"Sir, we're under attack! But there's no need for concern," the driver said to me, slightly lowering the partition between the limousine's cabin and himself—my sole companion. "Your security detail will handle everything. Just stay calm."
"As you say," I replied languidly, continuing to gaze indifferently out the window.
I was, frankly, bored. Outside, the sounds of gunfire from conventional weapons mingled with the roar of invoked spells. Unfamiliar figures in unfamiliar masks were doing predictable things. They wanted to eliminate the heir of a noble Lineage—namely, me.
It almost made me chuckle. An attack? What was this, the fifth one this week? And every single one had failed. Pathetic amateurs! By the third attempt, I'd briefly entertained the thought of wishing they'd succeed, just for a change. At one point, I even considered cracking open the armored, enchanted door to give the hapless attackers a hand, but all the doors were centrally locked in moments of danger.
I was left to rely on the professionalism of the assailants. Perhaps one of these attacks would result in my abduction, allowing me to live a normal life. Though, in all likelihood, that was never to be.
Honestly, it's laughable. In moments like these, I'm always rooting for the attackers.
My life is heavy… the life of the eldest heir to a ruling Lineage. If this were my first life, things would be different. But alas, it's not, and that's what makes my situation a catastrophe.
"Alex, are you unharmed?" Another guard rushed to my side—a fire master, no less.
Pretending to care about me, are you? I know your type all too well—smiling to my face with a dagger hidden behind your back. And this is my guard! What's there to say about the rest of my so-called "kin"? A damned viper's nest, full of damned deceit, a damned life. I'm seventeen now, but before… before, there was so much more. Believe me, I used to eat scum like you for breakfast.
And I loved breakfast. Loved my life, too. It was fun—for me, at least. The local slugs probably didn't share my amusement.
I grabbed the remote and pressed the button for the mirror, which slid down from the ceiling. I leaned forward slightly to get a better look at myself. The leather seat of my armored vehicle creaked pleasantly. Yes, from the outside, it looked like an ordinary limousine, but it was sturdier than most military vehicles and more comfortable than many stationary homes inside.
What's become of you, Sandr? Dressed like a dandy, riding in an exorbitantly expensive car that doesn't even belong to you but to your pompous Lineage. In truth, you own nothing and have no future. This isn't the rebirth the Hunter's Code promised…
I have moments of weakness when I think too much. They usually come when a battle rages just outside, and I'm unable to join in. It frustrates me, but there are reasons for that.
A deafening explosion sounded outside, but my transport didn't care. It's a Lineage vehicle, better protected than many estates of impoverished aristocrats.
More explosions followed, signaling that the skirmish would soon end—without me, as always.
A massive bridge beam crashed down nearby, part of the ambush these amateurs had set up, waiting for my convoy. Two partially charred bodies followed, collapsing onto the asphalt. One of them, it seemed, was still alive. With a trembling hand, the half-dead attacker tried to cast something with his last strength, but a simple bullet from a simple pistol blew his head apart. A foolish death for a foolish man.
I snorted and turned back to the mirror. The same sad young man stared back at me, the one I've grown tired of looking at over the years. No, he—rather, I—wasn't ugly. By local standards, I was considered almost handsome. Tall, dark-haired, with an athlete's toned physique. A foolish habit, really—I simply couldn't allow my body to be weak. Sometimes, I got carried away, shocking the household staff with my relentless training.
But damn it! Where are all my scars? In my past life as a Hunter, I had plenty, and I'd be proud of them now. I could have…
That damned Black Hydra devoured me… but I took that beast with me to the underworld. I tracked her for so long and succeeded where others faltered. That strong, graceful creature was ancient and oh-so-powerful! I can still smell the toxic fumes of the Adygean Swamp, where that being reigned for centuries, occasionally venturing into other worlds to sow pain and chaos.
That was my last quarry… What a pity…
The memory of the hydra warmed my chest. Honest work… Thrilling excitement… The rush of adrenaline and pride in a job well done. How I miss it all!
A fine hydra she was. And a grin crept onto my face, the kind that struck terror into anyone who saw it. I caught myself and quickly hid it, resuming the bored, detached expression of a dim-witted scion of a noble Lineage. It's too early for others to see that grin.
Or perhaps it's just the right time? I'm on my way to my father, who's about to announce his official decision regarding his heir. As if I even care. My relatives don't seem to care much either. But tradition…
Still, I have a feeling things will work out. My famed intuition, which my brothers admired and even envied, tells me so. They knew better than to ignore my words, lest they regret it later.
The attack ended almost before it began, and I was escorted onward. But we hadn't gone far when another attack struck. Was the last one just a rehearsal?
This time, there were more attackers, and they were slightly better prepared. The lead vehicle in the convoy went up in a blaze of magically enhanced explosives. Unlike my limousine, it didn't have such robust protections.
From all sides, shouting, the attackers rushed toward us. I grimaced again. Shouting is a sign of insecurity, a need to bolster oneself and one's comrades by blending into a mob. Why bother? Just kill your enemy—silently and efficiently.
If only they'd kill my entire guard, and I could go missing! Sweet dreams. Until my father's decision is announced, they won't let me slip away. My "carcass" is too valuable to simply lose or allow to be destroyed.
No, I'm not some obedient son trembling in fear of his father's attention. I have plans, but for now, everything's proceeding as it should.
Two vans screeched to a halt, shielding my vehicle from the attackers. Reinforcements had arrived, summoned by my security.
I sighed heavily. Not today… Well, at least not now…
"You're late," were my father's first words.
Henry Godart looked impeccable and majestic, as befits the noble head of a renowned Lineage. A tall, gray-haired man with a ramrod-straight posture, as if he'd swallowed a broom. And that expression—eternal dissatisfaction. It seemed he never smiled, perceiving his surroundings and events as irritating inconveniences.
By the way, I'm Alex Godart, though in my past life, I was simply Sandr. I've been called many things, but Sandr was my favorite—short and clear.
"We were attacked three times on the way here. Seems like a record of sorts," I replied in the same indifferent tone. "Had to pause and explain to the attackers that they were mistaken."
"I bet he defeated them all single-handedly and will now regale us with tales of how they quaked in fear before his Gift," my younger brother chimed in with his insufferable voice.
The room filled with smiles and quiet chuckles.
"Better to see once than hear a hundred times," I said with an impassive face, shrugging as I summoned my Gift.
In that instant, a Creosian ash dragon, tainted with rot, burst from my palm and soared beneath the high ceiling of the Council Hall. Spreading its membranous wings, it surveyed the room and let out a ferocious roar.
There was no security here, only family members. My dragon lunged at my brother, its eerie cry echoing through the ancient palace.
The little brat, lounging in a comfortable office chair, hadn't expected this. Startled, he fell and screamed.
"I'll kill you, you bastard!" he shrieked in a shrill falsetto—his voice was breaking, caught in the throes of puberty.
He leaped up and activated his lightning Gift. His was a real Gift, not an illusion. His face was a storm of emotions, rage burning in his eyes at yet another humiliation—inflicted by someone higher in status by birth but lesser in power.
My true brothers remained in the Order. There, all were brothers, and our bonds were special. What does a random birth into this… pathetic family matter? Not in strength or status, but in essence. But I'm getting carried away again. The little pest unleashed a white-hot spherical lightning bolt straight at me.
He'd partially lost control, but not entirely. The bolt moved slower than it should have, likely so anyone without a Gift could dodge it.
And I could have… but why bother? I stood my ground, smirking at my brother, savoring his confusion and bewilderment. Think before you act, fool!
The lightning wouldn't kill me, but he didn't know that—nor did anyone else, including my father's three wives present in the room.
If he killed me in front of the entire family, he'd never inherit the headship of the Lineage, which he so desperately coveted after our father's death or retirement.
I stood there, grinning widely at him. The naive little pup, too foolish to realize I'm not one of his friends he could intimidate with his power. As if his lightning is some grand force!
Everyone in the hall watched to see what would happen, but no one dared intervene. Though my brother's mother desperately wanted to undo her precious son's reckless act and dispel his magic. She was a powerful Gifted, and it would've cost her nothing. But the head of the Lineage was our father, and he decided what happened next.
When the lightning bolt was less than a meter away, and I could feel the heat scorching my skin, Henry Godart finally reacted.
"Enough," he said calmly, and the lightning exploded. Shards of high-temperature plasma sprayed in all directions, burning holes in my fine clothes, searing my skin, and causing intense pain. The room filled with the acrid smell of burnt flesh.
Not a single muscle twitched on my face.
"That's how it is, brother! I may lack power, but you've got it in spades. Yet your spirit is worthless," I spat at him, hoping to provoke another outburst.
The little weakling… I didn't get to finish the thought. My father's mental attack slammed me into the wall.
Of course, I sensed him preparing it. His vaunted speed only made me smile. But while I felt it, I couldn't resist. Such is life. My father's a harsh bastard, to boot.
"Don't get cocky," he said, watching my body slide down the wall. "We're a warrior Lineage, and all you can do is play your clownish tricks. How many times have I told you not to use your power on your brother?"
So, I'm the one at fault! How I'd love to smash your head with something heavy! But I can't…
The first time I used my power against my brother at a reception, he reacted the same way. But back then, it was an Andalovian snake, thirty meters from tip to tail.
He'd thoroughly soiled his reputation that day, quite literally, ha! Henry said I was useless, that I couldn't help the Lineage and even harmed its reputation. That was nearly nine years ago. Of course, I didn't listen, and I've done it plenty of times since.
"If you're not dead and ready to hear why I summoned you, sit down," my father said, pointing to a chair.
Grunting, I settled into the ornate antique chair, feigning composure while my skin burned with invisible fire. I wanted to tell him everything, but I couldn't… I'm so tired of telling myself "I can't" these past years. The Code promised my next life would be lived for pleasure. So where, damn it, is that pleasure?
"You're my eldest heir! In a month, you turn eighteen, which means I must name you my successor," my father said, studying me closely. "And so, I've made my decision…"
I'm curious, you can't even imagine how much. What decision have you made?
"I'm listening," I said, my face a mask.
"You must die!" His harsh words plunged the hall into deathly silence. "Your Gift is a mistake that won't lead our Lineage to success and prosperity. But I cannot not name you my successor, so I'm giving you a choice—fictitious or real death."
It took every ounce of strength to stay silent, more effort than words or letters could convey. It's been a long time since I've had to restrain myself so much.
"Fictitious death," I said, striving to keep my voice steady, though I was shaken to my core.
After my words, I thought I saw my brother and his mother exhale with regret. Did they think they'd be rid of me for good? Fat chance!
"You've always had brains," my father said with a smile. "It's almost a pity fate played such a cruel trick with your Gift."
A Gift of harmless illusions in a warrior clan that achieved everything through strength is indeed fortune's mockery.
"As if I have a choice?" I allowed myself a "sad smile."
"There's always a choice, even when it seems there isn't," he chuckled again. "Good job not throwing a tantrum. I commend you. Where do you want to go into exile after all the… ahem… formalities?"
I've read about such operations and know their pitfalls, each the size of a yacht, but with a plan, it could work.
"The Russian Empire!" I declared my choice and desire.
"Good choice. Your mother was from there, and you look so much like her, to my great regret," Henry mused. "Do you know the language?"
"I know it. I studied," I replied in flawless Russian.
While my younger brother wasted time, I studied—extensively.
"Excellent. I'll prepare everything, and you're free to go," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'll call for you when it's ready. Or send the documents."
"Yes, brother… you're free to go," my younger brother seized the chance to jab at me, earning a solid cuff from his mother.
Funny how they slammed me against the wall, but he gets a mere slap.
Leaving the Council Hall, I couldn't believe they'd done this to me. Glancing around and seeing no one nearby, I allowed myself a moment of weakness. A happy smile spread across my face.
Oh, Code! I spent years preparing and scheming for my coming of age, and they just kicked me out! I mastered seven languages perfectly because I didn't know where I'd end up after escaping. I spent years studying the cultures of different countries. And they just cast me out like a mangy, nameless mutt, not the heir of a great Lineage—Alex Godart!
Such smug faces they all had, except my father. He was just doing his job, but the others were genuinely delighted. They were always on good terms with each other; I was the one who "didn't fit in," practically a leper in their eyes. If only they knew how carefully I crafted that image.
My mother was a runaway imperial noblewoman who married my father for convenience. Their union produced me—or rather, this body. I became aware of myself in it closer to age six.
When my Gift awakened, my father and mother quarreled, and he drove her away, saying her blood was weak. He'd granted her protection, and in return, she was supposed to give him a strong heir. Of course, they didn't tell me this outright, but I sniffed out the details myself. It was easy, given my "relatives'" general disdain for me. It was practically an open secret. I suspect they revealed it deliberately to wound me as deeply as possible. Fools, as if that could change anything!
My whole life, I've had to play the role of a trusting, clever, but terribly naive boy.
And now, that's all over.
*Later, in the same place*
"My love, I'm worried about our son," she said, her face a mask of genuine concern.
It was hard to accuse Amanda of loving her eldest son. But Henry paid no mind to such trifles as intrigues and courtly games. He focused on extracting the essence from every conversation. The head of a Lineage had no time for such nonsense. The Lineage had endured a harsh winter, with two clan wars that cost them too much strength and too many lives.
"I'll say it again… he's no longer my son, and he's dead to the Lineage, and especially to the clan. It's settled, and what happens to him next is no longer my concern. He's to blame for what happened. His weakness is not only his mother's fault but his own."
"I understand," the mother of the next heir smiled faintly. Compared to Alex, her son possessed a true battle-ready magical skill—the Gift of lightning, which he'd honed impressively. "Had he been born into the Andel Lineage, he'd have been an honored member, perhaps even its head. Those old believers worship anything related to art. Alas, we're not them and must uphold the face of a warrior Lineage."
"See, you understand it all," the man replied, not looking at her, shuffling through papers.
Henry Godart had much to do today. He needed to decide the fate of his son… his former son.
He'd thought long and hard, weighing every option. The choice he'd given Alex was, in truth, an illusion. He'd already decided to exile his son. Initially, he'd seriously considered his death—it would've been simpler, eliminating uncertainties and future problems. Alex, despite his difficult nature, was a clever young man. To the head of the Lineage's deep disappointment, he was far smarter than his brother Carl, now the eldest heir.
But tales and rumors among the nobility held him back—whispers that a Gift might weaken after shedding one's own blood. A Gift isn't human; it can't be deceived. There was no direct evidence, largely because no one had been foolish enough to kill their own recently, but Henry wasn't willing to take the risk, however unlikely.
"Your decision is law, and I don't dispute it," his first wife hurried to reassure him, fearing he might misinterpret her and reverse his decision. "We discussed with the girls, and we'd like to ask you to help Alex. He is, after all, our son."
"How so?" He sighed heavily, deciding to hear out the envoy his wives had chosen.
"When you create his new identity, could you grant him a true noble status?" Her cheekbones twitched slightly, but she mastered her emotions.
The man paused for a moment.
"His Gift isn't battle-ready, and noble status means endless duels and other dangers for him," he explained to his foolish wife.
"We understand, but without you, he'd never get it. What if his Gift manifests further? Then you'd give your son a chance at a new, successful life," she said evenly, moving behind her husband to gently massage his shoulders. "Or do you want him to be barred from the Academy, working as a servant in some cheap tavern? Do you want your blood serving imperials?"
She knew exactly what buttons to push, and the expensive gold-nibbed pen snapped in Henry's hand.
His blood serving anyone? He understood her point and agreed completely. He still had old documents guaranteeing noble status to the right person.
His blood wouldn't walk in servitude, shaming the entire Lineage, even if exiled and stripped of the right to represent the clan.
"You're right. I'll do it."
Standing behind her husband, carefully kneading his shoulders, she hid a faint, unkind smile. Had he chosen to kill the former heir outright, she'd have been more pleased. The problem would've vanished forever. But she knew her husband well and understood that was impossible in today's reality. So, she devised a more complex, cunning plan. That bastard wouldn't survive among aristocrats—not for nothing were the wildest rumors about imperials.
She was a clever woman and never acted with only one plan.
"It seems reasonable to send his mentor with him. Alex will struggle alone; he's not used to manual labor. Shergen can teach him about a world he's never lived in," she added, a decision reached with the other wives. "He's getting old, too."
"If I do this, will you leave me in peace to work?" the head of the Lineage snapped, irritated as the broken pen left an ink blot on a pristine decree.
"I promise not to bother you with trifles for the next two months."
Henry couldn't refuse such an offer.
"Fine, I'll grant one more of your requests, my love!"
"You always spoil me," she said, leaning down to embrace and passionately kiss him.
Henry had to delay his tasks for another hour. But it was worth it.