The first light of dawn crept in through the lattice windows, casting thin golden lines across the polished floor. Outside, the estate stirred to life—the sharp rhythm of wooden swords clashing, the barked commands of instructors, the grunt of young Knights chasing perfection in drills. Discipline. Tradition. Muscle memory is forged in sweat and repetition.
Inside, silence.
Eris sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, the noble garments of Eris Vale draped over his frame like armor made of silk. His fingers slowly traced the edges of a thick tome, one of many scavenged from the estate's archives Yesterday.
"…At first, I had doubts," he muttered, voice low. The pages were inked with rune matrices and spell incantations eerily familiar. "But now… I'm sure."
His eyes—sharpened not just by reincarnation but by the bitter clarity of survival—narrowed.
"This world… it follows the same logic. The same code." He tapped the page. "Mana flow ratios. Layered casting syntax. Incantation stacking. All of it mirrors Arkenterra."
He closed the book with a soft thump, staring at the dancing motes of light that hovered faintly in the air.
"If the laws are the same," he said, a slow smirk forming beneath the mask, "then I'm not a beginner in this world."
He stood, voice firm now—measured but cold. "I'm the architect."
Outside, the clang of swords continued—a different kind of war.
He turned away from the window. Muscles would not win him the throne of this world. Not yet.
No, he'd build power through knowledge, through control.
And when the time came, the fools sharpening their blades would kneel before a mind they never saw coming.
He wasn't Eris Vale reborn.
He was Hiroto—rebuilt.
And he was already rewriting the rules.
The late-morning sun filtered through the tall glass panels of the Eris Room, casting geometric shadows on the carpeted floor. The Room was quiet, unnaturally so—no birdsong, no breeze, just the soft scratch of pen against parchment.
Hiroto sat at his desk, posture composed, expression unreadable. The scent of ink and old vellum clung to the air. A sealed envelope lay in front of him, its parchment folded with the care of a scholar and the precision of a tactician.
A knock came—two soft taps.
"Enter," Eris said, without looking up.
The door creaked open, and Maria stepped in, bowing politely. "You summoned me, Young Master?"
Her voice was practiced, even gentle, but a flicker of wariness was visible in her eyes.
Without rising, Hiroto slid the envelope across the table.
"Gather these things for me. And leave it in my Room."
Maria stepped forward and picked up the envelope. The wax seal was pressed with Eris Vale's crest—but the handwriting… it was elegant, yet unfamiliar. Smooth strokes, deliberate loops. Not the scrawl of a noble boy she'd known for years.
She blinked. "My lord… may I ask—"
"What are you standing there for?" Eris's voice cut sharply through the stillness. He finally looked up, gaze calm but cold. "Your lord gave you an order. Or do you intend to disobey me?"
The air between them thickened.
Maria's breath caught in her throat. "N-No, of course not, my lord."
She bowed stiffly and turned to leave.
As she closed the door behind her, her hand lingered on the knob. Her brows furrowed.
"…He's been acting strange lately," she muttered under her breath. "He Locked himself in that Room for days. Reading books from Archives until sunrise. And now this?"
She waited until she reached a quiet corridor before breaking the seal and unfolding the note. Her eyes scanned the ingredients one by one.
– 1 Pure-Grade Holy Recovery Potion
– 1 Stack of penus Herbs
– 1 Monster Core (Low Rank)
– Alchemical Chalk
– Purification Powder
Maria frowned.
"The potion and chalk… maybe he's working on Aura refinement," she whispered, thoughtful. "But Why a monster core and Penus Herb ?"
Her pace slowed.
"The Penus Herb is a venomous plant commonly used in poison crafting. While it isn't lethal on its own, it acts as a potent catalyst when combined with other toxic ingredients."
"And the Monster mana Core? Those things are tainted with demonic Energy unless purified by a certified mage. It's completely useless to Humans."It's not just dangerous—it's unstable.
She folded the paper and tucked it into her sleeve.
Poison mixed with healing, purification mixed with corruption… is he going to perform some Ritual that uses this combination?"
"or is He Interested in Alchemy?"
Maria's eyes narrowed, her mind racing. This wasn't just idle curiosity anymore. It was fear creeping in.
"Strange? He never showed interest in alchemy before," she whispered to herself. "Now, suddenly, he's doing something Out of the ordinary. To be precise."
She reached the outer courtyard, pausing beneath the shade of a blooming dogwood tree.
"He used to be… aimless. After the Awakening Ceremony."
She looked back toward the manor.
She turned away.
She didn't understand it all—but it unsettled her like watching a candle flicker where no wind blew.
"I'm uncertain of his intentions, but given the relative simplicity of these tasks, it's unlikely that these things pose any immediate threat."
And with that, she disappeared into the estate's winding halls—unaware she had just delivered the first piece of a silent, unfolding war.
After she left the Room
Okay, now let's get started
The door was shut. No servants. No distractions. Just the sound of breath—steady, sharp, deliberate.
Eris knelt bare-chested on the polished stone floor, sweat clinging to his spine. Veins beneath his skin flickered faintly with residual light—not mana, not ki.
Aura.
He inhaled slowly. The air felt thick here, saturated with the legacy of the Vale bloodline.
"Sword Vein Pulse," he muttered, almost scoffing at the name—the Vale family's sacred breathing method—noble, traditional, and revered across the continent. It is a technique practiced by many but truly mastered by few.
Its rhythm was like a waltz performed in armor—precise, elegant, deeply ceremonial. A four-beat cycle: inhale, hold, exhale, still. Each breath refined aura through the body's natural pathways—folding it like steel, sharpening it like a blade. It taught patience. Subtlety. Control.
"Breathe like the sword," he recalled from Eris's memories. "Let the aura whisper before it strikes."
And yet...
"That might be fine for this world…" His voice was dry. Disdainful. "But for me, It's not Enough.
He exhaled sharply—and shifted.
His spine arched back, hands locking into a different mudra, foreign to this world. A soft hum pulsed from his chest. Faint blue circuits ignited along his arms and neck—thin lines of energy, structured and artificial.
"CoreSync Begin."
His breath wasn't breath anymore. It was code. Inhale—energy entered not through aura veins but through synchronized Core nodes buried deep within his reconstructed meridians. Each breath was parsed, compressed, recalibrated, and expelled through a synthetic resonance loop.
Where Sword Vein Pulse harmonized with the soul, Arkenterra's CoreSync method overrode it—digitizing the body's flow, stripping away spiritual nuance for brutal efficiency.
The Room trembled as a heatless pressure bloomed around him. His heart rate accelerated unnaturally—but rhythmically, like a battle simulation.
"Optimize. Synchronize. Override." The mantras repeated silently in his mind.
In Arkenterra, the aura wasn't born of lineage—it was engineered. Players didn't train to harmonize with nature; they rewired their bodies to become conduits for system-calibrated power. Even the weakest had access to destructive might—if they could survive the strain.
And he had.
His fingers curled into the floor. Hair clung to his forehead. Muscles strained—not from the weight of energy but from resisting the temptation to collapse into the calm grace of the Vale method.
That was how he learned in Arkenterra.
To compress power. To make it rupture and evolve.
He exhaled—not gently, but like an engine venting steam.
This wasn't refinement. This was ignition.
And the moment he finished the cycle, a pulse of sharp, condensed aura surged from his back and split the air behind him with a faint crack.
Eris smirked.
"Let the Vale breathe like swords. I'll breathe like a war machine."
The sun hung low, casting long golden beams across the marble corridors as Maria returned to the Palace. Her steps were steady, but the weight in her hands made them feel heavier than they should.
A velvet pouch held the chalk and powder. The potion gleamed inside its crystalline vial. And wrapped in a cloth bundle, the monster's core pulsed faintly with an unsettling warmth—like something alive… and angry.
She paused at the door. The air here felt different—denser as if something behind it distorted the flow of time.
Knock. Knock.
No response. Just a silence so thick it hummed.
She gathered her breath. "Young Master. I've brought what you requested."
The door creaked open—just enough.
"Place them down," came the voice from within. Not loud. Not harsh. But cold and Detached. "And leave."
Maria hesitated. She hadn't even seen his face yet. "I… understood, my lord."
She stepped into the edge of the Room, careful not to cross the chalk lines sketched across the floor. The ingredients trembled in her hands—not from weight, but from the unnatural energy lingering in the space.
He was seated at the center, back turned.
Maria set the items down gently, then stood to speak—but stopped.
He turned slightly, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his eyes—sharper than they'd ever been, like steel pulled too tight.
"Now," he said—the final command.
She bowed low, lips tight. "Yes, Young Master."
As she backed out and reached the door—
"Don't disturb me," he said, voice steady, unwavering. "No matter what you hear."
Click.
The door shut.
Maria stood alone in the hallway, heart quietly pounding.
Something had changed.
Dusk bled into the chamber through the slitted window, casting shadows like crawling fingers across the stone floor. The dying sunlight mingled with a dull glow rising from the ritual circle—etched with care, layered with danger.
Hiroto knelt at the center, his breath steady, eyes focused.
The alchemical chalk left no room for error. Every curve was precise. Every angle is a choice. Layered atop the traditional Vale array were foreign glyphs—one school divine, drawn from sacred rites; the other abyssal, pulled from forbidden memory. The result? A ritual that shouldn't exist.
Golden light pulsed from one half of the circle. Black flickered from the other.
Harmony? No. Balance on a knife's edge.
With a slow breath, Hiroto drew a blade across each palm. The sting was sharp and clean. Blood welled, then dripped—falling into the circle's center with soft splashes that seemed to echo far too loud.
"One soul," he murmured.
He moved with clinical precision, placing each item in its quadrant.
North: the holy recovery potion, its liquid shimmering with soft white light.
South: the venom root, dark and pulsing with latent toxicity.
East: the purification powder-fine, silvery dust that scattered like snowflakes.
West: the monster core—alive, twitching, and faintly glowing red.
"Four quadrants. Four attributes. One soul."
He inhaled deeply. Magic hummed around him like a chorus barely held in tune. The circle responded, its light strengthening—divine gold warring silently with abyssal black.
Sweat trickled down his temple.
"You were born with a legacy," he whispered, half to the Room, half to the ghost of Eris. "But I was forged in fire."
He pressed both bloodied palms flat against the ritual lines.
The Room pulsed.
The ritual had begun.
Within the circle, Hiroto sat cross-legged—bloodied palms resting on his knees, body trembling faintly as the ritual energy pressed in from all sides. The chalk lines now glowed brighter than before, forming a four-fold diagram of layered truth and madness. The chamber's shadows had long vanished, replaced by twin auras of divine light and abyssal smoke, coiling like lovers and enemies around him.
His breathing was calm.
His heart was not.
The body shakes. The soul must not.
He raised his hands slowly, channeling the surging power into his internal network—the aura veins that traced his limbs, his spine, his heart.
Then, he closed his eyes.
And began.
"One breath," he murmured, voice nearly a whisper. "Four cores."
His consciousness plunged inward. Not toward his mind—but deeper. Toward the metaphorical centers he had constructed within this new vessel. Not recognized by any mage or noble school—but by his framework, born in war and refined through Struggle.
First, he shaped the Core of Purity—a glowing white sphere that sat within his solar plexus.
"Purity… is the will to survive. To endure the worst… and remain."
Then, he focused downward—toward a second point nestled between his navel and spine. It burned purple.
"Poison… is the will to evolve. To twist pain into power. To feed on failure."
Next, a darker sphere near the heart—the Core of Corruption, inky and ever-shifting.
"Corruption is the truth of this world… where ideals rot, and lies blossom."
Finally, his mind reached up—toward the center between his brows, where his soul once fractured and rebuilt itself.
"Equilibrium… is the law of coexistence. The calm within conflict. The thread that lets opposites breathe without breaking."
The four cores ignited. Not in harmony—but in conflict. They hated each other. Opposed one another.
And yet… they completed him.
His eyes opened.
Without hesitation, Hiroto picked up the monster core—still twitching, still seething with demonic power—and pressed it directly against his bare chest.
The heat was immediate. The pain? Far worse.
HSSSSKKK!
The sound of burning flesh filled the chamber. The core latched onto his skin like a parasite. His body arched, muscles convulsing as the energy tried to force its way in.
But Hiroto didn't scream.
He channeled it.
His blood flowed freely now, dripping down his arms and soaking into the final rune at the center of the circle.
The reaction was instant.
The ritual lines flared brighter than ever before—one half erupting in golden flame, the other in choking abyssal mist. The contrast should've torn the spell apart.
Instead, it began to fuse.
"Reformat the soul," Eris whispered, each word layered with power. "Rewrite the body…"
His back strained. Veins lit up along his spine like a branching constellation. His muscles tore, then stitched themselves back together—too fast, too raw.
"…Reveal the truth beneath the seal."
His vision blurred. Heat flooded his mind. A voice—not his own—whispered promises in a language no man should understand.
[SYSTEM REWRITE: INITIALIZING…]
His soul screamed. Not in sound—but in structure.
He saw flashes—his past life, his fall, Arkenterra's shattered sky, the moment of exile, Eris Vale's dead eyes, and the void between identities. All colliding. All are demanding to be chosen.
BOOM.
A shockwave pulsed outward.
The ritual circle shattered.
One half exploded in radiant flame—scorching light that should have purified him.
His body broke.
His veins ruptured. Bones cracked—his skin split in a dozen places.
And still—he channeled.
He dug deeper. Into will. Into the core of his will.
And in that moment… the four imaginary cores began to spin. Unstable. Revolving around each other.
No one had ever done this. Not even in Arkenterra.
He immediately took out the Holy potion and drank it to stabilize his body condition, but the backlash of combining them was more terrific than he had imagined. But he refused to give up.
His voice was barely a whisper now.
"Success… or death."
Then—stillness.
Not because the ritual was over.
But because it had chosen.
A new power bloomed inside him—not raw strength, but a fragmented core structure. Shifting. Living. Incomplete… but alive.
The seal on his soul—the one that had suppressed his potential—cracked.
And for the first time…
His head dropped forward. Breath shallow. Vision blackening.
But before the darkness took him, he smiled weakly.
"…It worked."
Then, His surroundings fade to black.
.
To Be Continued.