Dave wept—silently, bitterly—for a family he could no longer touch. He missed his mother's warm embrace, the way her arms made the world disappear. He missed his sister's laugh, the one thing that could pierce through even the darkest days. But those moments were now stars—distant, cold, untouchable.
His breath caught as he looked around the posh, foreign room he had awakened in. Everything was ornate, velvet and gold, suffocating in its luxury. He walked forward slowly, drawn toward the tall mirror gilded in silver and moonlight. Each step echoed, not in sound, but in his soul—as if walking further away from Dave, and closer to someone else.
And then he saw it.
A face stared back at him—noble, flawless, almost inhuman. It wasn't just beautiful. It was celestial. Long midnight hair spilled like ink across his shoulders, and golden-stitched robes clung to a lean, elegant frame. Even the brown eyes—his brown eyes—seemed unfamiliar now. Where Dave's once held boyish fire, these shimmered with regal sorrow. He was tall, broad-shouldered yet lithe, carved like a sculpture from an age of forgotten gods.
It was as if the divine had spent centuries designing this face.
He reached toward the mirror but stopped short. Is this really me? Or am I just wearing the skin of someone too perfect to exist?
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a letter tucked beneath the edge of the bedframe. He moved to it, the silk of his robes whispering against polished marble, and picked it up with shaking hands. The envelope was sealed in red wax. The name written in perfect penmanship: Aurelien Thaldrune.
He read the name aloud. It rang through the room like a bell tolling for the dead.
With trembling fingers, he opened it.
Recipient: Father,
Forgive me for the shame this letter brings. I no longer possess the strength to be the beacon you hoped for. I know I was named Aurelien—for light, for hope. I was meant to be the one to return our kingdom to its former glory, to lead us back to the age of the Atlantians.
But I am a cracked vessel, Father. You expected me to break through the 8th Level Wall—to become the Sovereign of Twilight, the destined king. And yet I am stuck. Trapped. My potential ends at the 4th level. I am a tri-elemental mage, yes—fire, water, wind—the first in recorded history. But what use is potential that goes nowhere?
The people don't see Aurelien. They see a symbol. A lie.
So I've made my choice. I've taken a slow-acting poison, one I acquired in secret after I graduated from the Academy. I cannot continue this charade. But please—do not punish Gideon, my butler. He is loyal and kind. Let him live in peace, free from the burden of guarding a failure.
Thank you, Father. And… I'm sorry.
The words bled into Dave's heart like poison of their own. His hands fell limp. Images surged in his mind—memories that weren't his. A boy, hailed as a prodigy. Applauded, paraded, pressured. The expectations of an entire kingdom placed upon fragile shoulders. The Kingdom of Thaldrune had once ruled all of Atlantis, its name etched into time. But it had fallen into ruin, and they believed Aurelien would resurrect its legacy.
He saw it all: the elemental affinities, the nine levels of power, the dream of reaching the eighth—the level of legends. Mages and swordsmen alike shaped their magic from the heart, but Aurelien's magic… it was chained. He was supposed to be a Formula One driver of this magical world. Instead, he was a stalled engine on a forgotten road.
That was why he died.
The pressure. The weight. The unrelenting glare of a thousand hopeful eyes.
Dave crumpled to the floor, clutching the letter. Why me? Why this body? Fate had stolen everything from him—his family, his future, his very name—and now handed him the shattered shell of another boy who had lost everything too.
He didn't know when sleep took him. But when it did, it brought nightmares—twisting, cruel things. Screams. Flames. Empty rooms. Blood. And at the end of it all, a quiet line that echoed in his ears:
"The sun rose… but it didn't rise for him."
A knock stirred him. Three polite raps.
Gideon, the butler. The same one Aurelien had tried to protect with his final words.
Dave sat up, groggy, grief written in every line of his face. The man entered with grace and calm, bowing with quiet reverence before slipping into the bathroom. He prepared the bath quickly, steam curling like misty spirits into the air.
Dave—no, Aurelien now—dragged himself into the warmth.
It felt like forgiveness. Like a second chance. But it washed away only a feather's weight of his pain.
When he stepped from the bath, he studied his body again. Though lean, it was fit—disciplined, refined. Muscles shaped by training not common to mages. He dried his midnight hair and walked to the royal hanger. Robes of silk, stitched with stardust and adorned with gems, hung like relics of a forgotten empire.
He hesitated. Am I worthy? Then, slowly, he dressed.
And the mirror did not lie: he looked breathtaking. Even beneath the grief, beneath the confusion, the boy in the reflection held an unnatural majesty.
Gideon returned with breakfast—a feast fit for a king: steaming wild boar sausages, black rye bread with golden crusts, soft cheese wrapped in fig leaves, sun-dried tomatoes in spiced oil, honeyed pears, and a chalice of dewberry wine.
Dave requested to dine alone. Gideon bowed and exited.
Every bite reminded him of what he had lost. But hunger won over sorrow—for now.
Gideon returned with news. Quietly, with lowered eyes, he spoke:
"His Majesty, the King… requests your presence."
The words struck like a hammer. The king. His father. A level seven powerhouse, a legendary knight. What if he sees through me? What if he knows I am not his son?
Dave stared at the door long after Gideon left. His hands clenched. His chest rose and fell.
There would be time for fear later. Now, he had to face the man who might break him with a single glance.
The elephant in the room was not that he had become Aurelien.
It was that the world still believed he was.
The great doors of the throne room creaked open, revealing a hall drenched in silence and opulence. Massive obsidian pillars lined the walkway, each etched with golden veins that pulsed faintly with mana. Tall stained glass windows filtered daylight into spectral rays, casting dancing fragments of red, blue, and violet across the polished marble floor.
And at the end of that hall, seated upon a throne of moonstone and blacksteel, was King Caelum Thaldrune The aegis of the kingdom—the man whose name alone could end rebellions.
He sat with the stillness of a mountain, his body clad in ceremonial armor that shimmered faintly with runes of ancient lineage. His crown wasn't flamboyant—it was a circlet of dragonbone and crystal, humming with dormant power. His eyes, sharper than any blade, glimmered like twin stars in a void. His presence was suffocating, not through noise but through sheer gravity.
Dave—no, Aurelien—stepped forward. Every footfall echoed like a challenge against the silence. He could feel it, the weight of the king's gaze. He wasn't merely looking at his son; he was measuring the soul that inhabited that frame.
Caelum spoke, and his voice was a low, calm tremor that resonated deep in the ribs.
"You wear the robes well… yet your eyes are no longer mine."
Aurelien froze.
"But I know burden when I see it. I carried it long before you were born." He stood. The ground seemed to pulse beneath his boots as if the throne itself breathed in his shadow. "You fear you've failed this kingdom. You believe your flame is weak."
The king descended from the throne, each step thunderous despite his stillness. When he reached Aurelien, he towered over him like the living embodiment of war and legacy.
"Hope… cannot afford to die, Aurelien. And so I give you two paths."
He raised a gauntleted hand, the sharp steel glinting. "The first… is ancient, forbidden. You steal life. Not from men, but from beasts. You take their essence and force it into your core. It may raise you beyond your limits—but it comes with a price. Corruption. Madness. Each beast you consume makes you less man and more monster."
Aurelien clenched his fists.
"The second," Caelum continued, "is older than any spellbook. You walk into death itself. The Forest of the Dead lies east of our borders. The beasts there breathe mana and feast on warriors. Their power reaches the eighth level… and beyond. You may die. Or you may rise. But only in the jaws of death is greatness born."
The king's tone sharpened. "No more comfort. No more coddling. You say you are the beacon of hope—then burn like one."
Aurelien felt his heart pounding. Dave inside him screamed. This was madness. A choice between slow corruption or sudden death. But then again… hadn't he already died once?
He looked up, his voice trembling but firm.
"What if I fail?"
King Caelum leaned in, his breath cold as the void.
"Then I will mourn you as a father… and curse you as a king."
The throne room fell silent again.
And in that silence, Aurelien knew—his true trial had only just begun.