Rowan finally stepped out of the bath, the warmth of the water still clinging to his skin. His hair was damp, falling in soft, red waves around his face and neck. For a moment he paused, letting the steam curl around him, feeling the calm that only solitude and luxury could bring. He was now an amalgamation of two minds: the arrogant noble he had created and the editor who knew everything about this life.
The door opened, and Clara, the blonde maid, stood there waiting.
"You were ten minutes late, young master," she said, her tone mild but firm, the slightest edge of impatience in her voice.
Rowan spread his hands casually, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You know how I lose sense of time when I am in a bath, Clara," he replied smoothly, the words carrying the lazy confidence of the noble he had designed himself to be.
Clara rolled her eyes slightly but began gathering his clothes. Rowan watched, letting his gaze roam over the folds of fabric, the careful embroidery, the way the sunlight from the window glinted on golden threads.
He would be meeting his father, Duke Arthur Wavecrest, today. The trip to the royal capital of the Virellian Empire was for the trait-checking ceremony. It was a serious matter. Unlike him, people in this world could not simply see their traits; they had to feel them, sense them in their souls.
A person might awaken a mana core, but that alone did not guarantee traits. Out of a hundred mages, only ten might manifest them, and most would be Iron ranked. Silver and Gold were almost unheard of.
Gold-ranked traits were said to appear once among ten million mages and yet Rowan already knew in one year there would be six students in Aurelian Academy possessing Gold-ranked traits. His own fiancée, the second princess, had one too.
Clara returned with a neatly folded outfit and laid it out on a chair. Rowan's eyes followed every movement, not out of vanity, but curiosity and habit. The clothes were exactly as he would have imagined for the heir of a great noble family.
The tunic was made of soft crimson silk, cut to fit him perfectly without clinging too tightly. Subtle embroidery traced the cuffs and collar in silver thread, forming the crest of House Wavecrest, a stylized wave curling around a star. His trousers were deep navy, tailored to allow ease of movement, and over them, a fine leather belt with a small dagger nestled securely. He would rarely use it, but the piece was as much a statement as a weapon. Polished boots completed the ensemble, and a thin, lightweight cloak with a silver clasp rested on the chair, meant to be draped elegantly over one shoulder when he departed.
Clara lifted the tunic and handed it to him carefully. "As always, you carry yourself well, young master," she said.
Rowan took the clothes and allowed a small, faint smile. "Thank you, Clara. Your timing is impeccable as always," he said, slipping into the tunic. The silk felt cool against his damp skin, sliding over his shoulders effortlessly. He dressed quickly, almost out of habit, the motions precise and confident.
He caught himself in the mirror once more before leaving. The reflection of the fourteen-year-old boy staring back was already striking. His green eyes sparkled with alert intelligence, and his hair, now partially dried, framed his face in elegant waves. He still had the softness of youth, but even at this age, there was a charm and poise that would catch attention wherever he went.
Clara waited patiently as Rowan fastened the final buttons on his tunic and adjusted the folds of his cloak. "Your father will be expecting you soon," she said, glancing toward the door.
Rowan nodded. "I know. Let us not keep him waiting."
As they left the room, he allowed himself one final glance at the bath, the warm steam curling up like a memory he could savor. Luxury, power, beauty, and status, they were all here, tangible, yet secondary to the plans forming in his mind. He had a life to survive, a world to protect, and five years to prepare. Everything else, even being handsome and noble, was just a tool.
Clara guided him through the hallways of the grand mansion , they exited the mansion and through the beautiful garden with not only normal flowers but magical plants too. His mother used to be very fond of gardening and he knew that most of the garden was their because of his mother's tending.
As they walked through the courtyard, Rowan's eyes immediately caught sight of the family carriage. It was grand beyond anything he had imagined, painted a deep midnight blue with silver trimmings that caught the sunlight and glinted like polished steel. The crest of House Wavecrest was emblazoned proudly on the sides: a curling wave encircling a star. The wheels were thick, reinforced with iron and polished to a dark gleam, and the panels were carved with intricate depictions of ships, storms, and waves, subtle reminder of the family's naval dominance.
Pulling the carriage were two enormous horses. They were not mere noble steeds but second order thunderstorm horses, their coats gleaming like obsidian, eyes crackling faintly with latent energy. Every muscle in their bodies was taut, coiled with raw power, and Rowan could feel the electricity in the air around them. Second order thunderstorm horses were rare beasts, capable of reaching speeds up to 400 kilometers per hour, though in the context of a carriage they moved at a more reasonable pace. Even walking beside them, Rowan could sense the immense power thrumming beneath their skin, the faint hum of electricity in each step.
Next to the carriage stood two figures.
The first was unmistakably a butler.
He was tall and lean, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt beneath. Every line of his clothing was precise, maintained with a discipline that made him look less like a man and more like an extension of order itself. His jet-black hair was slicked neatly back, and his expression remained impassive, as if emotion had no place in his duties.
His name was Alfred.
Beside him, however, the air itself felt heavier.
The second figure was immense.
From Rowan's perspective, the man had to be well over six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered and built with the kind of strength that did not need to announce itself. Red hair, long and unbound, spilled over his shoulders like a lion's mane, catching the morning light with a faint metallic sheen. Golden eyes swept across the surroundings with quiet dominance, as if the entire estate existed within his line of command.
He wore crimson silk similar to Rowan's own attire, but layered beneath a heavy cloak embroidered with waves, anchors, and naval insignia. The craftsmanship was not decorative—it was declarative. A wide belt held a ceremonial blade at his side, and his polished boots struck the ground with restrained authority even in stillness.
Duke Arthur Wavecrest , Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy.
Rowan's breath caught slightly.
The man did not move, yet everything around him felt as though it adjusted to his presence—nobles would hesitate before him, and even silence seemed to straighten its posture.
The carriage groaned slightly as the thunderstorm horses shifted their massive hooves, the sound a low rumble that reminded Rowan of distant thunder. The harnesses glimmered with silver fittings, embossed with tiny runes that hinted at protective enchantments. The leather reins were thick, supple, and polished. Every detail, from the carved wheels to the embroidered cushions inside, spoke of wealth, status, and unyielding attention to tradition.
Rowan's chest tightened as he stepped closer. The grandeur, the horses, the uniforms, the meticulous precision of every servant, and the raw power of his father combined to make him realize just how high the stakes were in this life. This was not a simple noble family. This was the Wavecrest family, a dynasty that commanded respect through strength, wealth, and influence.
And today, he would have to meet it all as Rowan Wavecrest, the third son, inheritor of privilege, and potential villain.
Clara and Rowan arrived at the carriage. She bowed deeply to his father, her posture perfect, before stepping back with quiet grace. Rowan inclined his head in return. His father, Duke Arthur Wavecrest, acknowledged him with a subtle nod.
Alfred, the family butler, moved with precision to open the carriage doors. He stood motionless until Rowan and his father were inside, then closed them behind them with practiced elegance. The soft click of the latch resonated in the cabin, almost ceremonial in its exactness.
Inside, the carriage was a world of its own. Thick cushions lined the seats, soft enough to feel like clouds but firm enough to support proper posture. The floor was polished dark wood, gleaming faintly in the sunlight that filtered through the windows. Rowan sank into a seat, the sensation so luxurious he briefly wondered if he had stumbled into a bed rather than a carriage.
Alfred took the reins. The thunderstorm horses beneath them surged forward, powerful muscles rippling as hooves struck the ground with a muted crackle of electric energy. The carriage shot forward faster than any normal horse could manage, yet the interior remained perfectly smooth, every bump softened by runic enchantments embedded into the wheels and floor.
Rowan's mind traced the details magical stabilizers, subtle protective runes proof that even in this medieval-leaning world, mastery of mana made life far more comfortable than he had ever experienced.
He leaned back, taking in the city as it spread beneath them. Marisola shimmered in the morning light, canals winding between stone buildings topped with terra-cotta roofs, sunlight glinting on water in every direction. Sailboats bobbed in the harbors, merchants called out across crowded docks, and bridges arched elegantly above the canals.
His father's voice cut through the view. "Rowan, do you understand why we are going to the royal capital for your trait identification, even though Marisola has sufficient equipment?"
Rowan allowed a faint smirk to curl at his lips. Of course I know, he thought. I am the fucking editor of this story.
If it were the old Rowan, Axel in this body before the memories merged, he would have felt a tight knot in his stomach, nervous about speaking in front of a man like his father, a Formless core mage, afraid that any small slip might reveal he was out of place.
Now, with the memories and instincts of the original Rowan fused with his own, that fear was gone. He could speak freely, confident, measured, and with just the right touch of playful arrogance.
He tilted his head slightly, voice smooth . "It's because of my beloved fiancée, isn't it? The king plans to use her gold-ranked trait at the trait identification ceremony to embarrass our family and cancel our engagement."
Duke Arthur's face softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "At least you are aware. The king's grip over the nobility is weak. He fears the alliance your marriage would represent and the power it would give to us. The Wavecrest family's might threaten the crown itself."
He leaned back slightly in the seat, golden sunlight glinting off the embroidery of his cloak.
"As a loyal subject, I must comply with His Majesty's orders and bring you to the capital for the ceremony," he said, voice firm yet not unkind. "Do not expect to awaken a gold-ranked trait."
A brief pause.
"You will, however, inherit our family's Silver Child of the Sea. That alone is more than most nobles can hope for."
His gaze sharpened slightly, then softened again.
"Neither I nor your elder brothers possess gold traits. And yet here we stand, the strongest ducal house in the empire."
Rowan let the words settle.
Then Arthur exhaled lightly, a faint, almost teasing smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
"You are rather calm for someone about to lose his dear 'sea-star bride,' aren't you?"
Rowan blinked once.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
Cringeworthy. Overdramatic. A younger Rowan standing before the princess dramatically declaring her as his Sea-Star Bride.
Rowan's expression didn't change, but something inside him quietly died a second time.
Across from him, Arthur's eyes held amusement now subtle, controlled, the kind of humor a man in his position rarely allowed himself.
Seeing his son fall silent instead of reacting, Arthur simply leaned back and retrieved a book from somewhere within the carriage interior, as if it had always been there. Within moments, he was reading, completely unbothered, the faint rustle of pages filling the space between them.
Rowan meanwhile was in deep thought.
While the engagement was formalized by the king's late father and Rowan's late grandfather, for the already weak king a political marriage to the most powerful was too dangerous to allow.
The cancellation of the engagement had been one of the first fractures in Rowan's descent. At the academy, it had twisted into obsession, then resentment, especially once the second princess began gravitating toward the protagonist.
But here, in this moment, none of that had happened yet.
Frankly, Rowan would not let it happen. He had two gold-ranked traits and could not imagine how the king would react. But instead of revealing both, he decided to show only one.
A single gold-ranked trait was more than enough to secure influence and shift the political balance in his favor. It would also serve as a clean, believable explanation for his rapid growth, something that would otherwise raise far more suspicion if left unexplained.
And no, he definitely wasn't revealing a gold-ranked trait just to secure the engagement.
Now how was Rowan going to hide his traits? That was where his Master of Mana trait came in. As a gold-ranked trait, the level of mana control it granted was so high that it could even fool Formless core mages and any equipment used to detect traits. The original protagonist had used the same method to hide two of his gold traits, revealing only one .
The journey from Marisola to the royal capital, Luminara, would take about six hours. The distance between the two cities was nearly 900 kilometers, which meant the horses were moving at a speed of 150 kilometers per hour. Rowan was shocked. At least there are no speed limits, he thought, recalling the last time he had visited the capital.
It had been eight months ago when his entire family went to the capital to witness his second brother being officially recognized as the leader of his knight order. Rowan remembered that trip vividly. While walking through the grand streets of Luminara, he had stumbled upon a street performer juggling fire in the central square.
Amused, he had tossed a coin into the performer's hat, only for the fire to suddenly flare and singe his sleeve. His father had scolded him, his older brothers had laughed, and Rowan had ended up chasing the performer across the square, red-faced because a commoner had the guts to end up burning his noble clothes.
Rowan had two elder brothers. Cedric, the eldest, was twenty eight, and Eric, the second, was twenty three. Rowan was the youngest. Technically, he was their half-brother or maybe their cousin as the duke had remarried after his first wife died and his second wife was the sister of his first wife.
His father's life had been tragic; both of his wives had passed, leaving him a single father.
Cedric was an admiral in the Royal Navy, the third-highest position, only behind the Grand Admiral his father ,and the king himself. Cedric had been groomed to inherit both the dukedom and the navy.
Although Marisola was the empire's navy headquarters, Cedric rarely stayed there, spending most of his time fighting pirates in the Verdemar Archipelago. He had been even busier lately, dealing with the rise of a new pirate king.
Eric, on the other hand, was a royal knight who led his own knight order. In the Virellian Empire, there were three military forces: the army, the navy, and the knight order. The army and navy primarily handled external threats, while the knight order was in charge of internal security. Despite its singular name, the knight order was made up of smaller orders, each led by a royal knight and working together under the Grandmaster.
Eric, one of the youngest royal knights, led the Order of the Obsidian Blade and was stationed at the capital. Even though Cedric and Eric were his half-brothers, they treated Rowan as their own. His father had already planned each brother's path, so there was no conflict over the inheritence of the dukedom .
The carriage rocked gently as it sped along the wide imperial road. Rowan leaned back against the cushions, watching the countryside blur past. His father, the Duke, sat opposite him, hands folded over his lap, eyes occasionally drifting out the window.
Why did we even take a carriage when we could have used the teleportation portal in Marisola like last time? Rowan thought.
He was about to ask his father, but swallowed the words before they left his mouth. There was no need to endure another hour-long lecture on patience disguised as "life experience."
"It's been a while since we traveled like this," Duke Arthur said instead, his posture as stiff as ever. "Last time, you were still a child."
Rowan gave a faint, controlled smirk. I'm hardly a child anymore… but I also know better than to test him."I'm not a child anymore, Father," he said carefully.
Arthur's lips twitched like he was trying, and failing, to form a smile.
"No, I suppose you're not. Still, you have much to learn. Even a ride from Marisola to Luminara can teach lessons, if one pays attention."
Of course he's doing the life lesson thing.
Rowan tilted his head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "Lessons like what? Keeping the horses from running off?"
Arthur's expression tightened, the stiffness making him look even more awkward than authoritative.
"Not exactly," he said. "Patience. Observation. Humility. Even in comfort, you must remain aware. Danger does not always announce itself, even on a straight road."
Rowan suppressed a small chuckle.
He's trying to sound wise… but he's terrible at small talk.
"I see," Rowan replied evenly. "So always expect something to go wrong, even when nothing probably will."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in careful evaluation, as if weighing whether his son had grasped the intent or was simply being sarcastic again.
"Exactly," he said at last. "One must not mistake caution for cowardice. Preparation is nothing without action."
Rowan leaned back, amused despite himself.
His father was clearly trying to emulate the measured wisdom of his father—the legendary Duke who was known across the empire for his insight and restraint.
Unfortunately, Arthur Wavecrest had inherited the authority… but not quite the delivery.
And among the noble circles, that difference was the source of more than a few quietly suppressed jokes.
When Rowan was a child, he had been terrified of his father. Duke Arthur was so stern, so unyielding, that even the smallest misstep felt like it might earn a punishment. He had envied the his friends, whose fathers played with them, laughed with them, and showed affection so freely.
Now, after merging with Axel's memories, he understood just how deeply his father cared for him and his brothers. The love had always been there, buried beneath strictness and formality. In the novel, when the protagonist had killed Rowan, Arthur had erupted in a rage so intense it nearly destroyed the academy.
It had taken one of the four sages of humanity to calm him. That madness, Rowan realized, had been pure, unfiltered love, the kind his father had never known how to express properly.
He remembered the jokes he and his brothers used to make about their father's awkwardness. How Arthur could command a duchy, lead the navy, and maintain influence across the empire, yet somehow fail at even simple small talk. Rowan shook his head slightly.
Arthur, meanwhile, wore an expression that Rowan could not read. He tilted his head, frowned slightly, then smoothed his features as if preparing for some grand challenge in the royal capital. Probably figuring out how to manuveur all the conversations he would have to endure, Rowan guessed, though he wasn't entirely sure.
The carriage ride was quiet, and Rowan was beginning to feel the familiar itch of boredom. That's when he remembered the system the author had gifted him. That cheap, useless thing that made him feel embarrassed to be a transmigrator. In the rush and chaos of awakening and trying to survive in this world, he had completely forgotten one of its functions: checking the status of others.
System, check the status of the Duke, he thought.
[Trying to check the status of Arthur Wavecrest]
[Warning! Target is at a much higher level than the host]
[Status check failed]
Of course it did, Rowan muttered under his breath, cursing the author for giving him such a laughably inadequate system. That bastard had really outdone himself this time.
With nothing better to do, Rowan watched his father quietly pull a book from seemingly nowhere and begin reading with calm, precise motions. Even Arthur, it seemed, was content to sit quietly during the ride. Rowan shook his head and allowed himself a small sigh.
With the city of Marisola gradually disappearing behind the carriage and the gentle motion lulling him, Rowan leaned back in the soft cushions. Perhaps, he thought, when he woke next, he would already be in the capital. Until then, he could sleep and let the world catch up to him.