For the next year, Alaric became a shadow. He avoided the servants, spoke only when necessary, and spent his nights staring at the ceiling, waiting.
He could feel the "Seal" inside his chest like a heavy iron door. Behind that door, a storm was building.
The "Seed" was growing, feeding on his maturing body. He could feel the power itching under his skin, a destructive force that wanted to unravel the threads of his bedsheets, the stone of the walls, the very air he breathed.
He practiced the art of being unremarkable. He learned to smile just enough to put his mother at ease, and to stay silent enough to make his father think he was obedient.
But behind their backs, he's doing quite dangerous things.
While the rest of the Silverlane estate slept, Alaric sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his bedchamber.
The moonlight bled through the tall windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across his small frame. To any passing guard, he looked like a child lost in a dream; in reality, Alaric was conducting a dangerous experiment within the architecture of his own soul.
Since the "System" had entered hibernation, Alaric had felt a profound sense of hollowness. The "Seed of Destruction" wasn't gone—it was merely locked behind a door he didn't yet have the key to.
He closed his eyes, pulling his awareness away from the sensory world and diving into the "Inner Sea" of his consciousness.
In his previous life as Daniel, he had never known power.
He had known the weight of a desk job and the hum of electronics. Now, he found himself staring at a metaphorical monolith. In the center of his chest sat the Seal—a pulsating orb of white, crystalline light that felt like frozen fire.
Wrapped around it were chains of violet energy, the "Suppression Protocol" he had authorized as an infant.
It's too quiet, he thought, his mental voice sharp and analytical.
He reached out with his will, attempting to brush against the violet chains.
The moment his consciousness made contact, a jolt of pure agony lanced through his nervous system. His infant body jerked, his breath hitching in his throat. It felt as though he had touched a live wire.
He didn't back away. Instead, he leaned into the pain. He needed to know the limits of his cage.
As he pressed harder, the violet chains flared.
A notification, ghostly and translucent, flickered in the darkness of his mind:
[ Warning: Integrity of the 'Five-Year Seal' at 99.9% ]
[ Direct interference by the Host may cause premature leakage. Result: Physical dissolution of the vessel ]
"Physical dissolution," Alaric whispered aloud, his voice cracking the silence of the room. A fancy way of saying he would explode.
He pulled back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The "Seed" beneath the seal reacted to his retreat, letting out a low, vibrational hum that made his teeth ache.
It was hungry. It didn't just want to exist; it wanted to consume. He realized then that his "mana core" wasn't a battery like the ones described in the library books.
It was a vacuum.
To test this theory, Alaric picked up a small wooden soldier—a toy his mother had insisted on giving him. He held it in his palm and concentrated, not on the Seal, but on the tiny, microscopic amount of "leakage" that bypassed the violet chains.
He imagined the heat in his blood flowing through his fingertips. For a second, the dark red of his eyes intensified, glowing like dying embers. A thin wisp of black smoke curled from the wooden soldier's head. There was no flame, no spark—just a silent unmaking. The wood simply ceased to be, turning into a fine, soot-like powder that slipped through his fingers and stained the white rug.
Alaric stared at the residue. It wasn't magic. Magic was about creation, transmutation, or the manipulation of elements.
That was dangerous. He was destroying the object from the of reality.
The Seer was right to be afraid," Alaric murmured, wiping the ash onto his nightshirt.
He spent the next several hours practicing this "micro-drain." He couldn't touch the Seal directly, but he could practice the intent of destruction.
He learned that if he focused too hard, a sharp pain would bloom behind his eyes—the System's way of slapping his hand away from the cookie jar. If he focused too little, nothing happened.
He needed to find the "Zero Point"—the exact threshold where he could command his power without triggering the Seal's alarms.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, Alaric was exhausted.
His small muscles felt like they had been run through a meat grinder.
This was the paradox of his new life: he possessed the power of a god, but the stamina of a toddler.
Every "training session" ended with him collapsing into his pillows, his mind buzzing with the dark potential of what would happen when he turned five.
The iron door was holding for now. But Alaric knew that when that door finally opened, he wouldn't just be a child starting his magical education. He would be a storm that had been brewing in a bottle for five years.
One crisp autumn evening, as the orange sun dipped below the spires of Valor City, Elara Silverlane entered the library.
She found Alaric where he always was—drowned in a chair three sizes too large for him, surrounded by a fortress of open manuscripts.
For a moment, she simply stood in the doorway, watching him. Her heart ached with a peculiar kind of grief.
She had prayed for a son, but Alaric often felt like a tenant living in her house—a polite, brilliant, and utterly distant stranger.
"Alaric, darling," she said softly, stepping into the room. "The cook made honey cakes. Your favorite."
Alaric didn't look up immediately. He was finishing a passage on the atmospheric density of mana. To him, the interruption was a flickering screen on a monitor he was trying to read.
But then, a memory from his life as Daniel surfaced—a orphan in a different world, yearned to have parents, desperate hope for connection.
He closed the book.
"Thank you, Mother," he said, forcing his voice to soften.
He climbed down from the chair, his movements intentionally making more noise than usual to mimic the clumsiness of a four-year-old.
Elara knelt, meeting him at eye level. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed a stray lock of white hair hair from his forehead.
"You spend so much time in the dark, Alaric. You're so pale. When I was your age, I was running through the orchards, staining my dresses with berry juice."
"The books are more interesting than berries," Alaric replied.
Elara's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Are they? Or are they just safer? Your father thinks you are a genius, and perhaps you are. But I worry that you are forgetting how to be a child. You haven't laughed in a year, Alaric. Not once."
The observation hit him with unexpected force. Daniel—the man—had forgotten how to laugh long before he died in his previous world.
But Alaric—the child—needed to show life.
I am happy here," he lied. He reached out and took her hand. Her skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold, numbing sensation of the Seal inside him.
For a fleeting second, the "Seed" within him reacted to her proximity. It didn't want to destroy her; it wanted to feed on the life force radiating from her.
Alaric recoiled internally, tightening his mental grip on his power. Not her. Never her.
You're so cold," Elara whispered, pulling his small hands into hers to warm them. "Is the library cold ? I'll tell Silas to install more heaters."
I'm fine, Mother. Just... thinking.
What do you think about, truly?"
she asked, her voice a fragile thread. "Sometimes I look at you, and I feel like you're looking through me. Like you're seeing a world I can't even imagine.
Do you hate us for keeping you locked away? For the 'isolation' your father insists upon?"
Alaric looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. He saw the genuine, unconditional love in her eyes—a love he hadn't earned, but was receiving anyway.
He realized that Elara was his greatest vulnerability and his only anchor. If the Church ever came for him, they would use her.
"I don't hate you," Alaric said, and this time, it wasn't a calculated lie. "I stay in the library because I want to be strong enough to make sure no one ever takes this home away from us."
Elara's eyes filled with tears. She pulled him into a fierce embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. Alaric stiffened at first, the physical contact feeling intrusive, but then he slowly relaxed, resting his small head against her.
He could hear her heartbeat. He could smell the lavender in her hair. He felt the weight of the responsibility.
He wasn't just surviving for himself anymore; he was a monster being raised by a saint.
"You're just a boy," she sobbed into his hair. "You shouldn't have to be strong for us."
I'm not just a boy Alaric thought, staring over her shoulder at the darkened shelves of the library. I am the Calamity that is coming for this world. And I will burn everything to the ground before I let them touch you.
When she finally let him go, her face was flushed but she looked lighter, as if a burden had been shared. "Eat your cakes, Alaric. Tomorrow, we shall go to the gardens. No books allowed."
As you wish, Mother," Alaric said, offering a small
As you wish, Mother," Alaric said, offering a small, practiced smile.
As she left the room, the smile vanished.
The silence of the library rushed back in, heavy and suffocating.
Alaric turned back to his books, but his hand stayed on his chest, right over the spot where her heart had beat against his. The Seed felt heavier than ever.
The seed of destruction slowly ate away at his sanity.
Alaric whispered, "I have become strong enough to control this Seed.
Only then can I live happily with my family
and kill that figure who murdered me."
The system was silent. The house was quiet. But inside Alaric Silverlane, the countdown was reaching its end.