After the silent breakfast, Lucien stepped out of the dining hall. His small but steady feet climbed the stairs toward the third floor, while Hans followed behind like a loyal yet scrutinizing shadow.
Hans's mind continued to revolve around a single axis: the number three. The Young Master was only three years old. In the history of the Vornharts, an adult mentality was usually forged by force when an heir reached the age of five—a painful process of blood and soul synchronization. Yet, the boy before him seemed to have leaped over a decade of maturity.
How is this possible? Hans thought. Logically, extreme suffering at such a tender age should have birthed a shattered soul, paralyzing trauma, or a depression that sucked away the will to live. Instead, Lucien had awakened the authority of a predator. Hans stared at that small back with a sense of wonder mingled with dread.
Upon arriving at the room, Lucien sat at his new study desk—an elegant piece of black wood furniture that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. Hans presented the letter with a formal bow.
Lucien read it in a suffocating silence. His red eyes scanned line after line of text with a precision unnatural for a child. The letter was filled with diplomatic rhetoric: the Main Estate expressed deep "regret" over the "incident," guaranteed future security, and appointed Hans as his personal servant.
Lucien paused at that part, glancing at Hans, who only replied with a thin, secretive smile.
"Compensation?" Lucien muttered as he reached the end of the letter.
"Correct, Young Master," Hans answered smoothly. "The Main Estate has sent the finest attire, the ranks of combat servants you saw earlier, and various small gifts usually favored by children your age—this study desk being one of them."
Lucien did not smile. There was no spark of happiness in his eyes. Instead, his jaw tightened. He loathed every word in that letter. The words "I'm sorry" never appeared; there was only "deep regret." It was as if the torture he had endured for three years was merely an unpredictable weather anomaly, not a systemic failure of their own family.
Inside that small body, Osric's soul seethed. Based on his experience on Earth, he knew this stench all too well. This was not mere negligence. This was an internal conspiracy. Someone within the Vornhart family council had surely planned for him to rot underground, eliminating a rival before he could ever ascend the family throne.
On Earth, my own brother struck me down for a corporate position. And here, in this world full of magic, I must still face the same betrayal? Lucien's anger peaked. He crushed the letter until it disintegrated in his grip, then hurled it into the fireplace. The paper was licked by flames, turning to ash in seconds.
"Nonsense," Lucien hissed sharply.
Hans witnessed the act but remained silent. Inside his chest, his adrenaline surged violently. He saw the potential of a dark ruler in this tiny figure. However, something even greater happened.
Suddenly, Hans felt a subtle vibration that made his hair stand on end. There was no explosion of red aura like before, yet the air around Lucien began to rustle strangely. The space surrounding the study desk appeared distorted, warping as if being twisted by an invisible hand.
Devil's Gate... Second Gate?! Hans screamed in his mind, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Hans nearly lost his composure. If the First Gate was a manifestation of a massive energy explosion, the Second Gate was authority over dimensions. Literally, the Second Gate allowed one to manipulate space according to their will—cutting, twisting, or erasing it from reality. Normally, a Vornhart would take years to master the First Gate before the second gate opened.
But Lucien? It had only been a few days since he awakened his power!
Is the torture truly this effective? Hans wondered. The cruel intent he had briefly forgotten now rose again with renewed vigor. He began to think that suffering was indeed a shortcut to true power.
However, Hans was dead wrong. Lucien was able to open the second gate not just because of the servants' torture. It was the accumulation of suffering from two lifetimes. Osric, already broken in his first life, was now forced through hell for a second time. The combination of dark emotions from two sets of memories in one body was what created a mental pressure so dense it was enough to tear the veil of space and time.
Lucien himself was unaware of the distortion. Warped space could not be seen by ordinary naked eyes. Only Hans, with his specialized techniques and years of experience, was able to catch the anomaly.
A few moments later, Lucien took a long breath, attempting to suppress his anger. As his composure returned, the space around him gradually stabilized. Hans was now absolutely certain; Lucien had surpassed every expectation of the family history.
Lucien stared at Hans with sharp, cold red eyes. "Will you report this to the center?"
Hans immediately knelt with full respect, his head bowed low before the young master he admired.
"No, Young Master," Hans replied in a voice saturated with absolute loyalty. "I am your servant. No one in this world, including the family council or even the Grand Duke himself, has the authority to command me other than you."
Hans smiled behind his bowed head. He was no longer serving a small child; he was serving the beginning of a disaster that would sweep the world.
Lucien looked down with a gaze colder than the ice on the deepest mountain peak. In his eyes, every word that came out of Hans's mouth was merely a pile of lies neatly wrapped in a ribbon of loyalty. He was fed up. To him, trust was a luxury item he had long ago thrown into the trash since the days he was called Osric. On Earth, he had learned in the most painful way that those most fluent in swearing oaths of loyalty were the first to drive a knife into your back when you let your guard down. Hans's excessive loyalty only triggered alarm bells in his head; to him, this man was merely a highly skilled actor.
Without giving a response or validation to Hans's oath, Lucien merely let out a long sigh, a gesture heavy with mental exhaustion. He turned his body, breaking eye contact, and shifted his gaze to the pile of strange books neatly arranged on his black wooden desk. The pages were still empty, stark white without a stain, as if daring him to write a new destiny upon them.
"Hey, when can I learn something?" Lucien asked flatly. He didn't even deign to glance at Hans, treating the man as nothing more than a piece of room furniture that could speak.
Hans, who had been frozen in a kneeling position, rose slowly with a movement that was incredibly smooth and graceful. "If you wish it, I will summon your personal tutor this instant," Hans answered with a tone of voice containing absolute authority. "Even if that person is at the darkest edge of the world, they must crawl before you this very moment if you call for them."
Lucien snorted softly, feeling sickened by Hans's way of speaking, which was always exaggerated and full of grand metaphors. To him, it all sounded convoluted and inefficient.
"Don't beat around the bush," Lucien commanded with a lazy tone that brooked no argument. "Just call them here tomorrow. I want to start learning soon."
"Very well, as you wish, Young Master," Hans replied with a perfect small bow.
Without another word, he turned around, his footsteps making no sound at all on the velvet carpet as he hurried out of the room. Hans would not waste a single second; for a servant like him, Lucien's command was a divine decree that could not be delayed for even a moment.