The world didn't begin with light. It began with pressure. Even before opening his eyes, Seraphin Vael felt the weight of the air compressing his newly formed lungs. A distant, muffled sound pierced the darkness. Voices. Hurried movements. The accelerated rhythm of a heart that wasn't his. And then— Pain. A violent impulse pushed him out of nothingness. The first contact with the world was cold. The second was noise. The third was understanding. He didn't cry immediately. Because he already knew where he was. Douluo Dalu. The thought didn't come as a surprise. It came as confirmation. The memories of his previous life were intact, organized, like perfectly aligned books on an invisible shelf. He remembered Earth. He remembered the obsessive reading. He remembered the plot, the wars, the betrayals, the ascensions. He remembered Tang San. He knew how that story should unfold. He knew where it began. He knew where it ended. But that wasn't the hero's starting point. That was his. The air finally entered his lungs and he decided to cry. He decided.
The sound echoed through the room, loud enough to meet expectations, delicate enough to seem natural. He tested the first gear of the Abyss Clock. Probability adjusted: intensity of crying within the healthy range. No anomalies detectable. Good. Hands enveloped him. Soft fabrics. A faint scent of medicinal herbs. Someone murmured words of relief. "It's a boy." Firm footsteps approached. The presence shifted. The atmosphere seemed to reorganize itself around that approach. Even with his eyes closed, Seraphin perceived it. Control. Coldness. Authority without the need to raise his voice. His father. He still didn't know the face. But he recognized the type. The man's breathing didn't waver. His heart didn't race. There was no exaggerated joy or apparent anxiety. Only analysis. Evaluation. Interesting. Seraphin continued crying for another two seconds and then subsided, as if the natural exhaustion of a newborn had overcome him. Minimal probability adjustment. Enough to seem organic. He was lifted. For the first time, he opened his eyes. Diffuse light. Long shadows. A ceiling adorned with discreet symbols—runes of spiritual restraint. Then he saw the man. Black hair pulled back. Gray eyes, motionless like blades submerged in calm water. No broad smile. Just an almost imperceptible curve in his lips. He wasn't a tyrant. He was worse. He was someone who only smiled when the right piece moved. "Seraphin Vael," the man said, in a low tone, as if testing the weight of the name in the air. So this was Clan Vael. Powerful, but invisible. Influential, but not dominant. A player who preferred the chessboard to the battlefield. Perfect.
Seraphin let his eyes slowly close, as if the effort were too great for such a small body. But inside— The Clock turned. He didn't see it as a physical object. There were no golden hands or ancient metal. It was more like a mental structure, a silent system of calculations that rearranged possible scenarios in overlapping layers. He tested it again. Minimal experiment. Probability of the maid on the left dropping the bowl of water: 3%. He raised it to 9%. Nothing absurd. Just a slight deviation. A second later, the sound of the porcelain echoed on the floor. Silence. Hasty apologies. The father didn't react with irritation. He only glanced briefly at the wet floor. Seraphin recorded it. Spiritual cost: insignificant. Safe margin of alteration: wide, as long as it's small. The world didn't resist. Yet. Okay. He wasn't a god. He couldn't rewrite massive events without cost. But micro-deviations? Small inclinations? That was possible. And nobody noticed. He took a deep breath—or the equivalent of that within a newborn's body—and organized his priorities. First: survive. Second: observe the clan. Third: grow strong enough to interfere when the main storyline began to move. Tang San was still just a distant child elsewhere on the continent. Time was abundant. But destiny was not static.
He knew that gigantic events would occur in the future. He knew the world seemed to follow a script. But now that he was inside it… small variations were already happening. The bowl hadn't fallen into the original book. He smiled inwardly. First ripple created. Too small to alter the larger course. But enough to prove something essential: The world wasn't fixed. It was malleable. And malleability meant opportunity. Days passed like blurs of sound and sensation. He slept when necessary, but his mind rarely rested. He observed voices. Rhythms. Frequency of footsteps. Hierarchies implicit in forms of address. The Vael Clan wasn't noisy. It was organized. Servants moved with discipline. Guards maintained a constant, yet discreet presence. There were spiritual seals in the corridors, almost invisible, indicating an advanced internal defense system. It wasn't an ordinary fortress. It was a strategic center. He began testing another variable. The Throne of Emptiness. Unlike the Clock, it didn't function as a calculation. It was presence. Latent authority. But it was still too early for full manifestation. So he did something simple. In his third week of life, when a maid held him, he fixed his gaze on her for a few seconds longer than normal for a baby. Expressionless. Soundless.
Just observation. She swallowed hard. She adjusted her posture. She felt something she couldn't explain. Slight fear. Instinctive respect. A mark created. Almost imperceptible. But the Throne responded. Not with brute power. With solidity. As if an invisible structure had gained its first piece. He didn't need thousands to recognize him. It was enough to begin. His father visited him daily. Not with exaggerated affection. With interest. He sat near the crib. He observed. He spoke little. But he spoke. About foreign policy. About fragile alliances. About the Empire's movements. As if testing if the baby would react to something. Seraphin reacted like an ordinary child. Random movements. Curious eyes. Calm breathing. Inside, however, he analyzed every word. His father was intelligent. Extremely so. He wouldn't underestimate his own heir. So Seraphin decided something crucial: Never demonstrate absurd precocity. Prodigy, yes. Monster, no.
When he turned six months old, he began to coordinate movements with slightly above-average efficiency. Nothing shocking. Just enough to generate positive comments. "He's too calm." "Observant." "Intelligent." Perfect. A reputation was beginning to form. And reputation fueled the Throne. One night, while the main hall remained silent, Seraphin sensed something different. A resistance. Not external. Internal. He tried to alter a small probability again—the chance of a candle going out in a draft. But before the adjustment was complete, there was friction. As if the very fabric of the world offered slight opposition. He stopped immediately. Interesting. The system wasn't limitless. There was an invisible threshold. Perhaps the world tolerated small, but accumulated, deviations? Or perhaps certain moments were more rigid than others? He didn't know yet. But he would find out. With patience. Without haste. Because the real game hadn't even begun yet. Tang San hadn't officially awakened his martial spirit. The great gears were still asleep. And Seraphin Vael, heir to the Vael Clan, slept in a luxurious cradle while calculating the future of an entire continent. He didn't wish to destroy the hero. He wished to perfect him. A stronger hero would create greater wars. Greater wars would create chaos. Chaos would create opportunities. And at the center of that chaos— A throne. Still incomplete. But inevitable. That dawn, before closing his eyes, he ran one last test. Probability of his father visiting him early the next day: 18%. He raised it to 31%. No exaggeration. Just a push. The next morning, firm footsteps echoed earlier than usual. The father entered. He stopped before the crib. He looked directly into his son's eyes. Too long. Too silent. Seraphin held the gaze for only a second… and then looked away, like a child. The man remained motionless for a few more moments. Then he left. Nothing was said. But something had been noticed. Not a clear suspicion. But an impression. And that was enough. Seraphin closed his eyes slowly. The game had begun. And no one, besides him, knew that the odds were already being moved.