien's obsession with vengeance, his descent into cruelty after his son's death.
And I'm that son—the one who dies in the prologue, triggering his madness.
Elara's thumb brushed his cheek, her anger softening into tenderness. "His eyes are like rubies. Just like Klien's."
Amon stared up at her. She doesn't know. She doesn't know I'm destined to die, that her love won't save me.
The warmth of her arms—so foreign, so achingly human—threatened to unravel him. In his past life, he had mastered solitude: top-ranked gamer, millionaire streamer, yet utterly alone. Now, cradled against her heartbeat, he felt the weight of what he had never had—what he would soon lose.
Why give me this just to take it away?
---
Moments Later
The doors burst open. A man strode in, and the room fell silent, as if the very air recognized his authority.
His presence was suffocating. Crimson hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tied in a general's knot. His eyes—deep red, like aged wine—settled on Amon, and for a fleeting moment, the coldness in them thawed.
Klien.
Beside him stood a girl, no older than six. Her crimson curls bounced as she tugged at his hand. "Papa, is that him?"
"Yes, Anastasia," Klien said, his voice gravelly but warm. "Your brother."
Anastasia darted to the crib, her curiosity eclipsing decorum. Before anyone could react, she pinched Amon's cheek.
AGH! Family trait: assaulting infants?!
He wailed, fresh tears streaming.
"Ana!" Klien scooped her up, his stern facade cracking. "We discussed this. Gentle touches."
"But he's so squishy!" she protested, pouting.
Klien sighed, setting her down. "Apologize to your brother."
"Sorry," Anastasia mumbled, though the sly grin on her face suggested otherwise.
Klien approached the crib, his calloused hand hovering over Amon. A pulse of energy radiated from his palm—warm, thick like honey, tinged with something ancient.
Elara stiffened. "Klien," she warned, holding Amon closer. "Not now. He's only hours old."
Klien hesitated. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he withdrew his hand. "Fine, as you say."
As Amon drifted into exhausted sleep, the last thing he heard was the murmur of voices. Laughter. Music.
For now, he was safe.
But the weight of fate loomed over him like a blade waiting to fall.