Darkness.
Not the kind that comes from closing your eyes.
The kind that feels like drowning.
Lucien's eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp, air rushing into his lungs like fire. The ceiling above him was too tall. The chandelier was too ornate. The bed—too soft. His heart pounded, vision blurring as sweat soaked his skin.
Where was he?
He sat up, only to be pulled back by a jolt of white-hot pain. A sharp sting behind his eyes.
And then—
The memories hit.
Not his.
A cold gaze in a gilded mirror.
Servants flinching.
A little girl sobbing, turned away.
A father with warm eyes… clouded by grief.
A woman's arms—elegant, reaching. Rejected.
Laughter. Cruel and hollow.
A courtyard of sneering nobles.
Blood.
Boots.
Pain.
A broken boy collapsing beneath the weight of his own pride.
Shame. So much shame.
Lucien screamed.
His body seized, writhing against the silk sheets as images flooded his mind like poison. Everything the old Lucien was—arrogant, spoiled, unloved by choice—came crashing down over him in a storm of regret and rot.
And then… stillness.
Lucien lay there, gasping for breath, staring at the canopy above.
But the memories didn't stop. Faces. Names. Titles. Nobles. Magic. Codes. The system.
It was all familiar.
Too familiar.
He blinked slowly as something clicked. Like a puzzle snapping into place behind his skull.
He knew this world.
Not from dreams.
From pages.
From a novel.
Mask of the Hero.
A book he had read in another life. Back when he still had one.
It wasn't some masterpiece—just another power fantasy, overflowing with clichés: a humble protagonist with secret powers, a corrupt nobility, demons at the gates, and an empire teetering on collapse.
But more importantly…
This body.
Lucien Drayven Vaelor.
He remembered now.
He wasn't just some noble brat.
He was the first stepping stone.
The arrogant heir who insulted the protagonist at a banquet, got humiliated in return, and was later beaten to death in a courtyard by commoners while the crowd laughed.
Page 47.
His only purpose in the plot… was to die.
Lucien's fingers trembled.
So that was it.
He hadn't just woken up in another world.
He had been written off from the start.
A disposable villain in someone else's tale.
A puppet on a noose of fate.
Not anymore.
He gritted his teeth.
"If the story wants me dead," he whispered, "it'll have to try harder."
He stayed there, unmoving, for what felt like hours. Slowly, the chaos inside him settled. Faces began to rise from the fog, each tied to threads of emotion too raw to ignore.
His family.
First came the man with fire in his blood and tenderness in his eyes.
Duke Caelum Drayven Vaelor.
His father.
He wasn't cruel. No, far from it. In Lucien's memories, Caelum had always been patient. Gentle. The kind of man who crouched down to tie his son's boots himself, even when wearing ceremonial robes. He used to carry Lucien in one arm and a stack of ledgers in the other. Balanced love and duty like no one else.
But that brightness dimmed after her death.
He didn't grow cold, just… quiet. Withdrawn. He no longer talked about training. About the Codex awakening. About legacy. He stopped pushing.
Instead, he just held Lucien tighter. Shielded him from the world—too tightly.
He didn't want a powerful heir anymore.
He just wanted his son to be happy. Safe.
And behind that soft warmth… there was a blade.
Caelum could smile like a father, and kill like a duke. He hadn't lost his edge—he just hid it.
Then came her.
Elira Vaelor. His late mother.
A woman of elegance and fire. She was steel wrapped in silk. She smiled with her eyes and wielded words sharper than most swords. She ruled the court with poise—and ruled their home with unmatched tenderness.
To Evelyne, she was a mentor.
To Lucien, she was everything.
She had loved him fiercely. Perhaps too fiercely. She protected him from everything—even from growing. Even from consequence. She coddled him while demanding perfection from his older sister. And when she died, so did the balance in their home.
And that's when she entered.
Lady Seraphina Vaelor. The stepmother.
A woman too kind for the coldness she walked into.
She married Caelum not for power, not for position—but because she genuinely loved him. Lucien remembered how gently she had spoken to him. How she had tried. Again and again.
Bringing him tea herself. Leaving books by his bed. Smiling when he called her a snake.
The old Lucien had repaid her kindness with hatred. He mocked her behind her back. Refused to speak to her for days.
But she never raised her voice.
Not once.
And always, trailing behind her skirts, had been the girl.
Celeste. His stepsister.
Ten years old. Shy. Sweet. Wide-eyed and full of sunshine. She used to call him "Lulu" and sneak into his room to show him drawings. Her laughter had once been his favorite sound.
Until the old Lucien shut the door in her face.
Until he called her a "bastard" loud enough for the servants to hear.
Her smiles had vanished after that.
And then—
Evelyne.
The older sister. His blood.
Seventeen now. A prodigy. Stronger. Smarter. Respected.
But not heir.
Lucien was. Despite being younger. Despite being soft. Despite wasting everything she had worked for.
He remembered her eyes: not angry, but burning. Controlled. Quiet.
Like a fire that refused to go out.
She never said the words—but he remembered.
"I should have been the heir."
And he hadn't even denied it.
He had laughed.
Lucien clenched his fists.
How much damage had this boy done?
Later that day, while the twilight sun bled across the skies, he stood before the mirror.
A boy stared back.
Twelve years old. Still round in the face, with a small pudge under his chin. His robe clung awkwardly to a soft belly. His arms were fleshy. Untrained. This was a body fed on luxury and avoidance, not strength.
But his eyes…
His eyes were wrong.
Crimson. Focused. Too still. Too knowing.
Those weren't the eyes of a child.
Lucien raised a hand and touched the mirror. Cold glass met warm skin.
"This body's weak," he whispered. "But it won't stay that way."
He stepped back.
He didn't have power yet. No Codex. No awakened mana.
But he had memories.
He had time.
And he had something the old Lucien never did—
A second chance.