The room was buried so deep underground that even earthquakes became rumors by the time they reached it.
No windows.
No clocks.
No flags.
Only light—cold, artificial, eternal.
A circular table floated at the center of the chamber, its surface layered with shifting holograms. Red lines crawled across continents. Blue markers blinked and vanished. Entire nations pulsed like diseased organs, waiting for a single command to fail.
Lucien stood at the center.
Not a king.
Not a president.
Not a general.
Yet the world breathed only because he allowed it to.
GLOBAL WAR MAP — ACTIVE CONFLICTS: 37
ECONOMIC COLLAPSE THRESHOLD — 92%
NUCLEAR PROTOCOLS — ARMED
A soft chime echoed.
Another call.
Lucien lifted the receiver without looking.
"—We can still negotiate," a trembling voice said. "If you release the reserves, the alliance might—"
Lucien cut him off calmly.
"The alliance collapsed six hours ago."
Silence.
Then panic. Breathing. Papers shuffling.
"How… how do you know?"
Lucien reached forward and tapped a single node on the hologram.
A country dimmed.
Not exploded.
Not invaded.
Just… ceased to matter.
Currency dead.
Supply chains cut.
Satellites blind.
A modern empire ended with the softness of a candle being blown out.
"You're late," Lucien said gently. "And irrelevant."
He ended the call.
Another chime followed instantly.
Then another.
Then three at once.
Phones rang like dying birds.
Lucien didn't rush.
He adjusted the cuffs of his black shirt, movements unhurried, almost elegant. His hair—already streaked with premature silver—fell loosely over eyes that had long forgotten what fear felt like.
One screen flared red.
STATUS UPDATE: MULTIPLE GOVERNMENTS HAVE IDENTIFIED YOU AS A THREAT
Lucien smiled faintly.
"So," he murmured, "they finally understood."
He had never been a hero.
Heroes stood on battlefields, soaked in blood, screaming about justice.
Lucien sat in silence and decided who would have battlefields.
Heroes saved cities.
Lucien decided which cities were worth saving.
For decades, he had remained a ghost—an idea whispered in intelligence circles, a shadow blamed for impossible coincidences.
Wars that ended too cleanly.
Revolutions that crowned the right tyrants.
Economic crashes that spared only specific bloodlines.
Balance.
That was the word they used.
The world needed balance, they said.
And Lucien broke it.
Not with chaos.
With control.
He was too efficient.
Too precise.
Too quiet.
The world could tolerate villains.
It could worship heroes.
But a controller?
No.
A controller exposed the lie that free will ever existed.
SECURITY BREACH — LEVEL OMEGA
AUTHORIZED TERMINATION APPROVED
Lucien looked up as the lights dimmed slightly.
So… it was time.
He exhaled.
Not in fear.
In relief.
He walked to the far end of the chamber, where a single wall displayed archived footage—moments only he had ever seen.
Children cheering as a war ended overnight.
Cities rebuilt because a dictator "mysteriously" vanished.
A famine prevented because a trade route reopened against all logic.
They would never know his name.
And that was fine.
Heroes are loud, he thought.
Controllers are silent.
A soft click echoed behind him.
Lucien didn't turn.
Footsteps. Professional. Perfectly timed.
An assassin.
No—executioner.
"You don't need to do this," the man said, voice shaking despite training. "If you cooperate—"
Lucien raised a hand.
The man froze.
Lucien turned slowly, eyes calm, almost kind.
"Do you know why you're afraid?"
The man swallowed. "Because you're dangerous."
Lucien shook his head.
"No. Because deep down, you know the world was safer when I was alive."
Silence.
Lucien stepped closer, close enough to see sweat bead at the assassin's temple.
"Tell them," Lucien said softly, "that balance is just control they don't own."
A gun pressed against his chest.
Lucien placed his own hand over it, steadying the barrel.
"And tell yourself this," he whispered.
"You're not killing a villain."
The assassin's finger trembled.
"You're killing the man who kept your gods honest."
Bang.
There was no pain.
Only pressure.
Then… nothing.
As darkness swallowed him, Lucien didn't scream.
He didn't curse.
He smiled.
If I am reborn…
I won't hide.
Darkness stretched.
Not empty.
Waiting.
Then—
Warmth.
A suffocating, crushing warmth.
Pressure around his chest.
Liquid in his lungs.
Lucien tried to breathe—
—and failed.
Pain exploded.
Instinct surged.
His mouth opened.
A cry tore through the void.
"WAAAH—!"
Air flooded in violently.
His lungs burned.
His body convulsed.
Sound returned.
Voices.
Urgent.
Female.
"He's breathing!"
"My lord, the child—"
"Fetch the healer!"
Lucien's mind reeled.
Sound?
Language?
Not English.
Not any tongue he knew.
Yet he understood.
His consciousness snapped inward.
…Reincarnation?
The thought came calmly.
No disbelief.
No panic.
Just analysis.
So this is death's joke.
His body felt wrong.
Small.
Weak.
Fragile.
Each breath was an effort. His limbs flailed without permission.
Disgusting.
His eyes remained closed as he listened.
Silk brushing skin.
Stone floors.
High ceilings.
A noble chamber.
Expensive.
Ancient.
Power lingered in the air—not political.
Magical.
Lucien suppressed his instinctive reaction immediately.
Emotion—unnecessary.
Panic—wasteful.
He quieted his crying by force of will alone, the sound tapering unnaturally fast.
The room stilled.
"…He stopped," a woman murmured.
A pause.
Then—
"…What strange eyes," another voice whispered.
Lucien opened them.
Light assaulted him.
Then shapes.
Then meaning.
Tall figures in ornate clothing.
A woman with cold, sharp features—yet hands that trembled as they held him.
A noble.
Mother, his mind categorized.
A man beside her, posture rigid, aura heavy.
Authority. Count-level.
This body's name echoed faintly in his mind, carried by blood and instinct.
Lucien Arvayne.
Eleven minutes old.
Fascinating.
His gaze sharpened, pupils adjusting unnaturally fast.
Mana—yes, mana—flowed through the room like invisible currents.
A fantasy world.
Astraeon.
Lucien didn't smile.
Didn't laugh.
Didn't cry.
Inside his infant body lived the mind of a man who had ended nations with phone calls.
This world, he thought calmly,
"will be easier."
His tiny fingers curled reflexively.
In that moment—
Something deep within him stirred.
Not memory.
Not power.
But a presence.
Fragmented.
Vast.
Waiting to be claimed.
Lucien closed his eyes.
The game had begun.