The moon had sunk lower in the night sky when Edran's breathing finally steadied. His limbs trembled from the strain, and his heart pounded in a slow, heavy rhythm. The Ninefold Circulation had worked — not much, but enough for him to sense the faint pool of mana gathered in his core like a candle's flame in the dark.
It was progress. Barely visible, easily snuffed out, but progress nonetheless.
He exhaled, forcing the tension from his shoulders, and rose from the marble floor. A single glance at the ornate water clock in the corner told him it was nearly the third watch of the night. Time to rest.
He didn't make it to his bed.
The faintest scrape of leather against stone came from the window — a sound too deliberate, too careful to be the wind.
Edran froze.
His senses, dulled in this body for so long, now seemed sharper after the cultivation session. The cool air carried a hint of oil and iron. His historian's mind catalogued it instantly: weapons recently sharpened, oiled for silence.
Assassin.
His eyes flicked to the dagger hidden beneath his pillow — an ornate thing given more for ceremony than battle — and then to the shadows beyond the moonlit window.
The figure stepped into the light without a sound.
Clad in close-fitting black, their face hidden behind a mask of polished bone, the intruder moved with the slow certainty of someone who had killed before. A short sword gleamed in their hand, its edge coated with something dark that caught the light strangely. Poison.
Edran's pulse quickened, but his mind remained cold. If this assassin had expected an easy target — the coughing, trembling third prince — then that was his advantage.
The intruder took one step closer. Two.
"Your Highness," they whispered, voice low and without emotion. "No hard feelings. This is just… removal of excess pieces."
The choice of words told Edran plenty. This wasn't a random assassin hired by some disgruntled noble. This was a court job. The phrasing was polite, professional — someone eliminating a player from the board before the game could truly begin.
Alaric? Selene? Or perhaps Darius?
It didn't matter. Survival came first.
In his old life, Kael Marcellus had studied not only history but the arts of ancient warfare — strategy, weapons, the psychology of survival. Fighting with a body this weak was suicide, but that didn't mean he couldn't win.
He waited until the assassin was a single step away, then dropped.
It wasn't grace; it was calculation. His knees buckled, sending him collapsing to the side in a coughing fit that looked convincing because it was — the sudden movement jarred his ribs and sent a real spasm through his lungs.
The assassin, caught off-guard, hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat. That was all Edran needed.
His hand darted under the pillow, drawing the ceremonial dagger in a clumsy but desperate-looking grip. He didn't aim for the chest or throat — too risky against someone faster and stronger. Instead, he slashed at the assassin's weapon hand.
The blade bit shallowly into leather and skin. The assassin hissed, the short sword clattering to the marble floor.
Edran didn't press the attack. Instead, he kicked the fallen weapon under the bed and scrambled backward toward the heavy writing desk in the corner. His body screamed in protest, every movement a reminder of its fragility, but adrenaline drove him on.
The assassin recovered quickly, switching to a thin stiletto pulled from their boot. They closed the distance in a blur — too fast.
Edran grabbed the nearest object from the desk — an inkwell of dense black glass — and hurled it. The projectile smashed against the assassin's mask, shattering it and sending a spray of ink across their face.
For the first time, the intruder made a sound that wasn't calm or controlled — a snarl.
The door burst open.
Two palace guards stood framed in the doorway, spears raised, eyes wide at the scene.
The assassin turned, saw the interruption, and moved. They didn't try to fight. With the speed of a shadow fleeing dawn, they dove through the window, vanishing into the gardens below.
The guards rushed to Edran's side."Your Highness! Are you hurt?"
Edran forced his breath to steady, schooling his features into something between shaken and relieved."They tried to kill me," he said hoarsely, letting the truth carry its own weight. "Find them. I want them alive."
The guards exchanged a glance but obeyed, one disappearing into the night while the other remained behind to "protect" him — though Edran knew better. This man wasn't here to guard him; he was here to watch him.
When the commotion had quieted, Edran sat back at the desk, the ink-stained shards of the inkwell still scattered across the floor. His hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the aftershock of adrenaline.
Someone in the court had moved faster than he'd expected. He hadn't even begun his political maneuvers, and already they'd tried to cut him down.
Which meant… they feared him. Or rather, they feared what he could become.
That was good.
Fear was a seed. Given time, it could grow into hesitation — and hesitation could be fatal in the political game.
Later, when the guard finally left to report to his superior, Edran returned to his cultivation stance. Every breath, every cycle of mana through his fractured Spirit Root now carried a sharper focus.
He had seen death tonight — had touched it. And he understood now that power was the only true protection. The guards, the walls, the palace titles — all of it meant nothing without strength to back it.
The Ninefold Circulation flowed more smoothly than before, the shock of battle seeming to loosen the blockages within him. Mana moved like water breaking through sediment, tiny cracks opening into channels. It hurt — a deep, burning ache in his chest — but he welcomed it.
He could almost feel the shape of what he was building inside himself: a core not just for mana, but for something deeper, heavier. A fusion of this world's magic and the cultivation principles of his old one. If he was right, it would not only restore his Spirit Root but strengthen it beyond the limits of royal bloodline magic.
And when that happened…
They would not fear him as a possibility. They would fear him as a reality.
In another wing of the palace, far from Edran's small chamber, the surviving assassin knelt before a figure shrouded in silk and shadow.
"You failed," the figure said softly, their voice smooth as the edge of a razor.
The assassin kept their head bowed. "The prince… fought. Not well, but enough to delay me. Guards arrived."
A pause. Then, a faint chuckle."Interesting. The little ghost of the court grows teeth."
The assassin risked a glance upward. "Shall I try again?"
The figure swirled their wine, the dark liquid catching the candlelight."No. Not yet. If the boy thinks he's safe, he'll reveal his ambitions. And then… we'll cut him down before he reaches the board."
The assassin bowed again, vanishing into the shadows.
Back in his chamber, Edran opened his eyes, the faint glow of mana still swirling in his irises.
Let them watch. Let them plot.
He would use every moment they gave him.
Because the next time death came to his door… it would not leave alive.