Time flowed strangely in this new life. One moment I was a confused infant, the next I found myself already five years old.
Five years of pretending. Five years of holding back the bitterness that burned inside me every time I glanced at Razeal.
And now, finally, came the first event that mattered.
Our clan, the Verian Clan, had decided to gather the children of the great powers. A chance for the next generation to meet, to measure each other, and to plant the seeds of future alliances.
At five years old, none of us had awakened our talents yet. That happened at ten. Until then, every child was supposedly "equal."
That was the lie, anyway.
In truth, the powerful families already had their eyes fixed on their heirs. They knew who carried bloodlines, who carried talent, who carried destiny.
And me?
I was nothing.
---
I wasn't worried—not outwardly. No one could expose me yet. At this age, I was still safe. No one knew whether I had talent or not.
But deep down, I knew the day of awakening would come. And when it did, the truth would burn me alive.
For now, though, I had to play along.
Razeal was the center of it all. My brother. My twin. The boy who carried the system—the boy the gods themselves had written into the story.
His system, at this stage, could only do minute tasks. Nothing threatening. Nothing overwhelming. But I knew the truth. I had read the story. I knew what it would become.
And this gathering?
This was the first step. The point where he would build trust, prove he was no threat, and lay the foundation for the alliances that would one day shield him from fate.
I had no reason to be there.
But the elders pushed me forward anyway. "You're his twin," they said. "You must accompany him. It will strengthen our face as a clan."
They didn't care about me. Not really. I was just decoration, another name to add beside his. A twin was a curiosity, nothing more.
So I followed.
---
There were three great clans besides our own.
First was our clan: the Verians. Descendants of the War God. Our bloodline carried power that shook mountains. Or so the old geezers liked to claim.
Second: the Lynx Clan. Fierce and ambitious. In the original novel, if Razeal had truly walked the path of villainy, it was the heir of the Lynx Clan who would have risen as the protagonist to oppose him.
Third: the Mystic Clan. A clan of profound mysteries, bound to the ancient arts of the arcane. Their jewel was a girl named Aurora Mystic. Even in the story, her name was etched as a prodigy destined to shine.
And beyond the clans stood two other powers.
The Church of Doloros, which preached the will of the divine and moved armies with a single command.
And above all, the Empire. The ruler of rulers. The Emperor whose word was law. His heir was a girl named Riruru Angelo.
These names… they were the pillars of the story I remembered. The key players who shaped the world's destiny.
And here I was, Atticus Verian, shoved among them. A piece that was never supposed to exist.
---
The day of the gathering arrived.
The grand halls of the Verian estate thrummed with voices, filled with nobles and elders. But the true focus was the garden.
That was where we—the children—were sent.
A vast expanse of greenery stretched before us. Trees swayed gently under the breeze, flowers painted the air with fragrance, and fountains sparkled in the sunlight. It was beautiful, almost idyllic. A stage designed for peace.
But I knew better.
This wasn't a garden.
It was a battlefield.
A battlefield of smiles and introductions, where every word, every glance, every laugh planted seeds that would grow into swords in the future.
The servants guided us in, one by one. Little figures, each dressed in the finery of their clans. None of us older than seven. Yet every step carried the weight of generations.
---
I stood beside Razeal.
He looked calm as always. Too calm. His gaze swept the garden, sharp and calculating even in his tiny body.
"Just act like a child," I thought bitterly. "Pretend. At least once, act like you belong in this age."
But no. He wasn't like me. He had already accepted his role. He was already weaving the story he wanted.
And me?
I clenched my small fists. My pride refused to let me bow my head, but inside, I felt the chains of fate tighten.
One day, the truth would come out. One day, they would see I had no talent, no system, no destiny.
And when that day came…
Would I even still exist?
---
The other children arrived.
The Lynx heir walked with a confident stride, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and challenge. Even at five, he carried the fire of someone who believed the world was his to conquer.
Aurora Mystic was different. Graceful, quiet, her steps light as if she floated. Her eyes—clear, bright, and unnerving—seemed to pierce deeper than they should. For a moment, her gaze flicked toward me, and I felt something twist in my chest. Did she… notice something?
Then came the girl from the Imperial Clan. Riruru Angelo. She was radiant, golden hair flowing like sunlight, her presence alone making the garden brighter. Every servant bowed lower when she passed, every child glanced her way with awe.
Even among children, she was already an empress.
And finally, a figure clad in the white robes of the Church of Doloros. A child saintess, her steps guided as if by unseen hands. She smiled with innocence, but her eyes carried the weight of sermons and prophecy.
---
This was it.
The heirs of clans. The children of destiny. The seeds of the future.
The ones who would define the world I had once only read about.
And me—Atticus Verian—stood among them, a mistake dressed in noble robes.
I could feel it already. This meeting wasn't just a gathering.
It was the opening act of the story.
The story where Razeal, the boy with the system, would begin weaving his alliances, shaping his path, and avoiding the villain's fate.
And me?
I was the twin who wasn't supposed to exist.
The extra piece on the board.
A fragile pawn caught in a game played by gods.
---