Chapter 1 – Prologue: Rebirth of the Wolf
The night sky above the metropolis was dim, veiled by a blanket of smoke and pollution that swallowed the stars whole. In a cramped apartment no larger than sixteen square meters, a man in his early thirties sat hunched over a cluttered desk. His name was Fenrir Aditama—an ordinary office worker whose life was a cycle of monotony: wake up, commute, drown in endless reports, and return home with his body half-dead.
His existence carried no glory, no purpose beyond the monthly paycheck. And yet, hidden behind his battered computer screen was a passion that had burned inside him since childhood—history.
Every corner of his tiny room bore testimony to his obsession. The walls were plastered with posters of medieval battles: The Battle of Hastings, The Siege of Constantinople, The Mongol Invasion. His shelves sagged beneath the weight of books—The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The Prince by Machiavelli, translations of The Thirty-Six Stratagems. He could recite principles of attrition warfare, dissect guerrilla tactics, and explain Blitzkrieg with the confidence of a military professor.
"If only I had been born in that era…" he muttered, fingers brushing over a miniature knight standing proudly on his desk. "Maybe I could have been a general."
But reality mocked him. In truth, he was nothing more than a frail man with glasses, messy hair, and shoulders bent under the invisible weight of office drudgery.
That evening, his chest felt heavier than usual. A sharp pain stabbed deep, like an invisible spear thrust through his heart. He clutched his chest with trembling hands. "No… don't tell me—"
His heartbeat grew erratic, his breath ragged. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled. The world tilted violently, and within seconds, his body collapsed against the cold floor.
As his consciousness slipped away, a torrent of despair surged through him. Is this the end? Without meaning, without victory, without leaving even a footprint in the world?
But just before the darkness claimed him completely, something stirred.
A voice—not of flesh and blood, but metallic and hollow—echoed inside his fading mind.
[System Initialization…]
[Strategic Protocol Activated.]
Fenrir froze in confusion, but he had no strength left to question it. His body was numb, but his consciousness was drawn into a vortex of white light. His scream was silent, swallowed by the void.
When the light receded, he awoke to an alien sight. A wooden ceiling with cracks running across its beams, the scent of damp straw, the muffled sound of a woman sobbing. His body felt small, fragile—different.
"He's awake! Finally!" A woman's voice, soft and trembling with relief.
Fenrir turned his head. A young woman with pale blonde hair hovered beside him, tears glistening in her eyes. Her beauty was undeniable, though exhaustion lined her face. Beside her stood a man in worn clothing, his dark hair disheveled, his sharp eyes brimming with quiet pride.
"Our son, Elena… he survived," the man exhaled, his tone heavy yet steady.
Fenrir's thoughts reeled. Son? Elena? He stared at his hands—tiny, delicate, the hands of a boy no older than seven.
This wasn't his body. He was no longer Fenrir Aditama, the office drone. He… had been reborn.
"Your name is Fenrir von Eisenwald," the man declared, his voice carrying the weight of pride and hardship alike. "Never forget—you bear the blood of Eisenwald, even if we are but poor barons at the edge of the Luminaria Empire."
Baron. Empire. The words struck his mind like thunder. His heart pounded.
A medieval empire…? Don't tell me…
It was everything he had ever dreamed of. A world shaped not by spreadsheets and deadlines, but by steel, honor, and power.
A laugh nearly bubbled from his lips. He wanted to cry and roar in joy at once.
The days that followed, Fenrir carefully observed his new world. The Eisenwald manor was a modest estate, weather-worn and surrounded by stretches of farmland. At its heart was a village of barely a hundred families. His father, Cedric von Eisenwald, was baron only in title. Their land was poor, their influence meager, their lives more like peasants than nobility.
His mother, Elena, managed the household with tender care. Servants were few, most of them old and weary. Life here was simple, stripped of grandeur.
Yet Fenrir felt no disappointment. Instead, he saw an opportunity.
That night, as silence wrapped the manor, he stood by the small window of his chamber. Above, the moon shone brighter than he had ever seen in his old world, casting silver light across the fields.
If this is truly a medieval world… then I will not waste this second chance.
Then, once again, that cold, mechanical voice echoed in his skull.
[Strategic System Online.]
[Welcome, Commander.]
Fenrir stiffened. His eyes widened as a faint, transparent screen flickered before him:
[Status]
Name: Fenrir von Eisenwald
Age: 7 years
Aura: Dormant
Strength: 2
Endurance: 3
Intelligence: 15
Charisma: 7
Skills: —
Active Quest: Unlock Aura (Reward: Strategic Points)
His hands trembled—not in fear, but in exhilaration.
A system? I truly… have a system?
A storm raged inside him. All the strategies, the theories, the lessons he memorized throughout his past life—they were no longer just fantasies. Now he had a weapon, a tool to turn dreams into reality.
Clenching his tiny fists, Fenrir whispered into the night. "Very well. If this is my fate… then I will carve my name into history. From the son of a poor baron, I shall rise… to rule this world. This will be my path… the path of a knight."
And beneath the silver moonlight, a vow was etched into destiny.
The vow of the wolf.
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