The monitors flickered, casting a ghostly glow over Leo's sweating face. Seven hours. He was at the peak of a "goon-trance" that would have made a monk weep. With one final, desperate gasp, the "white liquid" erupted—a torrent of life-force that seemed to drain his very soul.
His heart, unable to handle the sudden drop in pressure and the sheer dopamine overload, gave a pathetic *thud* and stopped.
"Worth... it..." Leo whispered, his vision fading into a milky white haze.
---
Born into Power
The white haze didn't disappear; it condensed. Leo felt himself being squeezed through a narrow, warm tunnel until—
*WAAAH!*
The sound of his own high-pitched crying startled him. He tried to wipe his eyes, but his arms were short, chubby, and lacked any muscle definition. He was being held by a woman whose beauty surpassed any filter he'd ever seen on a screen.
"A boy, my Lord!" a maid cried out. "A healthy, vibrant heir!"
A massive shadow fell over them. Leo looked up (well, tilted his tiny head) and saw a man who looked like a walking god of war. This was **The Patriarch of the House of Draker**. Around the man's waist hung a dozen different weapons—a scorched greatsword, a glowing staff, and a quiver of ethereal arrows. Shadows of skeletal warriors flickered in his wake, and small sparks of every element—fire, ice, and lightning—danced around his fingertips.
"He has the Draker eyes," the Patriarch boomed, his voice like rolling thunder. "Deep, obsessive, and full of hunger."
He looked back at the line of women standing behind him. **Twenty-three wives**, each a master of a different craft, stood in a silent, respectful row. They were the foundation of the Draker "All-Rounder" legacy.
---
The Prodigy of the Nursery
As the weeks passed, Leo realized he was in a goldmine. The House of Draker didn't specialize; they conquered every field. And as the heir, he was expected to learn it all.
While other babies were busy trying to figure out how to chew on their toes, Leo was practicing his **Focus**.
*If I could hold a goon-trance for seven hours in a body fueled by energy drinks,* Leo thought, sitting cross-legged in his crib, *this 'Mana Circulation' stuff is a walk in the park.*
He closed his eyes, tapping into the "vitality" that had killed him in his past life. In this world, that energy was called **Prana**. Because he had died at the moment of his maximum "output," his infant soul was massive.
One afternoon, while his wet nurse was distracted, Leo pointed a chubby finger at a dead fly on the windowsill. He used that familiar, pulling sensation he used to feel during his long nights.
*Rise,* he thought.
The fly's legs twitched. A faint, purple glow enveloped it, and the insect buzzed back to life, undead and loyal.
Leo let out a toothless giggle. He was a month old, and he was already a Necromancer.
---
The Heir's Ambition
The Patriarch walked into the nursery, stopping dead when he saw the undead fly circling his son's head. He looked at the baby, then at his twenty-three wives who had followed him in.
"He is manipulating the veil of death before he can even walk," the Patriarch whispered, a proud, terrifying grin spreading across his face. "His 'Endurance' is already off the charts. He will not just be an All-Rounder... he will be the peak of our bloodline."
Leo looked at his father's harem and then at his own tiny hands. He remembered his past life—the loneliness, the screens, the wasted potential.
*Twenty-three wives for my dad?* Leo thought, his violet eyes glowing with a dark, determined light. *Those are rookie numbers. I'm going to need a much bigger castle.*
The Gooner Necromancer had been reborn. He had the focus, he had the mana, and soon, he'd have the world.