While the "extra" son of the retired General spent his days buried in anatomy books, the rest of the world moved with the frantic, beautiful energy of a golden age unaware of its expiration date. In the capital of Aethelgard, power didn't just talk; it shimmered in the air, a physical pressure exerted by those born with the "Right of Rank."
The Imperial Spire: The Homunculus's First Breath
Deep beneath the Cathedral of Eternal Light, in a chamber that smelled of ozone and incense, the most expensive secret in the Empire floated in a cylinder of bioluminescent fluid.
"Heart rate stable. Hatred levels... optimal."
A High Priest in white robes, his face hidden behind a mask of silver, tapped a glass tablet. On the screen, a child's brain activity flashed in jagged, angry red spikes. This was Lucian, the boy the world would soon know as the "Baron's Son."
He was beautiful. His features were symmetrical, crafted from the genetic data of a hero who had died five centuries ago. But his blood—the deep, dark ichor circulating through his artificial veins—contained traces of the very thing he was destined to destroy.
"Is it necessary to feed him the 'Agony Simulations' so early?" a younger acolyte whispered, looking at the boy's twitching fingers. "He's only six."
The High Priest turned, his S-rank aura flaring just enough to make the acolyte's nose bleed. "The Demon King does not care for age. If this boy does not grow up with a soul forged in the fire of loss, he will be useless. The 'Baron' we've assigned to 'rescue' him from the 'Demon raid' next year is already in place. The trauma must be perfect. Without a broken heart, the SSS-rank ability will never bloom."
Inside the tank, Lucian's eyes snapped open. They were a piercing, unnatural gold. For a second, he looked at the glass, and the High Priest felt a chill. The boy wasn't looking at them. He was looking through them, at a destiny pre-written in blood.
The Duke's Training Grounds: The Golden Pride
Five miles away, under the blistering sun of the Astra Duchy, the clatter of practice swords echoed through the marble courtyard.
"Again!"
Julian van Astra, the boy who would one day be the Hero's rival, wiped sweat from his brow. His golden hair was matted to his forehead. At seven years old, his physical stats were already approaching D-rank—a feat that would take a commoner twenty years of labor.
"You're overextending, Julian," a cool, detached voice rang out.
Sitting under a parasol, sipping chilled nectar, was his sister, Lyra. She was the "Ice Queen" in the making, but currently, she looked like a bored doll. A small frost-crystal drifted around her finger, a manifestation of her A-rank mana control.
"Shut up, Lyra," Julian huffed, leaning on his wooden blade. "I have to be the strongest. Father says the Emperor is looking for a new 'Sword of the Empire.' If I don't reach C-rank by ten, I'm just another noble brat."
Lyra looked toward the distant hills, toward the estate of the retired General Kaelen. "The General's son doesn't even pick up a sword. I saw him last week. He was reading a book about... kidneys."
Julian laughed, a sharp, arrogant sound. "He's a waste of a bloodline. Who cares about an extra like him? When the Dungeons break, his books won't save him. Only strength matters."
Lyra didn't answer. She remembered the way the Saintess had cried when she touched that boy. She remembered how his arm had looked... like it wasn't there. For a moment, her cold heart felt a flicker of something she couldn't name. Not pity. Envy. He looked so... quiet.
The Saintess's Chambers: The Loop of Despair
Evelina, the Saintess of the Church, sat in her private chapel. To the public, she was a holy child, a conduit for the Goddess.
To herself, she was a prisoner of time.
She clutched her rosary so hard her knuckles turned white. This was her third time living through these years. In the first timeline, the General's son had died in a fire. In the second, he had been executed for a crime he didn't commit. Each time, his death had been the catalyst for the world's descent into true darkness.
"Why is he different this time?" she whispered, her eyes red from crying.
In her previous lives, he had been a normal, happy boy. This time, he was cold. His eyes were like two dark mirrors, reflecting a soul that had already seen the end of the world. And that ability... it wasn't supposed to awaken until he was ten.
"I have to change it," she prayed, her Ex-rank ability [Chronos-Tear] humming painfully in her chest. "If I can save him, if I can stop the massacre, maybe the world won't have to be reset. Maybe the Demon King won't come."
But every time she tried to think of a way to save his family, a searing pain shot through her head. The "Fate of the World" was a heavy chain. To save one extra, she would have to defy the Emperor, the Pope, and the very fabric of the novel's logic.
The Shadow Council: The Architects of the Massacre
In a darkened room within the Imperial Palace, four figures sat around a table made of obsidian. These were the leaders of the great houses, the men and women who pulled the strings of the Empire.
"General Kaelen is becoming a problem," a woman's voice silkily spoke. She was the Duchess of the North, Julian's mother. "The commoners still chant his name. Even in retirement, he has more influence than the Crown."
"And the rumor?" the Duke of the South asked.
"Planted," the woman replied. "By the end of the month, the people will believe the General is hoarding 'Demonic Relics' stolen from the last war. The Emperor has already given the verbal decree. Once the evidence is 'found,' his estate is to be razed. No witnesses."
"Even the child?"
"Especially the child. A General's son with a grudge is a seed for rebellion. We pull the weed out by the roots."
They toasted with wine that looked like blood under the dim mana-lamps. They talked of ranks, of land, and of power. They were S-rank and SS-rank individuals, the peak of humanity. They felt invincible.
They had no idea that in the library of that "weed," a four-year-old boy was currently memorizing the exact location of the human carotid artery.
They thought they were the predators. They didn't know that the world had already ended once, and the only person who remembered it was a Saintess who was slowly going mad, and a "ghost" who was learning how to kill them.
The Outer Rim: The First Crack
Far from the politics and the training grounds, at the edge of the Empire's territory, an E-rank scout was patrolling a silent forest.
The air felt heavy. He checked his mana-detector—a futuristic device that glowed blue when stable. Suddenly, the needle spun wildly, then snapped.
The scout looked up. A rift in the air, no bigger than a coin, had appeared. From it, a black, viscous liquid dripped onto the grass. The grass didn't die; it screamed. A high-pitched, ethereal sound that made the scout's ears bleed.
A single claw, grey and gnarled, poked through the rift.
The Demons weren't coming in a year. They were already here, watching, waiting for the humans to finish sharpening the knives they would eventually use on each other.