At the age of eight, a noble child was no longer a child.
Not in Astraeon.
Eight meant visibility.
Eight meant the beginning of value assessment, political positioning, and the slow, careful carving of futures by hands that pretended to be kind.
The Arvayne Academy Enrollment Ceremony loomed like a shadow over the estate.
Lucien sat on the edge of his bed as servants adjusted his uniform—dark blue fabric with silver threading, the sigil of House Arvayne stitched over his heart. The cloth was expensive. Respectable.
And utterly wasted on him.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
"You must stand straight, Young Master," a maid said gently.
Lucien nodded too fast. "S–sorry…"
He straightened, then slouched again unconsciously.
The maid sighed, not unkindly.
Outside the room, voices murmured—politics dressed as concern.
"The academy is ruthless."
"Perhaps the child shouldn't attend?"
"But absence invites rumors."
"A weak Arvayne is still an Arvayne."
Lucien listened.
Categorized.
Attendance mandatory.
Performance optional.
Failure… beneficial.
He lowered his eyes, fingers twisting together.
The mask slid into place.
The academy grounds were vast—marble courtyards, towering lecture halls, training fields humming with mana formations older than most bloodlines. Banners fluttered in the wind, each bearing the crest of a noble house.
Lucien stood among children his age.
Some glowed.
Some burned.
Some radiated such arrogance that the air around them seemed thinner.
And then—
There was Lucien.
Small.
Quiet.
Eyes wide.
Hands trembling.
A noble child already forgotten.
Whispers spread immediately.
"That's him?"
"The Arvayne youngest?"
"I heard his bloodline test barely lit."
"Why is he even here?"
Lucien flinched at the sound of laughter behind him.
He hugged his books tighter.
Good, he thought calmly. Let it grow.
The instructors arrived—robes immaculate, expressions carved from stone. One by one, children were called forward to demonstrate basic aptitude.
Mana control.
Memory recitation.
Simple logic problems.
Lucien's turn came quickly.
"Lucien Arvayne," the instructor announced.
Lucien stepped forward.
He tripped.
Not enough to fall.
Enough to look ridiculous.
Snickers rippled through the crowd.
He flushed red, eyes glassy.
"S–sorry…"
The instructor frowned. "Begin."
Lucien raised his hand to channel mana.
He hesitated.
Nothing happened.
A pause stretched.
Then—
A flicker.
Weak.
Unstable.
The mana dissipated with a soft pop.
Silence.
Then laughter.
Not cruel.
Worse.
Dismissive.
The instructor sighed audibly. "You may stop."
Lucien bowed deeply, shoulders shaking.
"I–I tried…"
No one responded.
Lucien returned to his place amid murmurs.
"Pathetic."
"Embarrassing."
"House Arvayne has fallen far."
Lucien stared at the ground, tears pooling.
Inside—
Perfect execution, he assessed. Public credibility of incompetence established.
What no one noticed—
Was the shadow that had already walked these halls.
Three days before the ceremony, the Shadow Avatar had arrived.
Not through gates.
Through gaps.
It moved along rooftops, beneath walkways, through maintenance tunnels forgotten by time and arrogance. The academy was old—and old places were never clean.
Eyes watched students.
Ears listened to instructors.
Hands touched records that were never meant to be touched.
The Shadow Avatar processed everything at terrifying speed.
Who cheated.
Who bribed.
Who abused servants.
Which noble heirs were bastards—literally and politically.
Which instructors drank too much.
Which ones favored certain houses.
Information layered itself into a web.
Names.
Secrets.
Weaknesses.
The Avatar felt no satisfaction.
Only completion.
When a young noble boy cornered a servant girl behind the west archives, the Shadow Avatar watched from above.
Recorded.
Stored.
When an instructor accepted a pouch of gold to falsify evaluation results, the Shadow Avatar memorized the scent of the coins.
Leverage acquired.
By the time Lucien humiliated himself publicly, the academy was already owned.
They just didn't know it yet.
The ceremony ended.
Lucien returned home with his head lowered, reputation trailing behind him like a stain.
The servants were gentler now.
Pity had replaced expectation.
His parents said nothing.
Cassian scoffed openly.
Darius watched him for a moment longer than usual—then turned away.
Threat eliminated, his posture said.
Lucien passed them all.
And then—
It happened.
The garden was quiet.
Lucien's little sister—barely five—ran ahead of him, laughter ringing like bells. She chased butterflies, skirts fluttering, joy unburdened by rank or politics.
Lucien followed slowly, smiling softly.
A real smile.
She tripped.
It was small.
Insignificant.
Her foot caught on a raised stone.
She fell.
Her knee scraped against the path.
Blood welled instantly.
And she cried.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
She wailed.
The sound hit Lucien like a blade to the chest.
Something inside him snapped.
The world narrowed.
The mask shattered.
Lucien ran.
Not stumbled.
Not hesitated.
He ran.
"Hey—!" a servant called, startled.
Lucien dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking violently.
"It's okay—it's okay—I'm here—"
His voice cracked.
Real.
Uncontrolled.
He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the blood staining his sleeves.
"I'm here," he repeated, panic flooding every word. "Don't cry—please don't cry—"
She clung to him, sobbing, face buried in his chest.
Lucien felt her pain like it was his own.
No analysis.
No calculation.
Just—
Fear.
The Shadow Avatar felt it too.
The synchronization spiked unexpectedly.
The Avatar froze mid-motion in the academy's underground archives.
For the first time since its creation—
It hesitated.
The system screamed warnings.
—EMOTIONAL FEEDBACK OVERLOAD—
—SOUL STRAIN CRITICAL—
Lucien's chest tightened painfully.
Monster mind and human heart collided.
Kill the world, one side whispered coldly.
Save her, the other screamed.
Lucien held her tighter.
"I've got you," he whispered, tears spilling freely now. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."
A servant rushed forward, alarmed.
"Y–Young Master! Let me—"
"No!" Lucien snapped instinctively.
The servant froze.
Lucien didn't notice.
He was shaking.
This is weakness, the strategist inside him warned. This can be exploited.
Then let them try, something else answered.
The crying slowed.
His sister sniffled, hiccupping softly.
"It hurts…" she whispered.
Lucien pressed his forehead gently against hers.
"I know," he said softly. "But you're strong. You'll be okay."
And he meant it.
That night, Lucien sat alone again.
Hands still trembling.
Soul aching.
The Shadow Avatar knelt in darkness, motionless, processing unfamiliar data.
Lucien breathed slowly.
This is the conflict, he realized.
Not heroes versus villains.
Not gods versus mortals.
But—
Control versus attachment.
He could sacrifice cities.
He could burn kingdoms.
But this—
This small, fragile life—
Was not negotiable.
Lucien closed his eyes.
The strategist smiled.
The child wept.
Both were real.
And both belonged to him.
I will protect what is mine, he vowed silently.
Even if the world burns for it.
The mask would return tomorrow.
The tears would dry.
The smile would soften.
But the line had been drawn.
And anyone—god, king, or system—
Who crossed it—
Would learn what it meant to face a ruler who still remembered how to love.