Chapter 2: Seeds of Villainy
(Part I – The World Expands)
"Bloodlines are prisons disguised as crowns. To be born in silk is to be shackled in shadow. Yet for those who refuse to kneel, the chains can be turned into whips."— Fragment of the Blackwood Archives
The first thing Ashern noticed when he was carried out of the nursery that morning was the silence of the Blackwood halls. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of authority—an oppressive stillness that made even the servants' footfalls sound rehearsed, as if they feared disturbing the stones themselves.
The corridors stretched endlessly, gilded candelabras mounted against walls of carved obsidian, tapestries woven with scenes of ancient hunts and wars. Above, the chandeliers glittered with cold fire—crystals that burned without smoke or wick.
To anyone else, this might have been a castle from a storybook. To him, it was a fortress. A citadel of wealth and power.
Vincent. That was his real name—the one he had carried into the grave. Vincent Morello, king of a criminal empire built on blood, narcotics, extortion, and silence. He had lived by the law of knives and numbers. And as he gazed now from the arms of a Blackwood servant, a two-year-old child staring at ancestral glory, he couldn't help but smirk inwardly.
Born again into silk instead of alleyways. Into legacy instead of poverty. Into strength instead of scrambling for scraps.
But power was still power. Whether in the underground or in a noble estate, it demanded the same thing—control.
"Little master Ashern," the maid carrying him whispered, her voice nervous but fond. "Your father wishes to see you."
They passed between two massive iron doors engraved with the Blackwood crest: a serpent devouring its own tail, coiled around a crown. A symbol of eternity and dominion.
Inside lay the grand training hall. The sound of steel rang sharply—clang, clang, clang—as his elder brother's blade collided with that of a seasoned instructor.
Eryndor Blackwood was ten, already broad-shouldered and fierce-eyed, his swings heavy for his age. Sweat beaded his brow, but his strikes were relentless, like waves pounding against rock. Watching him, Ashern saw not a child but the makings of a warrior—one raised in privilege, yet tempered with discipline.
On the far side, his sister Selene practiced curtsies and gestures before a governess. Barely seven, her golden hair was tied neatly, her dress the color of midnight. But her gaze—sharp, analytical—betrayed that her lessons were not mere posture. She was learning how to wield presence itself.
A family of weapons, he thought. Each honed differently.
And then he saw the man who had summoned him.
Lord Kaelith Blackwood, his father.
Tall, broad, draped in black velvet lined with crimson thread, his very stillness commanded the hall. His eyes—steel gray, cold yet not cruel—watched everything. When those eyes turned to him, Ashern felt something he had never known in his first life: recognition without suspicion. Authority without threat.
So this is what a true patriarch looks like, Vincent thought. Not some paranoid don clutching at guns and lies. Not a king of rats. This is sovereignty born into blood.
Kaelith beckoned the maid forward, and Ashern was set down before him. He had to crane his tiny neck to meet his father's gaze.
"Ashern," Kaelith's voice was deep, measured, carrying the weight of tradition. "My youngest."
A calloused hand rested briefly on his head. A simple gesture, but it struck Ashern harder than bullets ever had. Vincent Morello had never felt such a touch—never fatherly pride, never familial warmth.
He masked the flicker of longing with a toddler's blank expression.
"Your siblings train because they must," Kaelith said, his voice lowering. "And one day, so shall you. Ours is not a house that survives by chance, Ashern. Remember this: Blackwood blood was forged in conquest. To inherit it is to inherit both burden and blade."
The words carved themselves into him. Burden and blade. Yes—he knew those well.
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Kaelith's lips curved into the faintest smile. "But today, you are only a child. Watch. Learn."
The hall resumed its rhythm—swords clashing, tutors instructing. But Vincent's mind was elsewhere.
A flash of smoke.A neon skyline flickering in the rain.The sound of gunfire muffled by walls of concrete.
Vincent remembered standing atop a skyscraper's rooftop, staring down at his city. His city. Every warehouse, every alley, every crooked cop, every trembling politician—they had all belonged to him. And yet, in the end, it hadn't saved him.
A betrayal. A knife between his ribs, delivered by one he had raised. His "family."
His last sight in that life had been the red haze of betrayal, the laughter of jackals tearing apart their king.
Now, here he was—in silk robes, with blood worth more than gold. The contrast burned him like acid.
But perhaps this was fate's correction. Perhaps this was the second chance to build an empire not of rats, but of wolves.
[ System Notice: Integration Progress 32% ][ Tutorial Protocol: Pending Activation ]
The cold words appeared before his eyes like phantoms. No one else seemed to see them. His pulse quickened, though his toddler body betrayed nothing.
So it was still with him. The strange voice, the System that had greeted him when he awoke in this world. The thing that called him Villain.
He had no control yet, but it lurked. Waiting.
Good, he thought. Let it wait. I know the value of patience. empires are not built in a day—they are sown in silence, watered in blood, harvested in time.
"Ashern."
His sister's voice pulled him back. Selene stood before him, her dress neat, her expression composed. She tilted her head, studying him with the curiosity of a child who did not yet know he was different.
"You watch too seriously," she said softly. "Are you trying to be like Father already?"
Her governess chuckled, but Selene did not. She was earnest.
Ashern blinked. Then, instinctively—manipulatively—he gave her the faintest of smiles. One calculated to melt suspicion, to appear harmless.
Selene's lips curved back into a smile of her own. She reached down, brushing dust from his sleeve.
To her, it was sisterly affection.To him, it was proof. Even here, influence could be planted with the smallest gestures.
Seeds of power, Vincent thought. Planted in silk, watered with innocence. And when they bloom, no one will see the thorns until it's too late.
The hall's doors boomed shut behind them as Kaelith dismissed the day's lessons. Ashern was carried back through the obsidian corridors, but his mind lingered on every detail—the weight of steel in Eryndor's hands, the poise in Selene's movements, the iron calm of Kaelith's gaze.
This family was not one to be wasted. They were strength wrapped in care, mystery wrapped in warmth.
Vincent had never known such things. In his first life, "family" had been a word men used to chain loyalty and justify betrayal. Here, it was… different.
He told himself he didn't care. He told himself he would only use it.But a tiny crack had formed, and though he did not yet admit it, something long-starved within him stirred.
And in the silence of his soul, the System whispered:
[ System Notice: Tutorial Quest Unlocked ][ Quest: Plant the Seeds of Villainy ]Condition: Bend one sibling's actions subtly to your will.Reward: Villainy +10 | Passive Skill – Whisper of Authority ]
A smile ghosted across the lips of the two-year-old boy.
The world was beginning to expand.
(Part II – The System's Demands)
"A child who learns to smile before he speaks is a dangerous child indeed. He has already learned that silence can be sharper than words."— Whispers among the servants of House Blackwood
The days that followed blurred into routine—or at least, that's what his caretakers believed. To a toddler's eyes, the world should have been a kaleidoscope of colors and distractions. But Ashern's gaze was steady, deliberate. He watched everything, recorded everything.
And the System watched him.
[ System Notice: Quest Active ][ Quest: Plant the Seeds of Villainy ]Condition: Bend one sibling's actions subtly to your will.Progress: 0%
It wasn't the command itself that amused him—it was how perfectly it aligned with his instincts. Influence was the foundation of empire, whether among street thugs or noble houses. The difference was only in the trappings.
He began with Selene.
The governess often brought her books of etiquette and fables to the nursery, seating Selene beside him so she could practice reading aloud. Selene would turn the pages carefully, tracing the letters with her finger, her voice soft but clear.
One morning, when the governess left briefly to fetch ink, Selene glanced at Ashern.
"You don't understand these yet, do you?" she asked, holding the book a little higher, her expression proud but not cruel.
Ashern tilted his head. He couldn't speak fluently yet—at least not in a way that wouldn't rouse suspicion. But he could act.
He reached out with a tiny hand and tapped a picture on the page—a crown resting on a velvet pillow. His eyes lingered on it, deliberate, before flicking back to hers.
Selene blinked. "The crown? You like that?"
He nodded, once. Then he leaned forward, resting his head against her arm with calculated innocence.
To her, it was endearing. To him, it was persuasion. The seed was planted: she would read more to him, seek his approval, treat him not as a baby but as someone worth impressing.
The next day, she did exactly that—returning with a larger book, sitting closer, her voice more animated as she read stories of queens and courts.
[ System Notice: Quest Progress 25% ]
He almost laughed. Almost.
With Eryndor, the approach required more subtlety. The boy was older, less susceptible to cuteness, and far more consumed by his training.
Eryndor's sword was never far from his hand. He spoke little, trained constantly, and seemed determined to embody the Blackwood ideal of strength. To him, Ashern was just the youngest—a child to be protected, not heeded.
But Vincent had once commanded men ten times more dangerous. He knew how to worm his way into warriors' pride.
One afternoon, while Eryndor polished his blade by the courtyard, Ashern toddled closer, pretending to stumble, his eyes wide with childish curiosity. He reached out—not for the blade, but for the whetstone.
Eryndor frowned. "That's not a toy, Ashern."
Ashern made no sound, but he mimicked the sharpening motion, his tiny fingers moving back and forth across an invisible edge. Then he looked up, as if asking permission.
Eryndor hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he handed him a scrap of wood. "Here. Practice with this instead."
Ashern gripped it, dragging the whetstone clumsily, imitating exactly what he'd seen. He exaggerated his focus, furrowing his tiny brows, feigning determination.
The boy laughed—a short, surprised sound. "You're watching me too much."
And from then on, Eryndor began letting Ashern sit nearby during his training, occasionally handing him sticks or scraps to keep him occupied.
[ System Notice: Quest Progress 75% ]
Ashern hid his smirk behind the mask of a toddler's blank stare.
Flashback.Vincent Kaine at twenty.
He sat in a smoke-filled lounge, a glass of bourbon untouched beside him. Around the table, men twice his age leaned in, listening as he outlined a plan to take over the docks. His words were calm, precise, backed not by threats but by inevitability.
"You think the unions will bend?" one asked.
Vincent leaned back, eyes hooded. "They already have. I just paid their debts. What I own, they can't buy back."
The men exchanged looks. By the time the night was over, half of them were allies, the rest soon to be corpses.
Influence. Always influence. It was the sharpest blade, the strongest shield.
And now, here he was, barely two years old, planting influence in his siblings' hearts with smiles and gestures instead of contracts and knives. The tools were different. The principle was eternal.
That evening, as the family gathered for supper, Ashern sat in a high chair beside Selene, with Eryndor opposite. Their father at the head, their mother—Lady Lysandra Blackwood—at his side.
Lysandra's presence was softer than Kaelith's, but no less commanding. Where Kaelith was steel, Lysandra was silk; where Kaelith's eyes judged, hers embraced. She fussed over Ashern, cutting his food into tiny pieces, adjusting his napkin, brushing a curl of hair from his forehead.
He endured it with calculated patience, though some part of him—a part he had buried long ago—stirred faintly at her touch.
Selene leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially: "I read him the story of the sun queen today. He liked it."
Kaelith raised an eyebrow. "Did he?"
Eryndor chuckled. "He was copying my sharpening motions, too. He wants to train already."
Lysandra smiled, looking down at him. "Is that true, my little Ashern?"
He met her gaze, and for a heartbeat, Vincent's walls trembled. There was no suspicion in her eyes. No calculation. Just warmth.
He forced a smile. A child's smile.
The table laughed softly, unaware that beneath that smile was a mind already sharper than any blade.
[ System Notice: Quest Complete ][ Reward Granted: Villainy +10 ][ Passive Skill Acquired – Whisper of Authority ]Effect: Your words carry subtle weight. Targets are more likely to obey or trust your suggestions, even when disguised as innocence.
The notification glowed faintly in his vision. Ashern's fingers curled around his spoon, the weight of the new power settling over him.
Whisper of Authority. Exactly what he needed.
He tasted the first sip of true control in this life. And it was sweeter than any bourbon, sharper than any blade.
But the System was not finished.
[ System Notice: New Quest Unlocked ][ Quest: Test the Whisper ]Condition: Issue a command to a family member that they will follow without realizing your intent.Reward: Villainy +15 | Skill Upgrade Potential ]
Ashern's gaze slid across the table—to Selene's eager smile, to Eryndor's smirk, to Lysandra's gentle hands, to Kaelith's watchful eyes.
So many pieces on the board.So many ways to move them.
And all he needed was one whispered suggestion.
The seeds had been planted. Now, they would grow.