We begin this story looking at two.
One sleeps beneath silk sheets in a palace where the walls have never known silence.The other sleeps on straw in a horse stable where even crying is a waste of breath.
One has beautiful blond hair and piercing blue eyes.The other has black, filthy, tangled hair and eyes the color of dried blood.
"Mathis."
The name is spoken gently, like a promise already fulfilled.
"That is what I shall name the boy. His hair reminds me of his mother."
The man who speaks wears robes layered with authority. His hair is a careful mix of blond and brown, his posture rigid with inherited certainty.
"Quickly," he commands, turning to the old man beside him. "Examine the boy."
"At once, my lord."
The old man kneels and places a hand on the infant's stomach.
He does not inject mana. He does not chant.
He listens.
"…Curious," the old man murmurs.
The room feels tighter, as though the air itself has straightened its back.
"I sense an immense connection," he says slowly. "Not raw output. Not hunger. But alignment."
The infant's stomach glows faintly. Not wild, not flaring. A clean, golden pattern, steady and contained.
"His presence enforces harmony," the old man continues. "Magic around him behaves. It stabilizes. It obeys."
The noble's face brightens.
"Excellent," he says. "A child who brings order simply by existing."
He looks down at Mathis, pride already heavy in his gaze.
"Of course my son is gifted. I shall train him into the next king."
Mathis does not cry.
"Wahh—wahhh!"
The sound echoes through a rotting barn.
A woman lies beside the crying infant. Her body is thin, scarred, trembling. She lifts a shaking hand and swallows a pill stamped HTM46.
Her pupils dilate.
Her breathing slows.
The world softens.
The crying continues.
"Shut up!" she screams, striking the boy.
The infant goes silent instantly.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
His eyes are dark crimson, unfocused but alert. His ribs show through his skin. He lies still as people pass the open barn door, glancing inside.
"Unlucky," one mutters.
"Bad omen," says another.
No one stops.
Days pass.
The woman does not feed him.
His stomach tightens, twists, burns—but he does not cry. Crying does nothing.
A rat creeps close, sniffing.
The boy lunges.
His teeth sink into flesh. Blood fills his mouth. He chews bone with gums not meant for it.
His body does not reject the act.
It records it.
When the woman wakes and sees the mangled corpse, she shrugs.
"Oh well," she thinks, standing to leave.
At the doorway, she pauses.
"I'm sorry."
The boy watches her go.
That is the last time he sees her.
Sleep comes rarely.
He dislikes it. Animals step on him. Noise invites danger.
When he closes his eyes again, it is only the third time in his life.
When he opens them, he is no longer in the barn.
A stone ceiling.
A basement.
"What's wrong with this boy?" a young man asks. His voice is sharp, controlled. "He doesn't cry. He doesn't react."
"I found him during a mission," he continues. "I know we're meant to stay hidden, but leaving him felt… inefficient."
A pale girl with black eyes crouches beside the child.
"He isn't broken," she says. "He's conditioned."
She studies him closely.
"He learned early that the world does not respond to need. Only action."
She exhales. "Regard… we're killers. This life isn't mercy."
"Neither is starvation," Regard replies.
A pause.
"…Fine," she says. "Feed him."
As the boy eats, slowly and carefully, something unseen settles around him.
Not magic.
Not yet.
A rule.
Survive first. Feel later.
Five Years Later
"Mathis!"
The shout rings across the training tome.
"Again! Your stance is too passive!"
Mathis adjusts his grip.
{We're in a low-level tome. Only slimes spawn here. I'm five. I've been training since I was three. Father says effort defines worth.}
He steps forward.
"Do not overwhelm," his tutor warns. "Direct."
Mathis swings.
The air tightens along the path of his blade. The slime's movement stutters, its form losing cohesion, collapsing inward as though reality itself corrected its posture.
It dissolves without resistance.
Mathis exhales.
"Good," Reiner says, lowering his shield. "Your presence forces structure. Enemies lose momentum around you."
Reiner charges and cleaves the King Slime. It vanishes.
"Mission complete."
Mathis smiles.
He completed his first tome.
At home, his father claps him on the back.
"That's my boy! A celebration. Let the nation see what's coming."
"A royal ball," he continues. "A genius is blooming."
Mathis nods.
{If I do everything right, nothing will fall apart.}
Somewhere else—
"Eyes open, boy."
Regard moves across the rooftop like a thought never spoken aloud.
{We're breaking into noble estates. Funding a larger plan. I've learned this much: wealth moves the world more than virtue ever did.}
"I know," the boy says quietly.
He does not look around.
He already knows where everything is.
Regard raises his hand.
"Oh mighty Thea," he murmurs. "Grant me construction."
Stone obeys. Stairs form. Blades spin. A window opens where one should not exist.
Inside, the steps vanish.
"Phantom Steps," Regard whispers.
The boy follows.
He does not invoke anything.
When he moves, sound simply fails to notice him.
They pass cages in the basement.
Humans inside.
The boy stops.
He stares at a girl behind bars. Her eyes mirror his own.
Cold. Watching. Waiting.
They reach the treasury.
Gold. Weapons. Scrolls.
"Jackpot," Regard mutters.
The boy opens a chest.
Five rings leap onto his fingers.
The moment they settle, something stirs.
Not power.
Recognition.
As if something far away has learned his name.
A note lies beneath them. He pockets it.
Time tightens.
Suddenly, the boy turns and runs back.
"What are you doing!?" Regard snaps.
The boy grabs a hammer.
He breaks the cages.
Screams erupt.
Stone pillars crash through walls.
Chaos blooms.
"Shadow Transportation," the boy whispers.
The world folds at its seams.
They reappear beside the horse.
"You survived," Regard laughs breathlessly. "From now on… I'll call you Xavier."
The boy tastes the name.
A real one.
A fireball screams toward them.
Regard braces.
"Shadow Transportation."
Gone.
The horse burns.
And somewhere, far away, a woman smiles at a mirror, unaware that kindness is already beginning to crack
{Most boys his age would be broken. Empty. Reduced to instinct.}
But Xavier walked like something already hollowed out.
"You remember your training in the Hell Chamber?" Regard murmured.
For the briefest instant, Xavier's face twitched. Not fear. Memory. Pain that never fully learned how to scream.
"Phantom Steps," Xavier said.
The shadows folded around him.
They slipped inside the Duke's estate like a held breath finally released. Knights patrolled in silver arcs. Shields polished. Swords steady. Mages stood atop towers, eyes glowing faintly as they scanned for disturbances in mana.
Two guards blocked the corridor ahead.
"Boy," Regard whispered, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. "Your turn."
Xavier stepped forward, small boots tapping softly against marble.
One guard scoffed. "This noble better be worth the pay. Hey… is that a kid?"
The second leaned closer. "How did you even—"
Blood burst.
Regard moved like a memory of violence rather than a man. Five seconds. Blade through the heart. Nine seconds. Throat opened. Bodies hit the floor almost gently.
Warm blood sprayed across Xavier's face.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't wipe it away.
"Clear," Regard said calmly.
Across the estate, Evangel watched through a hundred borrowed senses.
Her power threaded them together. A quiet chorus of breathing, footsteps, heartbeats. Every one of them moving according to her design.
"All units," her voice echoed in their minds, smooth and absolute. "The Horseman has entered the outer gate. No mistakes. This kingdom only falls once."
Luck. What a fragile word.
On the other side of the ballroom…
Laughter rang bright and clean.
A blond boy darted across the floor, clutching a doll just out of reach. A girl chased after him, cheeks flushed.
"Mathis! You're so annoying! Give it back!"
"Come take it, Rosena!"
"DAD!"
The Duke turned, his presence commanding even in leisure. His clothes shimmered with wealth. Power. Certainty.
"Mathis," he said, voice firm. "Give your sister her doll."
Mathis sighed dramatically and handed it over.
"Good," the Duke nodded. "Regard. Guard my children closely tonight."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Regard replied, bowing slightly. His smile never wavered.
For just a moment, the Duke felt a chill. Something about that smile. Too steady. Too practiced.
But Regard had served for years.
Surely everything was fine.
Later, as servants prepared the halls, the Duke knelt before his son.
"Tonight, everyone will be watching you," he said. "You're the star. Two royal families. A merchant from across the borders. All of them came to see you."
Mathis's chest swelled.
Just for me.
"I won't disappoint," Mathis said, eyes bright. "I'll become king. I'll stop the endless tomes. I'll protect everyone."
A child's dream.
Regard watched from the shadows.
A diligent boy, he thought. A shame.
Elsewhere, beneath the illusion of luxury…
Xavier crawled from a sack of hay inside the carriage, spitting straw from his mouth. The smell of horses grounded him. Real. Honest.
A middle-aged man waited there, reins in hand. Yogh.
"You ready, kid?" Yogh asked quietly. "This goes wrong, some of us die. You've got the deadliest job."
"Unwavering," Xavier said. "I won't die."
Yogh raised an eyebrow. "You sound real sure."
"I survived the chamber."
"…Chamber?"
Xavier's hands trembled.
"Hey," Yogh said quickly. "You don't gotta—"
"I'M NOT GONNA CRY," Xavier snapped, clamping a hand over his mouth.
Silence stretched.
Then Yogh spoke again, softer.
"Let me tell you something instead."
He swallowed.
"I was a horseman. Best concealment magic in the capital. Took nobles wherever they wanted. One day, a man named Douglas hired me. Paid well. Bad reputation."
Yogh's voice cracked.
"My daughter rode in the back with him."
He didn't finish the sentence.
"No one cared," Yogh whispered. "He was a noble."
Pain settled between them like ash.
Xavier spoke after a long pause.
"When I was three, they took us. Orphans. Runaways. Thirty of us. Chamber Twelve."
His voice was flat. Rehearsed.
"They trained us for a year. Then made us fight. Only one could leave."
Yogh didn't interrupt.
"I killed six," Xavier continued. "Brice killed more. He borrowed a god's power. Hades. Blue fire that didn't stop burning."
Xavier stared at his hands.
"I stabbed him in the back."
Yogh inhaled sharply.
"I won. But they took him anyway. God candidates are more valuable than survivors."
Regard's lesson echoed in his mind.
Emotion is useless.
Yogh wiped his eyes. "Then let's finish this."
Xavier pulled a paper from his pocket. "Can you read it?"
Yogh frowned as he scanned it.
"Shadow Monarch… false god… the more his name spreads, the stronger the rings grow."
Xavier smiled faintly.
"So I just have to make people afraid."
Yogh looked at him, uneasy. "Your target's name is Lupin."
Above them all, Evangel watched.
Children playing. Children bleeding. Kings dreaming. Assassins moving.
She touched the mirror beside her, her reflection smiling back with empty confidence.
Dreams were fragile things.
And tonight—
She would break them all.