A month had passed since the blood contract bound Dayn Raven's soul into Lucien Vornhart's dark orbit. Inside the silent corridors of Kyrossia Mansion—a name Dayn had only recently discovered from the dusty archives of the basement—time seemed to move in circles, ensnaring anyone trapped within. Kyrossia. In an ancient tongue that had long since evaporated from the lips of the common folk, the name meant The Forge of Authority. It was a name that was not only grand but terrifying; a factory designed not to raise children, but to mold numb, hollow figures.
On the third floor, in a corner room that had once been a stifling storehouse, Dayn Raven stood before a small, cracked mirror. This room was now his quarters, deliberately placed adjacent to Lucien's chamber so that the scholar could be summoned whenever the "young master" felt a thirst for knowledge.
Dayn was arranging stacks of books on his desk. His fingers trembled, not from the biting Northern chill, but from the turmoil in his chest. For a month, he had witnessed the impossible. Lucien Vornhart was not merely an intelligent child; he was an anomaly. The speed at which the boy absorbed complex calculus, read archaic manuscripts, and memorized imperial political genealogies surpassed the standards of any "genius" in the Capital of Xerathia.
"Once in thousands of years..." Dayn hissed, his voice breaking in the silence of the room. "A genius born once in thousands of years, and I am his teacher!"
His mind soared toward his greatest ambition: to be recognized as the educator of a figure who would shake history. Yet, a second later, an imaginary pain stabbed his head—a warning from the Soul Contract. He could not boast of this achievement. To the world, he had to report that Lucien was a dull child who could barely spell his own name.
"How futile!" Dayn suddenly screamed. He slammed a book on noble etiquette onto the bed with sheer fury. "All my hard work, all the boy's brilliance... must be buried in lies!"
His eyes then landed on an official letter with a black wax seal lying on the table. It was a letter from the Vornhart Main Estate, inquiring about the progress of Lucien's "character assassination." With a suppressed, hysterical laugh, Dayn snatched the letter and tore it into tiny fragments.
"This is because of you! You cursed family!" he barked, imagining the arrogant faces of every Vornhart family member. However, the moment the image of the Grand Duke—the man who murdered his own parents—crossed his mind, Dayn's hands froze. A primal fear crawled up his spine. His anger evaporated instantly, replaced by a paralyzing despair.
Dayn fell to his knees on the cold floor. "Why must I endure all of this...?" he sobbed, tears beginning to wet his haggard cheeks.
He did not realize that from the slightly ajar doorway, a pair of cold eyes had been watching him from the start. Hans Vaneheart stood there, still as a statue, gazing at Dayn as if looking at a pile of trash accidentally blown into the house by the wind.
"Why? Looking to retire?"
Hans's voice, smooth yet sharp as a razor, made Dayn jump in shock. The Butler stepped inside with the grace of a predator. "Just so you know, Scholar Raven, since you have signed the Soul Contract, your only way out of this service is death."
Dayn's weeping stopped instantly. A strange, almost maddened smile etched across his face. With a humiliating crawling motion, he approached Hans and clung to the tall man's leg.
"Oh, Mr. Hans... I was only joking," Dayn chuckled awkwardly, his voice trembling violently. "How could I possibly want to retire this early? Teaching a Vornhart descendant is... the highest honor. Ahaha..."
"I see," Hans replied shortly. He moved his leg, freeing himself from Dayn's grasp with a rough jerk that sent Dayn sprawling, then sauntered out without a backward glance.
Meanwhile, in the next room, Lucien was drowning in an ocean of information. Before him lay a large, faded parchment map. To him, learning the language of this world was the greatest challenge because its linguistic structure was vastly different from Earth's. However, Osric's stubborn soul pushed him to master everything in a short time.
From the books Dayn provided, Lucien finally pieced together a picture of where he stood. This world was Elarion. A planet—he was certain of it because of the existence of a sun and moon moving in fixed orbits, a concept not yet fully understood by the locals who still clung to mysticism.
He lived on the Continent of Lioareth. To the west of the continent lay the Ocean of Sorrow, a body of water considered taboo and a bringer of calamity, where eternal storms were said to swallow anyone who dared cross. He was within the Xerathia Empire, which oversaw four major kingdoms. And his current location was the Kingdom of Glasyerh in the frozen Northern region.
Lucien touched the northernmost point on the map. That was where the Vornhart domain lay. From Dayn's previous explanations, Lucien drew a bitter conclusion: though the King of Glasyerh sat on the throne, the true ruler of the North was his father, the Grand Duke. The King of Glasyerh was merely a pawn who had long since knelt in the shadow of Vornhart.
The reason was simple yet terrifying: Vornhart was a family of Demonic Nobles. The term did not refer to their race, but to their merciless methods, their bloodlust, and their absolute possession of the Devil's Gate—a power unrivaled by any other noble family in Xerathia.
"Demonic Nobles..." Lucien muttered, his fingers tapping the table. "A fitting name for a pack of monsters."
His door opened. Dayn Raven entered, his face drenched in cold sweat, his breathing erratic as if he had just run a marathon. A few seconds later, Hans appeared behind him with a flat, innocent expression.
"Teacher Dayn? What is wrong with you?" Lucien asked, closing his history book. His red eyes stared intensely at his disheveled tutor.
"Yo-Young Master..." Dayn gave an incredibly awkward smile. His mind battled between frustration and the awe of seeing Lucien so calmly studying at his desk. How could I even think of retiring from teaching a child this diligent? I must be insane! Dayn barked internally, then suddenly raised his hand and slapped his own right cheek with great force. Slap!
Lucien went silent. He watched Dayn's reddening cheek, then glanced at Hans, who stood calmly beside the teacher.
"That... was not my fault, Young Master," Hans said in self-defense, though the slight smirk at the corner of his lips suggested otherwise.
Lucien did not believe him for a second. This morning in the dining hall, Dayn was still able to prattle on about the beauty of the Imperial Academy. Now, the man looked like a psychiatric patient on the verge of exploding. There was only one variable that could turn an intellectual into a depressive wreck within minutes in this mansion: Hans Vaneheart.
"Sit down, Dayn," Lucien commanded, his tone more like a superior than a student. "Stop this drama. Today, you must explain in more detail the political structure in the Capital of Xerathia and Glasyerh. I want to know some information about Vornhart."
Dayn was stunned, then nodded obediently while rubbing his stinging cheek. He sat down tremblingly, realizing that before him was no longer a toddler, but a small predator mapping out the way to swallow an entire continent.