The air in the Blackhart mansion was thick, but not with the usual perfume of aristocratic celebration. Instead, it tasted of cold stone and metallic dread. In the master suite, the flicking candlelight cast long, jagged shadows against the walls, dancing like the very monsters the servants whispered about in the hallways.
"What should we do?" a maid whispered, her voice trembling as she backed away from the silk-lined cradle. "The newborn... he is born with the accursed seed."
"I heard it doesn't just make the host feral," another hissed, clutching her apron until her knuckles turned white. "It taints them. He'll turn into a monstrosity before he can even speak."
"Poor Duchess," a third added, her eyes darting toward the bed where the exhausted mother lay. "To think her son is born with such a curse."
In the center of the room, the head butler looked toward the cradle with a grimace. "But what should we do with the child? Should we... kill him? I've heard such children are usually ended immediately to save the family name."
"Let us ask the Duke first," the Head Maid commanded, her voice cutting through the panic like ice.
All eyes turned to Duke Blackhart. He stood by the window, his silhouette rigid against the moonless night. His expression was a mask of solemnity, unreadable and cold. Beside him, Duchess Maria clutched the newborn Ryan to her chest, her knuckles white. To the room, he was a curse; to her, he was the son she had carried for nine months.
"We will spare him," the Duke said, his voice echoing in the quiet room.
A collective gasp rippled through the servants. "But Master!" the Head Butler protested. "The child is—"
"I said we will spare Ryan," the Duke repeated, his gaze brooking no further argument. "The child is not at fault. We will ensure he never goes feral. We will make sure he causes no harm to others."
"I agree," Maria whispered, her voice cracking as tears tracked through the dust and sweat on her face. "Cursed or not, he is my beloved child. I will not allow him to be killed for what lies inside him."
The Head Maid stepped forward, bowing her head. "Then what are your orders, My Lord?"
"We will keep him away from the public," the Duke declared. "I will order the immediate construction of a manor in the forest of our duchy. He will live there, secluded, with a hand-picked staff to look after him."
The servants bowed, their faces tight with a reluctant, fearful obedience. None of them noticed the way the infant's eyes—unusually sharp for a newborn—scanned the room with a terrifying clarity.
******
What the hell is going on?
Inside the tiny, fragile body, Ryan's mind was screaming. I remember clearly... the truck. I was walking home from school, and then... white light. Did the driver have a stroke, or was he just drunk?
He tried to sigh, but it came out as a soft, rhythmic gurgle. I've transmigrated. Just like those stories. But 'Dark Seed'? 'Istahar Online'? His heart—or rather, the strange sphere of energy pulsing next to it—thumped. This sounds exactly like the MMORPG I used to dominate. Am I in the game world? I need to investigate.
******
Years passed in the emerald silence of the forest. The manor was built—a beautiful prison of stone and ivy. The servants sent there arrived with shaking hands and whispered prayers, expecting to serve a beast.
Instead, they found a prodigy.
By the age of five, Ryan was the picture of noble perfection. He was well-mannered, quiet, and possessed a hunger for knowledge that saw him devour every book in the manor library. He treated the staff not as wardens, but as family. Most surprisingly, he developed a fascination with the forge.
Blacksmithing was a revered labor in this world of swords and magic, and before the servants knew it, they were no longer watching a monster—they were serving a genius.
"I should have expected it of the Young Master," a maid remarked one afternoon as she watched Ryan, now eight years old, move with practiced grace in the training yard. "He is a true prodigy."
"Normally, even with herbal medicines, those with the seed are unstable," another added, shaking her head in wonder. "But Young Master Ryan... he's fine."
The butler nodded, a rare smile touching his lips. "That is because he is good-natured, unlike the noble brats in the capital. He never neglects his combat training or his studies. And his blades... they are being auctioned for a fortune."
"He can turn a regular dagger into a masterpiece just by adding the right dose of silver," a maid whispered. "The 'Blackhart Series.' His personal treasury must be overflowing."
The butler's expression suddenly fell into shadow. "He is a genius... but he is still cursed. Why is fate so cruel?"
"Let's just make sure," the maid said, her voice full of newfound resolve, "that our Young Master lives a proper life."
"With pleasure," the staff answered in unison.
Inside the library, Ryan ignored the chatter outside and turned a page of a ancient lore book. As I suspected, he thought. The people of this 'Age of Legends' don't understand the Seed at all.
He looked down at his small, calloused hands. It's not a curse. It's just an Infernal Mana Core. It's unstable because it's high-octane fuel, but it can be controlled. I'm sane because I'm not fighting the power—I'm assimilating it.
He glanced at the date on the scroll: 1235.
The Great Demon War is twenty years away. I'll be twenty-eight when the world ends. I have two decades to become strong enough to survive—and this time, I'm not playing for a high score. I'm playing for my life.