Andreas's return was greeted with jubilant cheers by the mansion's servants. They swarmed out the gate like bees disturbed from their hive, their eyes brimming with joy at seeing their master return unscathed, without a single serious scratch. However, the cheers quickly faded as their gazes locked onto the unfamiliar figure slumped limply on Andreas's back—a scrawny boy with tousled white hair, pale as a ghost from the city's slums.
"Master, who is he?" asked one of the male servants, his voice laced with skepticism, eyebrows raised high as he narrowed his eyes.
Andreas glanced slowly at Alen's unconscious face, then flashed a broad smile at the group. "This child? I'm adopting him as my son."
The servants froze, staring at each other with mouths agape. They couldn't believe their heroic master, revered across the kingdom, had picked up a street urchin from the gutters.
"B-but, Master! You're a legendary hero," cried another servant, his voice piercing the silence. "Noble children are clamoring to become your heir even from Baron families! Are you sure about... this?"
All eyes turned to Eventa, the head female servant with long, straight black hair cascading like midnight silk. Her skin was flawlessly clear, but her gaze was sharp as a blade, stabbing straight at Andreas. "Even so, Master, are you certain this boy has the real capability to bear your name? This isn't just about kindness—it's about legacy!"
Andreas chuckled lightly, his voice booming with conviction. "Eventa, those Barons are just sweet-talking sycophants! They lack guts or hard work relying solely on their rotten bloodlines. This kid? I guarantee he's ten times more worthy."
A few days later, in a lavish bedroom lit by crystal chandeliers, Alen slowly opened his eyes. Andreas sat casually in an carved wooden chair, sipping hot tea from a porcelain cup. "That's the story, kid. Now, you're my son."
Alen blinked in confusion, his mind reeling. Why would his savior go through the trouble of adopting someone like him? "I... become your son? Why me?"
Andreas set down his cup calmly. "Do you have a home to go back to? A child who just killed several grown men?"
Alen fell silent, his gaze dropping to his slender palms—still haunted by the sticky blood that had faded, but the stain would never truly vanish. He clenched his fists gently. "I don't think so."
"Good. I'll take that as a yes." Andreas stood, approaching with a warm smile. "What's your name, kid?"
"Alen."
Gently, Andreas cupped Alen's chin, his fingers brushing the faintly glowing family rune. "Now, your name is Alen d'Andreas."
Alen—Cyrus in his old heart—stared at Andreas, trying to act innocent like a typical 12-year-old. But his mind churned:
accepting a new name meant rebirth as a different person. "Yes... thank you, Father."
Andreas stroked his white hair affectionately, though doubt still shadowed the boy's eyes.
The following days in the mansion weren't the dream they seemed. Luxurious meals were served, silk clothes hung neatly, and the d'Andreas name now clung to him. But the servants' whispers stabbed like thorns: plates shoved roughly, cold greetings,
condescending stares. "Lucky slum kid," one muttered as Alen passed the corridor. They struggled to swallow the reality of serving a "lowborn" who had suddenly become young master.
Alen tried to ignore the mansion's chilly atmosphere, the servants' whispers pricking like fine needles. Rather than wrestle with their disdainful looks, he sought refuge in the vast second-floor library—a paper-and-ink haven rarely touched by the household. Oak shelves towered to the vaulted ceiling, stuffed with dusty tomes from ancient kingdoms to modern magic treatises.
The scent of aged leather and melting wax filled the air, sunset light filtering through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in splashes of red and gold.
"The ancients said knowledge is the greatest power," Alen muttered to himself, his voice softly echoing in the silent space. He circled the shelves like a predator stalking prey, his fingers tracing the spines of thick volumes. "Here, I can claim it. No one can take this from me."
Suddenly, a horrific vision flashed in his mind: little Anna with wide, empty eyes, her mother's cold corpse in a pool of blood. Alen's heart jolted; he shook his head hard, rubbing his face roughly. "No... not now." He had to focus—not dwell on past sins, but build strength for the future.
His eyes landed on a large brown book with a cracked cowhide cover, embossed in faded gold: Foundations of Modern Magic: Energy Channels and Physical Affinities. Carefully, he carried it to the grand reading table in the room's center, blowing off dust that danced like fine mist. The yellowed, brittle pages opened, and Alen immersed himself in them through the afternoon, losing track of time as the sun set.
In his previous era, as King Cyrus, magic was pure art of imagination—an boundless extension of the soul's core, shaped by will and creativity. But in this modern world, everything differed. The book explained in detail: magic was now a rigid machine, reliant on "core energy" generated from food and bodily metabolism. This energy channeled through nerves and muscles as fuel, expelled as basic kinetic forms—fire, water, wind, or earth—based on the user's "physical input."
"Imagine your body as an iron pipe," the book wrote, as if speaking directly to him. "The magic core in your chest gathers power from blood and breath. Then, channel it through nerves: to hands for fire bursts, to legs for wind leaps. The stronger your physique—muscles, senses, even bone structure—the greater the 'flow.' Weaken your body, and your magic weakens too."
Alen read deeper, his brows furrowing. Every mage had innate affinities, marked by subtle physical traits present from birth:
Water Magic: Flexible bodies like seaweed, moist smooth skin, deep blue eyes. Ideal for fluid flows, like healing waves or flooding whirlpools. Example: A water mage could contort their body to dodge attacks while summoning torrential rain.
Fire Magic: Thick, rough skin like dragon scales, reddish-brown hair, visible hot veins. Adapted for extreme heat, blasting fireballs or inferno walls. "Without that thick skin," the book noted, "they'd burn themselves."
Wind Magic: Lightweight bones, broad lungs, long nimble fingers. Swift movement, gust illusions, or mini-tornadoes.
Earth Magic: Dense muscles, rocky-textured skin, sturdy build. Defensive fortresses or localized quakes.
Alen closed the book gently, exhaling heavily, the sound echoing in the empty room. "Is this the extent of the difference? Modern magic... too weak, too body-dependent!" he muttered in frustration, his voice rising half an octave. In his time, the body was merely a vessel—true power came from the mind, imagination forging boundless spells: dimensional portals, mass illusions, even brief time manipulation. No rigid affinities; a king could master all if his mind was sharp.