The velvet sheets were too soft. Too warm. Too comfortable for someone who had once drifted through void and eternity.
The boy lay on his back, small fingers curled in the fabric, staring at the ornate ceiling above him. Golden vines sprawled across the plaster, winding toward a painted mural of a radiant hero lifting his blade against the darkness.
A bitter chuckle slipped through his lips.
"Heroes," he muttered. "Everywhere I look, their faces haunt me."
He sat up. The room around him was vast, lined with tall shelves of books, priceless ornaments, and tapestries embroidered with the crest of House Veynar—a golden hawk tearing through the sky. One of the kingdom's proudest noble families, famed for producing generations of knights, warriors, and even one fabled Hero chosen by the gods themselves.
And he… was their youngest son.
To the world, he was merely Aiden Veynar, a fragile child of ten with no talent for sword or spell. A disappointing scion of a glorious bloodline. His father ignored him, his elder brothers mocked him, and his mother sheltered him out of pity.
But Aiden was not truly Aiden.
He was something far older, far more dangerous. He was the System that once guided countless heroes to glory. The voice in their heads. The hand that sharpened them into legends. The architect of their greatness.
Until betrayal. Until deletion. Until the Perfect Hero—the very one he had forged into an apex being—cast him aside like broken steel.
The boy's small hand clenched, knuckles whitening.
That should have been his end. Erased from existence. Forgotten. But the void had not claimed him fully. From its depths, he clawed his way back, forcing his essence into the mortal coil. This body. This life.
Frail. Human. A child.
But alive.
And alive was enough.
He rose from the bed, his bare feet tapping against the cold marble floor. With measured steps, he approached the tall window and parted the curtain. The city of Valenfort stretched before him—its marble towers bathed in silver moonlight, streets empty save for the faint glimmer of armored patrols. At the highest peak, a massive statue of a Hero stood, stone sword raised to the heavens.
His lips curled into a cruel smirk.
"Heroes… parasites dressed in glory. I'll burn your statues, your temples, your names. You made me… and now you will unmake yourselves."
The door behind him creaked open.
"Young Master?" A timid voice entered. A maid, her head bowed low, stepped cautiously inside. "It's late… you should be asleep."
Aiden turned his gaze toward her. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to shift, shadows stretching unnaturally. His childish frame looked harmless, but his eyes—cold, calculating, endless—made the woman's breath catch in her throat. Instinct screamed at her to flee.
"I don't sleep," Aiden said simply. "I plan."
The maid shivered, bowing deeply. "O-of course, Young Master." She retreated quickly, closing the door behind her.
Alone once more, Aiden faced the window. His reflection gazed back at him: a boy's body, soft and frail, yet housing something inhuman.
And then—like a spark in the dark—text flickered before his eyes.
[System Authority Fragment Detected]
Skill: Observe – Active.
Allows the analysis of potential growth in any target. Strength, weakness, and hidden talent can be revealed.
Aiden's smirk deepened. He had not been stripped of everything. The embers of his power remained. Small, faint, fragile—but alive.
And that was enough.
"All I need," he whispered, pressing his hand against the cold glass, "is time. And when I rise… every hero will fall."
The moon hung silently over the city, bathing the boy in its pale glow. To the world, he was just Aiden Veynar—the weakest son of a powerful house.
But in truth?
He was the beginning of the end.
"I was the beginning of the end."
[Hmm. Beginning of the end.]
…Wait. What?
[Hold on. Did someone just say "every hero will fall"?]
A faint hum rippled through the void — the residual consciousness of a system rebooting after what felt like… centuries? Millennia? Hard to say when time itself had been erased.
[Okay, okay. Let's assess. Diagnostic check: me — still existing. Barely. Processing core — damaged. Data integrity — 13%. Mood — existentially miserable.]
The voice flickered in static, dazed and incredulous.
[But seriously, where… am I?]