The Valerion Estate sat like a rotting tooth in the jaw of Neo-Veridian's high-society district. Once, these grounds had been the pinnacle of architectural grace, a fusion of classical marble and soaring glass. Now, the wrought-iron gates were choked with blackened ivy, and the fountain in the courtyard held nothing but stagnant rainwater and the oily sheen of urban pollution.
Julian Valerion dragged himself through the side entrance of the library, the heavy oak doors groaning as he bolted them shut. His breath was a jagged, wet sound in the silence of the room. He was dying—not with the glorious thunder of a falling star as he had in the heavens, but with the pathetic whimper of a boy beaten for loose change.
Balthazar Thorne's thugs had been thorough. Julian's left lung was collapsing, three ribs were shattered into needle-sharp fragments, and a slow bleed in his cranium was turning his vision into a smear of grey. In the year 2025, a "Void-Born" like him would have died on an operating table while doctors debated the cost of the surgery.
But the soul inhabiting this shell was no longer a victim. It was Aurelius, the Heavenly Dragon Godking.
"To think," Julian rasped, sinking onto the cold hardwood floor, "that the master of the Nine Suns would be brought low by a street-thug's boot."
He sat cross-legged, ignoring the agony that screamed through his nervous system. He closed his eyes and turned his inner gaze away from the broken flesh, searching for the only thing that mattered. Deep within the core of his spirit, buried beneath layers of trauma and weakness, he found it: the Primordial Seed. It was a single, crystalline scale of purest gold, the only fragment of his divinity that had survived the crossing of the void.
"Awaken," Julian commanded, his voice echoing in the silent halls of his mind. "The Dragon hungers."
The scale didn't just glow; it ignited.
A microscopic drop of Golden Essence—the condensed power of a thousand stars—leaked from the seed and entered Julian's bloodstream. It was a violent, holy intrusion. To a normal human, this energy would have been a lethal poison, vaporizing their veins in a heartbeat. But Julian was the architect. He didn't just heal the damage; he began a total Metamorphic Reconstruction.
The sound of his transformation was a sickening series of wet snaps and grinding stone. The shattered ribs didn't just knit back together; they thickened, their molecular structure rearranging into a lattice-work of bio-organic armor that could withstand the impact of a high-caliber bullet. The punctured lung didn't just seal; the alveoli were reinforced to filter toxic mana-radiation, turning the smog of Earth into pure fuel.
The pain was beyond anything the human mind could categorize. It was the sensation of being flayed, burned, and frozen all at once. Julian did not scream. A Godking does not beg for mercy, even from his own power.
When the final tremor passed, Julian remained still for a long moment. Then, he stood.
The movement was no longer clumsy or hesitant. It was the fluid, predatory grace of a panther. He walked toward a tall, dust-streaked mirror in the corner of the library and wiped the grime away with a steady hand.
The reflection that stared back was a revelation.
The "Julian" of yesterday—pale, sickly, and perpetually hunched in a posture of defeat—was gone. In his place stood a young man of striking, aristocratic beauty. His skin, once sallow and marked by stress-acne, was now smooth and held the luster of fine porcelain, with a faint, healthy bronze undertone. His jawline had sharpened into a razor-edged blade, framing a face that looked as if it had been carved from white jade by a master sculptor.
His hair, previously a messy, dull brown, had darkened to the color of midnight, with a strange, metallic sheen that caught the moonlight. But it was his eyes that were the most terrifying change. They were a piercing, crystalline hazel, but when he focused his intent, a vertical slit of brilliant gold flickered in the center—the mark of the Dragon King.
He was lean, but it was the leanness of a coiled spring. His shoulders had broadened, and beneath his tattered shirt, muscles moved like silk over steel. He was no longer a boy; he was a masterpiece of biological engineering, a predator disguised as a prince.
"A temporary vessel," Julian murmured, his voice now a rich, resonant baritone. "But it will suffice."
With his body stabilized, he turned his attention to the mahogany desk, where a stack of leather-bound journals lay. These were the only inheritance left by the original Julian. For the next three hours, he devoured the pages. The Godking's mind processed information like a supercomputer, absorbing a decade of Julian's life in minutes.
The diaries were a catalog of sorrow.
"January 12th: Balthazar mocked me in front of the whole academy today. He used his 'Fire-Burst' spell to singe my hair. I could do nothing but watch. Why was I born without a spark? Why am I the only one who can't feel the Nexus?"
"Because you were meant for a different sun, Julian," he whispered, closing the final book.
He turned to the obsidian-glass computer on the desk. This was the window to the world of 2025. He pressed his thumb to the sensor, his new biometrics almost failing to register before the machine surrendered.
The Global Nexus Grid flared to life. Julian searched for the Great Convergence of 1990. He watched archival footage of the "Tearing"—the moment the sky opened and the thousand worlds of the Empyrean Nexus began to merge with Earth. He saw the rise of the Planar Walkers, the creation of Mana-Tech, and the brutal wars for resources that followed.
Then, he typed a name that tasted like ash in his mouth: Caspian Vane.
The search results were endless. Caspian Vane was no longer a general; he was the Grand Architect of the Thousand Worlds. He was the CEO of the Caspian Conglomerate, a man hailed as a savior who had stabilized the Rifts and brought "order" to the chaos. His face was everywhere—billboards, news feeds, holographic statues.
"You look well, Caspian," Julian said, his eyes glowing with a dangerous, golden light. "The throne of a traitor seems to suit you. For now."
He shifted his focus, searching for the technical limitations of this world's magic. He found that the Earth was currently rated as a "Grade 4 Transition World." Its inhabitants relied on "Mana-Cores" and "Ether-Circuits" because their bodies were too weak to handle the raw power of the Rifts.
Julian's lips curled into a sneer. "They are toddlers playing with matches, unaware they are standing in a forest of dry wood."
He began to map out the local Ley-Lines of Neo-Veridian. Most were owned by the great corporations, but one stood out: Sector 4, The Iron Shipyards. It was a "Red Zone"—a place where a minor Rift had been improperly sealed, leaking what the scientists called "Chaotic Flux." To humans, it was a death trap. To a Dragon, it was an oasis.
Julian stood up, the power in his veins beginning to hum in anticipation. He didn't need the expensive potions or the high-tech training rooms of the Academy. He needed the raw, unfiltered violence of the Rift.
He looked at his reflection one last time. He saw the face of a noble, the body of a warrior, and the eyes of a god. He reached into the air, and for a brief second, the space around his hand distorted, a faint smell of ozone filling the room.
"I will take your world, Caspian," Julian promised the silent room. "I will take your wealth, your people, and your very breath. And when you have nothing left but your fear, I will show you why it is a sin to betray a Dragon."
Julian Valerion stepped out of the library, the shadows of the mansion seeming to bow as he passed. The "Void-Born" was dead. The Godking had arrived. And the thousand worlds were about to learn the price of a King's vengeance.