The palace hall stretched endlessly, its vaulted ceilings lost in shadows cast by floating orbs of witchlight.
Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows depicting Oltheros heroes battling leviathans, painting the marble floor in sapphire and crimson shards.
At the center of this grand, cathedral-like space, two children knelt amidst a constellation of enchanted toys.
Amon von Oltheros, seven months old yet bearing the gaze of someone far older, prodded a dragon figurine with pudgy fingers. Its obsidian scales shimmered as it roared silently, ember-like eyes tracking the silver spaceship circling overhead.
Across from him, Anastasia giggled, her crimson curls bouncing as she maneuvered the spacecraft into a dive.
"Take that, stupid wyrm!" she crowed, sending a burst of miniature starlight scorching the dragon's wing.
Amon sighed internally. Seven months in this world, and I still don't understand how she has this much energy.
His toy clattered to the floor in defeat.
"Yay! I won!" Anastasia punched the air, her ruby eyes blazing with triumph.
Amon studied her—this tiny force of chaos who barged into his room daily, dragging him into endless battles of Walkers vs. Dragons.
*Why is she like this?* Earth children had been exhausting, but Anastasia was a hurricane in human form. One of the rare few who will awaken her mana at five.
"Again, Amon!" She shoved the spaceship into his hands, her smile sharp as a dagger. "Your turn to attack!"
He hesitated, then hurled a clockwork drone at her fleet. It struck a tower, sending crystal shards scattering. Anastasia gasped—a perfect cue.
Amon scrunched his face and wailed.
"Waaaah!"
Instantly, her triumph shattered. "No, no! Don't cry!" She rummaged through her satchel and pulled out a bottle of iridescent liquid. "Here! Unicorn milk!"
He drank greedily. The milk burst across his tongue like liquid starlight, warmth spreading through his fragile bones. Gods, even after months, this tastes divine. Earth's bland formulas couldn't compare.
---
Seven months.
Seven months since he'd awakened in this fragile body, heir to a dynasty that shielded humanity from cosmic horrors.
Seven months of sleepless nights, replaying memories of Sovereigns Conquest's —the VR RPG he'd mastered in another life.
The game's vast cosmos, called Existence, sprawled across dimensions, a tapestry of warring empires and eldritch abysses.
Its lore spoke of infinite universes colliding in an ancient dance, realms birthed from the breath of forgotten gods.
According to the fractured scrolls of the First Epoch, Existence itself was sundered into four primordial realms:
The Astral Realm, a shimmering expanse of celestial light.
The Void Realm, a devouring abyss where stars went to die.
The Spirit Realm, a labyrinth of whispers where souls wandered unbodied.
And a fourth—its name erased from all records, its memory guarded by entities older than time. A place so perilous that even the Archon's dared not speak its epithet.
For eons, the Void and Astral Realms had clashed in silent cataclysms, their war echoing through the bones of creation.
Now, fissures yawned between dimensions.
Beings of living shadow seeped through the cracks—shapeless horrors that devoured starlight and twisted reality into screaming paradoxes.
Scholars claimed the war had raged since the First Sundering, over a hundred million stellaris cycles ago. Yet none dared ask why it began.
Some truths, they whispered, were buried for a reason.
And he'd been reborn as a footnote.
Oltheros's secondborn.
Doomed to die at thirteen. A tutorial sacrifice.
Amon's tiny fists clenched. How… unfair.
He'd hoped his gaming knowledge might rewrite fate, but reality mocked him.
Days after his birth, Klien had examined him under the guise of a bedtime ritual. Amon still recalled the cold press of his father's calloused hand against his chest, the hum of mana flowing through his body.
"No mana veins," Klien had murmured, voice taut. Like stone.
---
"Amoooon!"
Anastasia poked his cheek, yanking him back to the present.
"Stop daydreaming! Play!"
He batted her hand away. Patience. Thirteen years is plenty of time.
If Klien's genius couldn't fix him, he'd find another way.
The game's lore whispered of forgotten arts, ancient ruins, forbidden legacies.
'But how does a seven-month-old, who can't even protect himself from his scripted demise, explore these planets?'
"Fine."
Anastasia flopped onto her back, sending toys skittering. "You're boring."
Her laughter faded as she bounded off to pester a passing maid, leaving Amon alone beneath the stained-glass gaze of long-dead heroes.
Sunlight fractured through the window depicting The Fall of Zorathal, where an Oltheros ancestor speared a titanic monstrosity through its starless eye.
The figure's expression was carved in grim triumph, but Amon saw only the hollowness behind it—the cost of victory.
Fifteen years before the main storyline.
Thirteen years until the Harbingers come.
He'd replayed their attack a thousand times in his mind, a cursed cutscene he couldn't skip.
In the game, it was a narrative catalyst. The royal house of Kestides hosted the coming-of-age ceremony for their awakened heir—but the Harbingers attacked, and Amon died.
Players called it The Prologue Massacre—a brutal tutorial where survival was impossible.
Amon had once speedrun it, exploiting every glitch, but death was scripted.
A plot device.
Now, living it, the horror crystallized.
The Harbingers weren't faceless NPCs. They were zealots, pledged to the Void.
Their assault wasn't a raid—it was an extinction event.
Tens of thousands of Walkers clashed that day. Few survived.
They'll slaughter entire star systems for their cause.
And he, the "Second Born," was the linchpin.
Amon stared at his pudgy hands, still sticky with unicorn milk.
No mana veins. No combat training. Just… this.
In the game, his death was inevitable.
A fragile heir whose only purpose was to die beautifully.
But here, now, the cold marble beneath him felt too real.
Elara's lullabies too tender.
Klien's late-night vigils too haunted.
'Intent.'
The concept flickered in his mind like a dying star.
In Sovereigns Conquest's. , "Awakened Will also Intent ." was a legendary trait, unlocked only by surviving impossible odds.
It allowed players to defy game mechanics—rewriting spells, resisting mind control, even cheating death.
But it wasn't a skill.
It was a choice.
Forged in moments where hope itself crumbled.
"The intent is the soul's final rebellion," the game's lorebook had said.
"It cannot be taught. Only claimed."
Amon's jaw tightened.
Rebellion. That's all I have left.