Chapter 1: The Death and the Awakening
A World of Bloodlines
The night was cold, the city lights flickering like dying embers as he trudged through the rain-soaked streets. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He had made a mistake.
A single miscalculation, and now they were after him.
He wasn't a criminal. He wasn't anyone important. Just a guy who liked reading dark fantasy novels, escaping into stories where fate could be defied. Yet, here he was—hunted like a cornered animal.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Fast. Unrelenting.
He turned a corner, only to be blinded by the glare of approaching headlights. The honking of a truck. The screech of tires against wet pavement.
Then—impact.
Pain exploded through his body, followed by a weightless sensation, as if he were being pulled from existence itself.
Everything faded into darkness.
Floating.
An endless void surrounded him, stretching into eternity. There was no sound, no light—just an infinite abyss where time had no meaning. He could not move, nor could he breathe, yet he existed.
His thoughts drifted, trying to grasp onto something—anything. But there was nothing. Only the vast, suffocating silence.
Until it spoke.
"Your fate does not end here."
The words did not echo. They did not carry through space like sound should. Instead, they resonated within him, vibrating through his very existence.
The void quivered.
A presence—immense and unfathomable—loomed over him. He could not see it, but he felt it. A being beyond mortal comprehension, watching him with an intensity that burned through his very soul.
Then came the voice again, this time softer, almost amused.
"Little fox… your story has only just begun."
Fox?
The term sent a ripple through him. It was fond, yet carried an undercurrent of something deeper—expectation. As if this being already knew him. As if it had been watching long before this moment.
He tried to speak, to question, but he had no voice. No form.
The presence chuckled—a low, knowing sound that sent shivers through the void.
"Live again. And struggle."
A force—immense and undeniable—wrapped around him. It seeped into his very essence, curling around him like unseen tendrils.
And then—pain.
Not the sharp, physical kind. This pain was deeper, woven into the very fabric of his being. Like he was being rewritten, reshaped into something more.
The void cracked.
His existence was torn from nothingness—dragged forward.
The world shattered.
And he was reborn.
~~~~~
Warmth.
Unlike the cold pavement he had died on, this warmth surrounded him—soft, comforting, yet entirely unfamiliar. Yet, even in the haze of infancy, his awareness was sharp. Too sharp.
The air felt heavy, brimming with something unseen, something alive.
Energy.
It pulsed around him, weaving through the walls, through the people nearby, even within himself. It felt overwhelming, yet strangely intoxicating—as if it had always belonged to him.
And then—voices.
"He bears her bloodline."
A man's voice. Deep. Cold.
"He is not of my lineage."
Silence followed—thick, suffocating. Then, a softer voice, calm yet filled with quiet strength.
"He is still your son, Zephiron."
The warmth holding him tensed. He could feel the way the voice's owner shielded him, yet the suffocating presence of the first speaker did not waver.
His father.
Noctis didn't know these people. He didn't know where he was. And yet, something instinctive told him—this man was his father.
The air in the room grew colder.
"This is unacceptable."
Even as an infant, he felt the weight of those words.
He was unwanted.
A sudden rush of movement.
Footsteps.
Fabric rustling.
Then, a sharp, forceful sound—a crash.
The man had struck something. A table? A chair?
"The heir and second son were born with the White Tiger's bloodline." His father's voice was sharp as a blade. "But this one? He is weak."
A murmur ran through the room, hushed whispers carrying an undercurrent of tension. Noctis felt something within himself stir—not fear, but curiosity.
What was this White Tiger's bloodline?
And why did he not have it?
"You speak as if he is nothing, Zephiron." His mother's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. "You forget—he is my son."
"He was supposed to inherit our strength!" Zephiron snapped, and for the first time, his voice cracked—not with anger, but something deeper. Frustration. Disappointment.
Regret?
No. Not regret.
Resentment.
"Instead, he carries yours."
A shift in the air. His mother's warmth flared, the energy around them bending, reacting to her presence. Noctis felt it—recognized it.
It was the same energy within him.
He was still too young, too weak to do anything with this knowledge, but one thing was clear—he was different.
And his father hated it.
A heavy pause. Then, the sound of boots striking the marble floor.
Noctis could sense his father's presence moving away.
"Do as you wish." The words were clipped, final.
The doors swung open. A gust of cold air rushed in.
And then—he was gone.
His mother exhaled slowly, the tension in the room lingering even after his father's departure.
Soft fingers brushed against his forehead, a touch so gentle it made something deep within him settle.
"You are mine," she whispered, just barely above a breath. "And that is enough."
Her voice was steady. Unshaken.
But Noctis could feel it—the unspoken pain beneath her words.
Even though his mother had not been cast aside, even though she remained in the house—
She was alone.
And so was he.
He did not know their names.
Not yet.
The man who had stormed out in a whirlwind of disappointment and anger—the one who had declared him unacceptable—was his father. Of that much, he was certain.
The woman who held him now, her arms a sanctuary of warmth, was his mother. The energy flowing through her, the same subtle force coursing within him, told him that they were alike.
But beyond that?
He was blind. Lost.
He did not know where he was.
The cold stone walls, the rich fabrics, the muffled voices of servants beyond the door—they all hinted at nobility. A house of power. A place of influence. Yet, to him, it was nothing but an unfamiliar cage.
The significance of his bloodline was an even greater mystery.
His father's fury was proof that he had failed some kind of expectation, that he had been born with the wrong kind of power.
The White Tiger's bloodline. That was what he was supposed to have. But he didn't.
Instead, he carried his mother's bloodline.
And that alone was enough for his father to reject him.
The weight of that realization pressed down on him, even in his newborn state. The whispers in the room, the lingering tension—he was already marked as different.
He was already an outcast.
But even as these thoughts settled, a strange sense of resolve grew within him.
He was weak now. Small. Helpless.
But it would not always be so.
As he lay in his mother's arms, the energy inside him hummed, alive, waiting, watching.
He didn't understand it yet. He didn't know its name. He didn't know what it would mean for him in this world.
But he would find out.
He would learn everything—about himself, about this place, about the power that set him apart.
~~~~~
This world was not like his old one.
Here, power was not earned through talent alone. It was inherited, carved into one's very existence from birth. Bloodlines reigned supreme.
They determined one's worth.
One's strength.
One's fate.
To be born with a divine bloodline meant power beyond mortal limits. It meant standing at the pinnacle of the world, destined for greatness before even taking a single breath.
And among them, the White Tiger Bloodline of House Vaelthyr was one of the most revered.
A lineage of warriors blessed by the divine beast Torga, the White Tiger. Those born with its blood were granted monstrous strength, endurance that defied reason, and instincts that made them unstoppable on the battlefield.
They were born rulers.
Born conquerors.
Born killers.
Yet he—
He had not inherited it.
The whispers in the grand halls of House Vaelthyr confirmed it.
"The Duke's third son… his bloodline is not of the White Tiger."
"A disgrace. How could this happen?"
"He is not a true Vaelthyr."
He had inherited his mother's blood instead. A bloodline unknown, unrecognized by the great noble houses.
And in this world, a noble without a divine bloodline was as good as nothing.
His father had stormed out of the chamber the moment he laid eyes on him.
Not even a glance of acknowledgement.
Not even a shred of warmth.
Only cold, bitter disappointment.
And as he lay in his mother's arms, his newborn body frail and small, he understood.
He was born weak. Born powerless.
And in this world—
That meant he was not meant to survive.
His mother's grip on him tightened.
Even though he was an infant, barely aware of the world, he could feel it.
The quiet defiance in her touch.
She was not ashamed of him.
Not like the others.
To her, he was not a mistake.
He was her son.
But what did that mean in a world where blood dictated all?
Would her love be enough to protect him from the expectations, the cruelty, the inevitable scorn of a noble house that saw him as worthless?
The weight of his past life's knowledge settled in his mind.
This was not a world where the weak were allowed to exist.
Time passed in a haze.
He did not cry like other newborns.
He simply listened.
Every whisper. Every glance. Every murmur of disappointment and resentment that filled the grand halls of House Vaelthyr.
At first, everything was nothing but fragmented impressions—light, sound, warmth. But soon, his thoughts sharpened. His memories returned.
And with them, the cruel truth of his fate.
House Vaelthyr.
One of the Six Great Houses of the kingdom. A name synonymous with power, conquest, and strength. Their bloodline, descended from the divine beast Torga, the White Tiger, granted them overwhelming physical prowess, resilience beyond human limits, and an innate mastery over battle.
Warriors. Conquerors. Rulers.
But in the novel he had once read—
They would all die.
Not on the battlefield. Not by invasion.
But by betrayal.
The Third Prince, a man with a mind sharper than any blade, would orchestrate a rebellion so devastating that it would shake the very foundation of the empire.
And House Evern—proud, powerful House Evern—would be among the first to fall.
A massacre.
A purge.
And now, he had been reborn into this doomed family.
Yet, he wasn't even truly part of it.
His father—Duke Zephiron Kael Vaelthyr —had looked upon him with cold disappointment the moment he was born. Not with hatred, not with anger, but with something far worse.
Indifference.
Because he had inherited his mother's bloodline.
Not the White Tiger's.
Not the power of House Vaelthyr.
His presence was already an insult. A stain upon the family's legacy.
Which meant…
Even if House Vaelthyr were to be purged, even if the rebellion tore through these halls like a storm of blood and steel—
He would never be one of them.
He was not an Evern in their eyes.
He was nothing.
His tiny fingers curled instinctively.
No.
He would not live this second life as an outcast, forgotten and discarded.
Fate had placed him in this world, but he would not be bound by its rules.
If his existence was a mistake—
Then he would become a mistake this world could not ignore.
Amidst the swirling thoughts of past and present, he finally looked up at the woman who held him.
And for the first time, he saw her.
His mother.
She was breathtaking.
White hair, as soft as flowing silk, cascaded over her shoulders, glowing faintly in the dim candlelight. It was not the snowy white of age, nor the dull white of sickness, but a radiant silver-white—the kind that seemed untouched by time itself.
And her eyes.
Gold.
Not the bright gold of coins, nor the dull yellow of autumn leaves, but a molten, burning gold, as if a piece of the sun itself had been captured within them.
She was enchanting. Ethereal. A beauty that did not belong in this world of steel and blood.
Yet there was sadness behind those golden eyes. A silent grief buried beneath the surface.
She held him not with pride, nor with resentment, but with a kind of gentle acceptance.
The room had grown quiet, save for the distant flicker of candlelight casting long shadows against the cold stone walls. The murmurs of disappointment had long since faded, swallowed by the silence that followed his father's departure.
Yet in the stillness, his mother remained.
She held him close, her grip steady despite the weight of rejection pressing against her like an unseen force. The warmth of her touch was the only thing anchoring him, a quiet defiance against the world that had already chosen to cast him aside.
Her golden eyes, burning like captured starlight, studied him in silence.
Then, she spoke, her voice soft yet unwavering.
"They will call you a mistake," she murmured, each word laced with quiet steel. "They will look at you and see a son unworthy of the Vaelthyr name. A child who should not have been born."
Her fingers traced the delicate curve of his cheek.
"But they do not decide who you are."
The air around her shifted—power, quiet and unseen, stirred in response. It was not the raw, physical strength of the White Tiger's bloodline, nor was it the domineering force his father carried in every step.
It was something different.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
"You are not weak," she whispered, as if sealing a truth into his very soul. "And I will not let them erase you."
Her grip on him tightened, cradling him as though shielding him from the weight of expectations he had not yet even been given the chance to defy.
"You will need a name of your own," she said, her voice quieter now, yet no less certain. "A name that belongs to no one else. A name they cannot take from you."
She was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable as she traced something unseen in the air—perhaps the echoes of a memory, perhaps the remnants of something long buried.
And then, she spoke.
"Kitsaro."
The name settled in the space between them, soft yet absolute, carrying with it an air of something ancient.
"A name born of cunning and mystery," she murmured, brushing a hand against his forehead. "A fox untouched by the chains of fate. A shadow that slips through the cracks of destiny itself."
A pause. A quiet breath.
"Azrael."
It came with the weight of something far greater—an unspoken truth woven into the very fabric of the world.
"The name of judgment. Of an unseen hand guiding fate."
She exhaled slowly, as if imprinting the words onto his very being.
"Kitsaro Azrael Vaelthyr," she whispered at last, her voice carrying the finality of a prophecy. "A name they will remember."
A name that would one day eclipse the expectations placed upon him.
A name that would shape his legend.
And in the dim candlelight of a house that did not want him, an outcast was given his first gift—
A name written not in bloodline, but in fate itself.
And it struck him—
She knew.
She knew the moment he was born that he would not be accepted by this house.
She knew his fate the moment she looked into his eyes.
And yet… she still held him like he was her entire world.
Something in his chest tightened.
He had never known a mother's warmth in his previous life.
And in this one—
Would he be allowed to keep it?