The wind howled across the jagged peaks of Eldrath, carrying with it the scent of ash, rain, and distant forests. In the sprawling capital of the Valemor Kingdom, the noble districts rose like the teeth of some ancient, slumbering beast, their polished stone walls gleaming in the faint light of dawn. Below, the streets were alive with chaos beggars huddled in doorways, merchants shouted their wares, and the distant clatter of armored knights echoed against the cobblestones. Yet, within the walls of House Valemor, an illusion of perfection persisted. Every corridor, every chamber, every ornate statue whispered of order, wealth, and control.
A boy of sixteen knelt in one such chamber, his back straight, hands folded neatly before him. His black hair, cropped short, framed a face of unnerving composure, hiding the fire that burned within. Emerald eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked briefly to the steward who stood before him, cold and unyielding.
"Seventeen minutes late," the steward's voice was flat, almost surgical in its precision. "Do you understand why punctuality is a virtue for those of noble blood?"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered evenly, hiding the churn of anger within him. Years of practice had taught him that outward defiance invited pain and House Valemor did not forgive weaknesses.
He had not been born into this world. The boy's birth parents, minor nobles whose line was extinguished by plague, left him orphaned at the age of five. Wandering the streets of the capital, ragged and starving, he was discovered by scouts from House Valemor. They saw something in him an untrained spark of magic, raw and wild. Where others saw only a homeless child, the Valemor nobles saw a tool, a weapon, a pawn to exploit.
He was adopted formally, given a name, clothing, and a roof over his head. Yet none of this softened the harsh truth: he was property, not a son. His adoptive guardians were cold, calculating, and merciless. Every lesson, every exercise, every punishment was designed to bend him to their will. While other children learned music, poetry, or the etiquette of the court, he learned obedience, control, and arcane combat. Every emotion was a potential flaw every misstep punished.
He remembered his first day with Master Kael, the sorcerer assigned to train him in magic and obedience. The chamber smelled of ink, parchment, and the faint metallic tang of blood an undertone from previous lessons. Kael circled him like a predator sizing up prey.
"You have power, boy," Kael said, voice low and dangerous. "But raw power is useless if you cannot control it. We will break you, and then we will forge you into something greater."
The boy had nodded, swallowing back tears. That had been the first lesson: obedience above all else, or suffering would follow.
Years passed in a blur of pain and discipline. Bruises, insults, and relentless training became as familiar as breathing. Each mission he was sent on, each humiliation endured, only fueled a fire inside him a burning need for revenge, though he buried it deep.
I will not remain their pawn forever. One day… one day, they will regret ever touching me.
By sixteen, he had perfected the art of concealment. Outwardly obedient, quiet, and unassuming; inwardly, calculating, observant, and simmering with a dangerous patience. Every noble slight, every teacher's cruelty, every servant's glance had been filed away in his mind. He had learned to mask his true abilities, waiting for the moment when he could strike.
It was during one of these long, silent observations that he first noticed Akeno.
Tall, elegant, with midnight hair cascading down her back and eyes that glimmered with intelligence, she moved through the halls with a grace he had never seen in the nobles. She treated him not as a tool, not as a weapon, but as a person. That flicker of kindness stirred something unfamiliar curiosity, desire, a spark of trust but he reminded himself quickly: trust was weakness, and weakness was punished.
The day had begun as all others did: with the harsh clang of training, the flare of magic spells, and endless exercises meant to break him. He endured hours of summoning spectral blades, conjuring fire and ice, and bending his will to Kael's demands. His body ached, his mind strained, but his determination only deepened.
"Faster," Kael barked, circling him with that same predator's smirk. "If you cannot control your power, you are nothing. And nothing is worthless."
The boy's hands trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from anticipation. Every bruise, every insult, every cruel command had taught him patience. And patience was a weapon.
When Kael finally dismissed him, he barely noticed the sun dipping behind the horizon. The streets outside were a blur of lantern light and distant voices. The boy's mind, however, was focused on the coming mission a simple escort of rare magical ores through the treacherous Blackthorn Pass.
Caravans, Kael said, were a test of skill. Failure would mean death. Success would mean… survival. But the boy knew differently. Every mission was a lesson in patience, in understanding weaknesses, in observing the power dynamics around him. And tonight, the forest would teach him more than any tutor ever could.
The forest loomed ahead, a living wall of shadow and whispered danger. Goblins moved like shadows among the undergrowth, wyverns circled high above, and some older, darker presence stirred in the wind. The boy's senses were sharp. Every rustle of leaves, every glimmer of magic, every faint whisper of danger was recorded in his mind.
He had faced worse, and he would survive again.
Hours passed as the caravan moved deeper into the forest. The boy's mind raced, not with fear, but with calculation. Each step, each encounter, each threat was a lesson in power. The goblins that ambushed them were clever, but predictable. A single command from him, a whisper of magic, and their ranks crumbled.
Yet even as he fought and protected the caravan, Kael's voice echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his place: weakness is punishment; failure is death.
The boy smiled inwardly. Then I will ensure I am never weak again.
Night fell fully, and the forest became a labyrinth of shadow and danger. The caravan slowed, guards weary and tense. Somewhere in the darkness, a growl, low and guttural, warned of a predator larger than any goblin or wyvern.
He stepped forward, alone, sensing the creature before it emerged. Magic pulsed in his veins, sharp and potent, yet restrained by the years of forced obedience. One misstep, and it could all end his life, his chance at freedom, his revenge.
And then the creature struck. A monstrous, serpentine dragon, scales glinting like molten metal in the moonlight, descended from the treetops. Chaos erupted. Guards screamed, wagons overturned, and the boy's heart raced not with fear, but with the thrill of battle.
He fought, spell after spell, blade after blade. The forest became a blur of fire, shadow, and motion. And then, as the dragon lunged, teeth gleaming, Kael's orders pierced his mind:
"Survive… or die as you deserve!"
A flash of pain, white and burning, shot through his chest. The world went black.
When he awoke, he was not in the forest, not in the chaos of battle but in the nursery of House Valemor. His body was whole, yet younger. His memories, every moment of suffering, every humiliation, every betrayal, were intact.
And a new presence shimmered in the air before him:
"Seraphic lust System Activated. Experience and strength will grow through intimate acts with others. Choose wisely. Revenge awaits."
The boy smiled, a cold, dangerous curl of his lips. This was more than a second chance. This was destiny. Those who had tormented him, humiliated him, used him… they would all pay. And the world would bleed.
Tonight, he was sixteen again. But tomorrow… tomorrow, he would begin the reckoning of the broken noble.