Darkness. Cold. Silence.
Arthur Drake had died.
He remembered everything—the blade slicing through his neck, the warmth of his blood cascading down his chest, the helplessness of his body collapsing onto the cold ground. The laughter of his killer, a cloaked figure who had watched his struggle end with amusement.
"You were never meant to rise. You should have lived in the shadows, watching the Drake Clan crumble. But like a cockroach, you clung to life… and so, you will die like one."
His vision had faded. His thoughts had been consumed by rage, regret, and a burning unwillingness to die. But death had embraced him nonetheless.
Or so he thought.
Instead of oblivion, Arthur found himself in a space beyond mortal comprehension. A void where time, life, and reality itself seemed meaningless. There was no pain, no warmth, only a strange, numbing stillness.
Then, the darkness split open, and they appeared.
Seven colossal dragons, their titanic forms coiling through the void, each radiating a divine presence that Arthur had never witnessed before. Their mere existence suffocated the space, warping reality itself.
A golden dragon wreathed in celestial radiance. A silver dragon shimmering with lunar brilliance. A jade dragon pulsing with life energy. A star dragon that seemed as vast as the cosmos itself. A black dragon that devoured light, shrouded in endless shadows. A white dragon, pristine and untainted. And finally, an amethyst dragon, its violet scales glistening with unfathomable mysticism.
They looked down at him—not with contempt, nor with sympathy, but with the weight of ancient judgment.
"A pity," the golden dragon rumbled, its voice shaking the void itself. "That a descendant of the Holy Empyrean Dragon must meet such a miserable end."
"A disgrace to the bloodline," the black dragon sneered.
"But was it truly his fault?" the silver dragon questioned.
Arthur's hands clenched into fists. He knew what they spoke of. He had spent years thinking himself weak, pathetic, unworthy—until he learned the truth.
He had been poisoned.
Since birth, an undetectable, ancient toxin had festered in his veins. The White Ghost Poison—so rare, so well-hidden that not a single healer, alchemist, or physician had ever noticed. A method once used in ancient times to cripple prodigies before they could rise.
His entire life, his struggles, his failures—it had all been orchestrated before he even had a chance to fight back.
And yet, despite that handicap, he had clawed his way to power.
He had mastered magic and martial arts. Formations and alchemy. Necromancy and beast taming. He had turned his weakness into an arsenal, becoming a one-man army feared by all.
But none of that had mattered.
In the end, his enemies had found him. Cut him down. Mocked him as he bled out on the battlefield.
"Kid," the amethyst dragon finally spoke, its voice deep yet strangely calm. "If you had another chance… could you change your fate?"
Arthur's heart pounded. Another chance? A chance to undo his failures? To strike first before his enemies could move against him?
Could he change it?
His fists trembled. His body, weightless in the void, was still filled with the frustration, the hatred, the burning desire for revenge. He had been robbed of everything—his family, his future, his life.
He had clawed his way to the top once before, despite every chain placed upon him.
This time, there would be no chains.
Arthur met the dragon's piercing gaze and, without hesitation, answered.
"Yes. I will change everything."
For a moment, the amethyst dragon almost seemed to smile.
Then—
A sharp breath.
Arthur's eyes snapped open.
The void was gone. The dragons were gone. The battlefield, his killers, his blood-soaked body—gone.
Instead, he found himself staring at the wooden ceiling of a familiar chamber.
His chamber.
His childhood chamber.
The air smelled of aged wood and faint incense. The silk sheets beneath him felt soft, yet his palms were clammy with cold sweat. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he sat up abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't an illusion.
He was back.
Arthur immediately scanned his body. He was smaller, leaner—his younger self, untouched by the countless battles he had once fought. His skin was unscarred, his limbs free of old wounds.
But as his fingers brushed against his wrist, he felt it—the same faint, almost imperceptible presence in his veins.
White Ghost Poison.
His lips curled into a smirk.
"So, it's true. I've returned."
The poison was still there, but this time, it didn't matter. He knew how to cure it. He knew the ingredients, the process—knowledge that had once been out of reach.
And more than that—he knew his enemies.
He knew who had orchestrated his downfall.
His fingers clenched into the silk sheets.
He would not be cast aside this time. He would not be poisoned and left to rot in obscurity.
He would not be slaughtered like a dog.
Arthur exhaled slowly, his smirk widening. His mind was already racing, planning his next moves.
This time, the world would not suppress him.
This time, Arthur Drake would not simply rise.
He would reign.