Chapter 2: Path Of The Usurper
Drake stood over one of his cousin's body. With a smirk on his face that signified both killing intent and intense happiness from the surge of power and the crunching sound of bones.
It was liberating for Drake, as this was the first time Drake had experienced such freedom.
Sigh*
"It turns out dreams do come true"
Wiping of the blood that was on his face, he moved to the branch house that was near the beach.
It was the Lia branch home. It being a branch line of a peak family didn't matter because a peak family was still a peak family, half-blooded or not.
On his way there, Drake remembered a distinct feeling he had felt when destroying his cousins.
The system.
A system was always a cliché among manga and webnovels.
Main characters would die a painful death, get isekai'd into some fantasy novel with hot milfy slash loli elves and fight a stupidly strong demon King.
I wish I had such a thing.
"Well… some dreams don't."
In that moment Drake had thought of confirming what he had heard real.
When he first transmigrated here, he didn't get a system Window, he got only pain and suffering.
He sat down for it, as it was something he was scared to check.
System open!!
A flash of a deep red colour flashed right infront of his already crimson eyes.
[Dragon system: initiated.]
[Stats]
Strength: 8
Dexterity: 10
Perception: 7
Endurance:15
Intelligence:20/100
Skills: Locked
More will be unlocked after the completion of main quests.
It was a shitty thing to look at.
A child born from a peak family wouldn't… shouldn't be this weak.
Argh!!
Drake Primordia sat in silence, crimson eyes flickering as he thought about the world he now lived in. To him, it wasn't just some mysterious place of fantasy. He knew its secrets, its outcome, its so-called destiny—because he had read it all once before.
The plot of the novel, The Last Descent of a God, was burned into his memory.
The story revolved around the protagonist—a worthless nobody who stumbled upon a system. That system gave him power, allowed him to grow stronger at a ridiculous pace. With it, the bastard gathered women like trophies, building a harem that worshipped him as he rose higher and higher.
But the true conflict of the story was the prophecy. A prophecy that spoke of a great evil descending upon the land. The world would tremble. Cities would burn. Nations would fall. That evil had a name whispered by all—the Apocalypse God.
The protagonist would battle endlessly, but not without loss. Some of his precious harem would die in the carnage, fueling his determination. At the climax, the protagonist would ascend to godhood, taking the title of the God of Light. With divine brilliance, he would confront the Apocalypse God and slay him, saving the world.
That was the plot. That was the fate written in ink.
Drake spat into the dirt, his lips curling into a snarl. "The fuck it is."
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until blood trickled.
"Why should that clown get to ascend? Why should he get the women, the glory, the godhood? No. Fuck him. Fuck the story. I'll become a god in his place. That protagonist can rot in hell while I take the throne."
His voice dripped with malice, and in his chest, the Dragon System pulsed as if agreeing with his rage.
The Lia branch mansion rose before him like a fortress. Its towering white walls and sprawling gardens screamed of wealth, yet to Drake it was nothing more than a gilded cage.
He stepped through the gates, crimson eyes cold, his small form carrying the weight of a man who had lived two lives. Servants and guards glanced at him with thinly veiled contempt. To them, he wasn't a prodigy of the Primordia. He was trash. The failed child. The disappointment.
The guest room they shoved him into was large enough to house three families, yet it felt suffocating. It wasn't his home. It was a prison of pity.
And why was he here?
Because he had been too weak.
In the Primordia family, there existed the Awakening.
When a child turned four, they were forced to awaken an attribute. This attribute was the key to learning the pure sword art of the Primordia—a sword style that had carved their name into the heavens. Fire, lightning, shadow, frost—whatever the attribute was, it became the core of a child's strength.
But Drake had failed.
At four years old, his body had produced nothing. No spark. No flame. No attribute. He had stood before the elders, trembling, empty. And for that, he was exiled to the Lia branch, tossed aside like garbage "until further notice."
Marcus Eliza, when he had first transmigrated, had accepted that humiliation. He had sat quietly, wallowed in weakness, and watched as others rose higher.
But this Drake—this reborn Drake—wasn't about to repeat that mistake.
"I won't sit on my ass waiting for scraps," he whispered to himself. His crimson eyes burned with resolve. "When the second Awakening comes at five years old, I'll be ready. And I'll fucking crush them all."
The Primordia children were forced to undergo not one, but three Awakenings.
At four years old, the First Awakening. At five, the Second. At six, the Third. Three attributes, three pillars of strength, which would determine their future standing in the family.
When Drake had first transmigrated, he had failed every single one. Not one attribute had answered him. He had been branded hopeless, a stain on the family's name.
This time, he refused to let that fate repeat.
To succeed, he needed strength. Real strength. And strength could not be gained inside the safety of walls.
His mind turned to the White Sea.
A place feared by most. A vast, endless expanse of pale waters that shimmered beneath a cold sky. But beneath its beauty lurked terror. Beasts of the 6th to 9th rank prowled its shores and swam in its depths.
In this world, power was measured in ranks. From 1st rank—the weakest of mortals—to 12th rank—the pinnacle of existence. The very patriarch of the Primordia family himself stood at the 12th rank, though whispers claimed he had surpassed even that.
The White Sea was no place for a child. No place for the weak. But for Drake, it was the only place worth going.
"If I'm going to awaken properly this time," he muttered, "then I need to sharpen myself on the edge of death. I'll bathe in blood until my essence screams for power."
And so, he made his decision.
He would disappear from the Lia branch mansion. Leave behind the stares, the pity, the contempt.
He would carve his strength into existence with his own hands.
Drake didn't have much coin, but he had enough for what mattered. A longsword.
It wasn't anything special—just steel, plain and sharp. But when he gripped the hilt, when he felt its weight in his small hand, his heart pounded with anticipation.
Steel was honest. Steel was pure. Steel would spill blood for him, carve his enemies into corpses.
He sheathed it at his waist, the leather strap loose against his small frame. He wasn't a warrior yet, but he would be.
As he stood at the edge of the mansion grounds, looking out at the distant horizon where the White Sea shimmered like a silver blade, Drake's lips curled into a smile.
"This time," he whispered, crimson eyes burning with promise, "the world won't get Marcus Eliza the otaku. It won't get the pathetic Drake who failed at everything. It will get me—reborn, remade, drenched in blood."
He tightened his grip on the sword.
"I'll awaken my attributes. I'll take the power of a god. And I'll tear this story apart with my own fucking hands."
And with that vow carved into his soul, Drake Primordia stepped onto the path that would defy fate itself.
The path of the usurper.