Saturday morning arrived with a knock—actually, several. Loud, rhythmic thumps that echoed off the mansion's front doors like a drumroll from some ancient butler summoning the dead.
I groggily pulled back the curtain of my still-empty master bedroom and peeked down. A large moving truck stood outside, steam rising from its exhaust in the cool forest air. Two men in neon vests and work gloves were already unloading boxes onto the overgrown gravel path.
Snow let out a loud groan from the hallway. "Tell me this is a bad dream."
"It's real," I said, stepping out of my room in socks and a half-tied hoodie. "Our lives are now officially sponsored by dust, spiders, and antique furniture."
Downstairs, Mom was already up and dressed, holding a mug of coffee like it was a divine relic. Her hair was tied back and she wore a determined look—one I recognized far too well.
She clapped her hands once. "Alright, team. No unpacking until the house is clean."
"Wait, what?" I blinked. "We're not hiring someone to do that?"
"We are someone," she replied without mercy.
Snow narrowed her eyes. "I didn't sign up for haunted mansion janitor duties."
"Consider it a bonding exercise," Mom said, already handing out supplies—gloves, masks, trash bags, disinfectant spray bottles, and a vintage-looking broom that could probably double as a witch's ride.
We started with the foyer, where centuries of dust layered everything like frosting on a cursed cake. Every step sent up a cloud, and I was pretty sure the chandelier was a nest for something with wings.
"I just wiped a mirror and scared myself," Snow said, gagging slightly as she swept behind a cabinet.
"I found a dead moth the size of a toddler," I called from under a table.
"Cool. Keep it. Name it Greg."
"Already done."
We coughed, we sneezed, we gagged—but slowly, bit by bit, the place began to transform.
The library took two hours alone.
"Do we really need all of these books?" Snow groaned, pulling a stack off a shelf. "Half of them smell like mildew and war crimes."
"They're awesome," I said, leafing through a book with gold-foiled writing and an indecipherable title. "Look at this one! 'Mysteries of the Subterranean Moonfolk.' Tell me that's not peak literature."
"You're gonna get possessed."
"I welcome it. Maybe then I'll finally pass algebra."
Once the major cleaning was done, we began sorting through our own stuff. Boxes were scattered across the living room like little brown landmines. Each was labeled in Mom's handwriting: KITCHEN, LINENS, BOOKS, ELIJAH'S ROOM, SNOW'S CLOSET, and FRAGILE – DO NOT TOUCH – SERIOUSLY (that one was Mom's, obviously).
We opened, we unpacked, we argued over shelf space and drawer claims. I finally got to move my punching bag into the attic, which was way cooler than I thought—complete with slanted ceilings, an old trunk, and a dusty stained-glass window that cast rainbow light on the floor.
Snow set up her plant stand in the sunniest bedroom, already watering her snake plant while humming something under her breath.
At some point in the afternoon, we found an old phonograph in a trunk and decided to test it out.
It played a scratchy jazz tune that filled the house with a strange, nostalgic echo. We all paused for a moment, sweaty and tired, but smiling.
By the time the sun dipped below the trees, the house was no longer the dark, dusty relic we had walked into a week ago.
The foyer shined.
The library was organized (mostly).
The kitchen gleamed.
And the living room finally looked like someone lived there—not a ghost.
Mom plopped down on the couch with a sigh of relief, lifting her arms like a champion.
"We did it," she breathed. "Tomorrow, we rest. Tonight, pizza."
Snow collapsed beside her, hair tied up with a pencil. "I never want to see another feather duster again."
I dropped onto the floor dramatically, arms spread. "Bury me in the dust, for it has claimed me."
But we laughed.
The Everstones were settling in.
Even if the house creaked at night and the well out back gave off weird vibes… for the first time, this place—BlackDale—was starting to feel a little like home.
Oooo
The mansion was silent.
Moonlight spilled through the arched window, casting pale silver streaks across the wooden floor of my bedroom. The air was still, heavy with the scent of aged wood and old books from the library downstairs. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its call echoing faintly across the forest that encircled our new home.
I snapped awake—not from a nightmare, not from a sound, but from a feeling.
Eyes wide open, heart steady, I sat upright in bed.
It was subtle at first. A whisper. A thread. But unmistakable.
Mana.
I hadn't sensed it since I arrived in this world. For fourteen years I'd wandered through this magicless realm—bland and dull, like someone had turned off the stars. But now… it stirred. Like something ancient breathing for the first time in centuries.
It was faint—no stronger than mist at dawn—but it was there. And more importantly… it was rising.
I pressed my palm flat against the bedsheet, closing my eyes. Instinct took over. My mind reached inward, into the stillness, and sought the mana the way a thirsty man seeks water in a desert.
And it responded.
It came to me effortlessly, like an old friend slipping through the door. It flowed into me—cool and warm all at once—coiling through my veins, dancing along my skin. I guided it with ease, drawing it in, circulating it, shaping it.
Just like before.
Just like when I was the Demon Lord.
I stood and padded across the creaky wooden floor toward the balcony, careful not to wake anyone. The door opened with a soft groan, and I stepped out into the cool night.
The view from the mansion's east-facing balcony was breathtaking. Beyond the forest's shadowy outline, I could see the faint shimmer of the coast. The moon reflected off the sea like spilled silver, and the leaves below rustled as though whispering secrets to one another.
But it wasn't the view I cared about. It was the presence.
I spread my fingers, opening my palm to the wind.
The mana here was wild, unformed, ancient—but awakening. I could feel it brushing the edges of the town, slowly pulsing from somewhere deep in the land.
This world... it was changing. And I was one of the first to know.
Mana changes everything.
It enriches nature, empowers beasts, awakens bloodlines, and transforms civilization itself. In a world of mana, the strong rise, the weak either adapt or perish. Magic, monsters, miracles—they were all possible again.
I focused, drawing mana into my core. It shimmered along my palm. A spark bloomed. Then—fwoosh—a small violet flame flared to life, burning silently above my hand. Cold, elegant, alive.
A slow grin crept across my face as the wind picked up, rustling the treetops like whispers among gods.
"With my knowledge of mana…" I murmured, the words barely a breath, "I could rule this world. No pantheon. No champions. No chosen ones. Just me."
I called the energy inward, focused it to a single point in my palm. Mana shimmered against my skin—and then, with a flicker—fwoosh—a flame bloomed to life.
Not fire as mortals know it.
This was something older. Violet, flickering cold and silent, yet dancing like it was alive. The color of power. The color of death. It spun slowly in the cradle of my hand, casting long shadows behind me.
I stared at it for a long time.
And then I laughed.
Not a chuckle, not a snort—but a wild, gleeful, madman's laugh that cut through the stillness like thunder through a cathedral.
"Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"
Across the hall, a muffled voice roared:
"ELIJAH! Shut the hell up! It's the middle of the night! You're not allowed to have evil laughter until at least after breakfast!"
Snow. Of course. Her door slammed immediately afterward, with all the fury of a sister denied sleep and basic peace.
I sighed, staring at the still-burning flame in my palm.
"Right…" I muttered, extinguishing it with a snap of my fingers. "World domination can wait."
I lay back in bed, the faint warmth of mana still pulsing beneath my skin, fading like a dream at dawn.
So much had changed.
Once, I ruled with fire and steel. The world bowed to Gusoyn, the Demon King—feared, obeyed, hated. I wore crowns of bone and gold, drank from the cup of conquest, carved empires into the earth.
But that was another life.
This one… this strange, life in this new world, with mismatched siblings and a mother trying her best—this life has reshaped me in ways no blade ever could.
I'm not Gusoyn anymore.
I'm Elijah Everstone.
A boy with a second chance.
I see it in the way I smile without needing to hide my fangs. In the way I help Snow carry groceries even when we argue. In the way I look at my mother and feel something heavier than duty. Something warmer.
I made a promise to Father before he died—that I will protect them and none shall ever harm them. I will fulfill that promise.
I already lived the life of a king once.
Now… I'll live the life of a son. A brother. A boy named Elijah.