They called him a tyrant in a suit.A king among mortals.A god behind a desk.
To the world, Maximilian Wilde was the man who bent nations and corporations to his will. Billionaires bowed when he entered a room. Criminal empires crumbled with a phone call. He had no mercy for rivals, no pity for traitors, and no tolerance for failure. His hands weren't clean—they were soaked in blood and ambition. And for years, the world belonged to him.
Until it didn't.
He remembered the explosion like a dream dipped in gasoline.
One moment he was sipping aged whiskey in his armored car, reading merger reports. The next, the windshield lit up—then shattered. Fire, metal, pain. The bodyguards didn't even have time to scream. His driver's head rolled across the dashboard like a puppet's.
In those final seconds, he reached for his pistol… and saw his reflection in the glass.
Calm. Cold. Ready.
Then—Silence.Void.
But death is never the end for a man like Maximilian.
His next breath came like a slap to the soul.
Gasp!Air flooded into his lungs like he was drowning in it. Pain—dull, but everywhere. Limbs heavy. Skin sensitive. Heart pounding like a war drum.
He sat up with a strangled cough, the sheets tangled around his legs. The hospital gown clung to his skin, and sweat soaked his temples.
Where the hell was he?
A mechanical beep echoed steadily. He turned to see a monitor—heart rate, oxygen, vitals. Sterile walls. Cheap fluorescent lighting. A scent of bleach and sanitizer. This wasn't one of his luxury clinics.
Then he saw the mirror across the room.
Maximilian Wilde—black hair, storm-gray eyes, the scar down his jawline—was gone.
Staring back at him was a teenage boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Lean build. Pale skin. Amber eyes that flickered like a dying fire. His hair was messy, unkempt. His face unfamiliar… but the soul behind it felt just as dangerous.
"Who the hell…?" he whispered, voice rasping. He brought his hand to his throat—his fingers were too thin. His voice too light.
The door creaked open.
A nurse rushed in, clipboard in hand. "Mark? You're—oh my God, you're awake!"
She placed her hand over her mouth, relief washing over her face. "I'll call the doctor. Stay right there, sweetheart."
"Mark?" he asked quietly, after she left. "Mark Wilde?"
And then—A flood.
Memories that weren't his began bleeding into his mind. Classrooms. Laughter. Fists in his face. Isolation. Shame. The sound of someone shouting, "You're just a parasite clinging to the Wilde name!"
A bastard branch. A forgotten nephew. Orphaned young, shuffled around like baggage. Barely tolerated by the powerful Wilde family. A weakling, born with nothing. Except...
That name.
And now, Maximilian wore it like armor.
Fate gave me a second chance.A younger body. A powerful bloodline. A world full of cracks and shadows.It won't be wasted.
He stumbled to the window. The city pulsed below, alive with neon and noise. But something was off. The skyline had changed. Towering spires with glowing glyphs. Floating surveillance drones. Billboards that shimmered with runes instead of code.
Magic. Real, systemic, integrated. A city running not just on electricity—but on mana.
Maximilian Wilde had died in a world ruled by money.But Mark Wilde had awakened in one ruled by power—both political and arcane.
He grinned, and his eyes glowed faintly for a moment. Whether it was a trick of the light or something more—he didn't know yet.
But the game had changed.
Mark Wilde was done being weak.
He would rebuild everything.Brick by brick. Secret by secret.He would carve his name into the bones of this new world.
And this time, when he reached the top—No one would be left alive to pull him down.