As the months passed, Nyx began to piece together fragments of the world he'd been reborn into.
He wanted to learn—about the people, the powers, the structure of this society—but the limitations of an infant's body confined him. His world was his crib, and his days blurred together in boredom and silence. Though his mind was sharp, his body wasn't yet a tool he could wield. He could only watch, listen, and wait.
By the eighth month, however, Nyx began to walk.
It shocked the maids. No child was expected to walk so early, and yet there he was—stumbling, steadying, moving with a determination that didn't match his age. Some of the older servants whispered that even Lord Valen hadn't walked so soon.
But the surprise wore off quickly, replaced by the usual cold stares and dismissive sneers.
As time went on, some of the maids would occasionally take him on strolls around the estate. Those walks became his window into the world beyond his crib, brief escapes from his silent prison.
And what a world it was.
The Vaelcrest estate was like something out of legend—sprawling and elegant, carved from stone and marble with mana-forged artistry. The halls were lined with polished floors so reflective they could be mistaken for mirrors. Magic-infused crystals glowed in the walls, providing soft, ambient light. Pillars stood like sentinels, etched with ancient runes and adorned with the insignia of House Vaelcrest: a crimson phoenix wreathed in flame.
Outside, the gardens stretched in all directions, cultivated with exotic plants from distant lands. Some glowed with pale bioluminescence, others shimmered with arcane essence. There were whispering willows that swayed to unheard melodies and crimson blossoms that reacted to the presence of mana. Birds with flickering wings nested in trees that fed on starlight. It was breathtaking.
There was a vast training ground, large enough to house a skirmish between small armies. It was ringed with weapon racks filled with enchanted arms, glowing with elemental power. There were areas designated for swordplay, others for spell casting, and a separate section where elders meditated in specially crafted cultivation rooms designed to deepen and refine mana cores.
It was a place built for power—for growth, mastery, and dominance.
And yet, none of it belonged to him.
His mother, Lady Seraphina Vaelcrest, had long given up on him. An ethereal beauty with raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes that shimmered with mana, she radiated noble grace and cold expectation. But to Nyx, she was a distant shadow. After countless attempts to sense even a flicker of mana within him, she finally stopped acknowledging his existence altogether.
His father, Lord Kaelus Vaelcrest, was a legend in his own right. With deep crimson hair and a presence that made the air vibrate, he had led armies into victorious conquest and mastered fire magic to such a degree that his enemies called him the Flame Tyrant. Yet he had not spared a word, a glance, or a shred of affection for the child born without magic.
His siblings were prodigies in every sense of the word.
Valen Vaelcrest, the eldest, was six. With Kaelus's intensity and Seraphina's icy poise, he was the golden child. His aura shimmered with untamed fire. Valen's confidence bordered on arrogance, but it was hard to argue with results—his duels left scorch marks on the stone floors and awe in the hearts of onlookers.
Lyra Vaelcrest, only a year younger than Valen, was no less gifted. Her crimson hair was a cascade of wildfire down her back, and her blue eyes held an unnerving calm. She was a master of control, of precision. Her fire magic was refined to such a level already that she could incinerate an apple without damaging the table it rested on. While Valen roared with power, Lyra whispered destruction.
Their talents drew admiration, pride, and reverence. Nyx, on the other hand, received only sneers, pity, and whispered curses.
He only ever saw his siblings in passing—during those rare strolls or glimpses of their training. Their eyes never lingered on him. If they did acknowledge his presence, it was with scorn or derision.
Years rolled by.
By the age of six, Nyx had taken to training alone, hidden deep within the estate's unused storage halls or vacant courtyards. He knew if his efforts were discovered, he'd be mocked—or worse, beaten by his siblings for pretending to be more than he was.
In isolation, he built himself up.
He had no mana, but he had something else: raw, unrefined strength. His body was different. Stronger. Denser. Tougher. His stamina surpassed what any child his age should possess. He could sprint laps around the training yard, lift weights twice his size, and keep moving long after most others would collapse. His legs could leap higher than even some trained soldiers.
He had the body of a warrior—even without magic.
But strength alone wasn't enough.
Valen and Lyra, with their immense mana reserves and refined techniques, always had the upper hand. Fire answered their every command. Shields formed from pure energy. Their spells enhanced their speed, their strength, their senses.
Nyx tried to challenge them—brimming with frustration and driven by desperation. He struck fast and hard. He even landed a blow on Valen.
But fire burned.
And magic overwhelmed.
He lost. Brutally.
Their laughter echoed in his ears long after the bruises faded.
The maids no longer whispered around him—they didn't care if he heard.
"Why do we even have to serve him?" one muttered, her voice dripping with contempt.
"I know, right? It would've been better if he just died at birth," another replied, without a hint of remorse.
Even the guards, though more disciplined, didn't bother hiding their disdain. Their eyes said everything: You don't belong here. You're not one of us.
Nyx hated it.
But what could he do?
He bore the Vaelcrest name, but no one acknowledged it. Not the maids, not the guards, not even his own blood. His life was a footnote—a disappointing anomaly in a family built on power.
So he endured. Quietly. Patiently.
And in the shadows of greatness, he continued his life—unseen, unloved, and unknown.
But inside him, something stirred.
Not mana.
Something deeper.
Something ancient.
Something waiting.