Part 1 – Lessons in Worthlessness
Five years old. Old enough to walk, talk, and—most importantly—be judged like a miniature adult.
Which meant it was time for tutors.
Now, if this had been a proper story, the heir of a Duke might have been trained by scholars of wisdom, masters of war, or cunning strategists who'd sharpen his mind into a blade.
Instead, the Empire sent me their leftovers.
One was a failed etiquette instructor who smelled faintly of onions. Another was a historian so ancient he occasionally forgot the century he was lecturing about. My "combat tutor" couldn't lift a practice sword without wheezing.
And all of them shared one obsession: posture.
"Back straight, chin high," one droned, jabbing a pointer stick into my shoulder. "Again! You must project authority."
I slouched harder on purpose.
From the corner, another muttered, "Hopeless. The cursed brat doesn't even try."
If I could have spoken my mind, I'd have said: Congratulations, gentlemen. You've cracked the code to my evil master plan. Yes, I will slouch my way into damnation. Truly diabolical.
But since I was five, all I could do was yawn and pick my nose.
They laughed. I laughed too—on the inside.
Part 2 – Hidden Lessons
Here's the truth: I listened.
Every boring lecture, every insult—they all went in. Geography, history, mathematics, noble customs, military formations. They thought I was ignoring them, but I was cataloging it all, line by line, like a human hard drive.
And when they quizzed me? I got just enough wrong to seem stupid.
Why? Because the moment I showed competence, the Emperor's lapdogs would report back. The noose would tighten. Opportunities would vanish.
So I wore stupidity like armor. Uselessness as camouflage.
On the outside: drooling, clumsy, dim-witted noble brat.
On the inside: downloading data like an underpaid office intern who secretly plans to run the company.
The tutors thought they were mocking me. Really, they were sharpening me.
Part 3 – The Butler's Son
The tutors weren't the only ones who shaped those years.
There was also him—Leo. Son of the Duke's butler. My age. My opposite in every way.
Where I had silk robes, he had patched hand-me-downs. Where I had golden spoons, he had wooden ones. Where I had silence and scorn, he had laughter and a father who cared.
The first time we met, I was in the garden, staring at ants build a hill—nature's version of urban planning. He walked up, tilted his head, and asked bluntly:
"Why do you look so stupid all the time?"
"…Excuse me?"
"You're supposed to be a Duke's son, right? But you always sit here drooling. Like this." He puffed his cheeks and crossed his eyes, mocking me.
For a moment, I wanted to strangle him. Then I laughed. Out loud. The first genuine laugh I'd had since reincarnation.
From that day, we were inseparable.
Part 4 – The Secret Pact
Leo didn't care about curses, omens, or politics. He just wanted someone to talk to.
And I wanted someone who didn't treat me like glass or garbage.
So we made a pact.
He'd sneak me gossip from the servants' quarters—who was sleeping with whom, which maid watered the wine, which noble had gambling debts. In return, I'd share the tidbits I picked up from tutors—maps, customs, military routes, things no servant boy would normally hear.
He taught me how to slip through hidden passages and which floorboards creaked the loudest. I taught him how to tell the difference between genuine wine and the watered-down swill nobles served when they wanted to look generous on a budget.
"Someday," I whispered one night, "this entire place will belong to me."
He grinned without hesitation. "And when it does, I'll run it with you."
We clasped hands, two boys in the shadow of an empire, making promises far larger than we could possibly comprehend.
And yet, in that moment, it felt unbreakable.
Part 5 – Cracks in the Mask
At night, I'd lie awake in my oversized bed, staring at the velvet canopy and replaying the day.
Pretending to be stupid. Letting the tutors sneer. Smiling when my mother walked past without so much as a glance.
It was working. They underestimated me. They dismissed me.
But sometimes, just sometimes, the mask slipped.
Once, a tutor left a map of the Empire on his desk. I traced the trade routes with my finger, noting where forests, rivers, and mountains converged. I saw a network of veins, each pumping wealth, soldiers, and food—veins that could be severed or redirected with the right pressure.
"Why are you staring like that?" a maid asked, catching me.
"…Just wondering why they drew the roads so badly," I replied, drooling on cue.
She laughed, shook her head, and walked away. Never suspected a thing.
Good. Let them laugh. Someday, I'd redraw those roads. With ink, with fire, with blood.
Part 6 – A Child's Resolve
Five years old. A cursed child. A useless heir.
That was what they saw.
But I knew better.
I was learning. Watching. Preparing.
The nobles thought my childhood was wasted. But every lesson, every insult, every slight was sharpening me in ways they couldn't see.
The Crimson Moon had cursed my birth. But it had also given me clarity.
If the world insisted I was useless, then "useless" would become the sharpest weapon they'd ever face.
For now, I closed my eyes, drooled into the silk pillow, and kept the mask on.
Too bad nobody suspected the sleepy brat was already plotting an empire.