"The chosen one has arrived," a voice echoed from within the vast darkness of the rift.
"I've transferred safely," Asher whispered, opening his eyes.
He found himself beneath a towering oak tree, its leaves swaying gently in the breeze. The air was crisp, clean, and strangely invigorating. The grass beneath him was soft, damp with morning dew. Beyond the tree stretched the back gardens of a grand estate—the estate of his new family.
Two figures approached.
The first was a man in his thirties, tall, composed, his butler's uniform immaculately pressed. His every step radiated both discipline and vigor, as if he still carried the strength of a former warrior. His eyes, warm with loyalty, studied Asher with quiet care.
The second was a young woman in her late twenties, clutching a wicker basket to her chest. Her walk was hesitant but graceful. Yet her face betrayed her—she wore sorrow and disappointment like a veil, her lips pressed tightly, her eyes brimming with restrained emotion.
"Young master, you called for me?" the butler asked, his voice steady but curious.
"Yes, Hans, I did," Asher replied, his tone calm yet commanding. He sat upright, exuding authority that felt far older than his body. "I need supplies for training. You'll have to fetch them."
Hans blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The boy who once avoided even the mention of training now spoke with the weight of a general giving orders.
"As you wish, young master," Hans replied at last, bowing slightly, one hand over his chest like a knight pledging fealty. "Tell me what you require, and I shall provide it."
Asher's gaze shifted to the maid. His eyes were sharp, as though cutting through her clumsy façade. "Will you stand there forever, Emilia? Or are you going to hand over the snacks you brought?"
Emilia flinched. Her hands fumbled with the basket, her cheeks flushing. "Ah—s-sorry, young master. Here they are… your favorites," she stammered. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from shock. She had watched this boy grow up—gentle, timid, hesitant. Now, before her, he radiated a chilling self-assurance, as if overnight he had become a stranger.
Asher accepted the snacks without a word and leaned back against the oak tree. His thoughts burned with clarity: I need strength. I need knowledge. If I am to rule this world, I must master both the body and magic.
After finishing, he rose and strode to the family's vast library. Rows of ancient tomes greeted him, their spines cracked with age, the air rich with the scent of parchment and ink. Here, Asher devoured knowledge with an insatiable hunger. Hours bled into days, days into weeks, as he studied and devised a training method unlike anything the world had ever seen.
The body he now inhabited—fragile in memory—adapted astonishingly well under his command. His muscles grew stronger, his mana channels widened with ease. He realized the truth: The body may be limited, but the soul decides destiny.
"If this method works," he muttered one night, eyes gleaming as he sketched out runes in the candlelight, "I'll rise to the top faster than anyone. The strongest won't even be a title—it will be a fact."
Knock. Knock.
"Young master, may I enter?" a gentle voice asked.
"Come in, Emilia," Asher said without looking up.
She stepped in, bowing nervously. "Young master, the patriarch summons you."
"My father?" Asher's brow lifted. He stood, straightened his clothes, and walked out with the stride of a king-in-making.
As he moved through the halls, the household staff paused to stare. The boy they once knew as frail and hesitant now carried himself with upright confidence, his every step filled with authority. Servants whispered behind him, astonished at the transformation.
At last, he reached the grand chamber.
"May I enter, Father?" Asher asked. His tone was steady, respectful, yet undeniably proud.
"Yes. Enter," the patriarch's voice thundered from within.
Asher stepped forward. "I have come as requested, Patriarch." His back was straight, his gaze unflinching.
The patriarch studied his son carefully, his expression unreadable. He had raised many children, each strong, ambitious, skilled in their own right—but the boy before him was… different. Something about him demanded silence.
"You know why I've called you and your siblings here?" the patriarch asked, his deep voice filling the chamber.
"I do not, Patriarch," Asher replied calmly, lifting a teacup with the poise of a man twice his age.
"There will soon be a choosing for the next successor to the imperial throne," the patriarch declared. "I ask you all: whom should we support?"
Around Asher sat his siblings—Michael, the eldest, sharp-eyed and commanding; William, the second son, broad-shouldered and disciplined; and Lilith, their sister, beautiful and calculating. Each carried themselves with pride and strength.
"We should support the first prince," Michael said quickly. "His claim is the strongest."
"The third prince," William countered, "is unmatched in both sword and spell. And he has the Sword Saint's son at his side."
Lilith sipped her tea delicately, her smile cunning. "The princess is a master of politics. If we wed her into our line, our family's influence would eclipse the rest."
Finally, all eyes turned to Asher.
"We should support the second prince," Asher said simply, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. He sipped his tea as though he had just spoken of the weather.
The silence broke with Michael's laughter. "The second prince? Are you insane? He's a drunk. Useless. It would be a miracle if he survives long enough for the coronation."
"Did you injure your head, little brother?" William asked, frowning with genuine concern.
"Asher…" Lilith's tone softened as she hugged his shoulders. "Are you not eating properly? Why would you say something so reckless?"
Their concern was real. They were rivals, yes, but also siblings who loved and protected him.
The patriarch leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Why him, Asher? Why would you place our future in the hands of a man so weak?"
Asher's smirk appeared—sharp, dangerous, brilliant.
"Because he is weak," he replied. "That is precisely why."
Confusion rippled through the room.
"His mother," Asher continued, setting his teacup down with a soft clink, "is no ordinary woman. She was once the most powerful wizard in all history—a master of magic and politics. She knows her son is worthless. She knows he will never be king by his own strength."
"Then why support him?" Michael demanded.
"Because if we crown him king," Asher said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with ruthless ambition, "then we will rule from the shadows. He will drink, he will falter, and while the empire bows to his name, it will obey our will."
The air grew heavy. Servants outside dared not breathe.
"We are the strongest family in this kingdom," Asher finished, his smile cold as a blade. "Yet we kneel to imperial blood. Why? Isn't it time the empire kneels to us instead?"
The chamber fell into silence so thick it could suffocate.
A ten-year-old boy had just spoken words that could alter the fate of the entire empire.