The rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone filled the silence of the night as Arin's carriage moved through the dimly lit streets of the capital. The cool air carried with it the scent of damp earth and burning lantern oil, mingling into something strangely nostalgic. Yet, despite the tranquility of the night, his mind was anything but at ease.
He leaned back against the plush velvet seat, staring at the faint reflection of his own face in the carriage window. His conversation with Evelyne replayed in his mind—every word, every pause, every flicker of hesitation in her violet eyes. There was no doubt that she had built walls around herself, but more than that, he could feel an underlying exhaustion in her. As if she had long since abandoned the idea that anyone could truly understand her.
Am I being naive, thinking I can change her fate? Arin exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. No, it wasn't about naivety. He understood the weight of what he was attempting. But he also knew that if he allowed things to unfold as they had in the novel, Evelyne would be destroyed—not just physically, but in a way that erased all traces of her existence. A villainess doomed to be a footnote in someone else's story. A necessary sacrifice to justify the heroine's triumph.
It disgusted him.
But beyond that, another thought gnawed at him—one that had been buried under his immediate concerns until now.
This world is dangerous.
Not just because of political games or noble rivalries. No, the true danger lay in something far older, something lurking beneath the surface of history itself.
The novel he had read in his past life had painted the world of Eldoria as a land steeped in grandeur, filled with legendary warriors, ancient magic, and grand kingdoms. But it had never truly explored the cost of such a world. A world where power is everything is also a world where the weak are crushed beneath the weight of those who seek to rule it.
His fingers curled slightly. He had yet to fully test his own Samsāra Shakti, Śapathajīvi, the Vowbound Chronicle, but he already understood its implications. If his power was bound by his words, then he would have to be meticulous—each vow would be an unbreakable contract. Power like that was a double-edged sword, and he could not afford to wield it carelessly.
But beyond his own power, the world's entire system of strength intrigued and unsettled him in equal measure. Samsāra Shakti—the divine right of every soul in Eldoria, awakening at fifteen, bringing with it the echoes of past lives.
Each noble house had built legacies upon this foundation. Bloodlines dictated affinities, and affinities shaped destinies. Yet, true power did not come from inheritance alone—it came from understanding.
Like the roots of an ancient tree, a child was born inheriting the traces of their parents' affinities. These roots served as the foundation, but at fifteen, their personal beliefs and comprehension shaped the branch that would grow from them. That was why no two powers were identical, even among the same bloodline.
A swordsman's child would not necessarily inherit swordsmanship—only the potential for it. If they wished to manifest such power, they would need to delve into the concept of the blade itself—its philosophy, its meaning, its purpose. Only then would their Samsāra Shakti resonate and take form in a way unique to them.
This was why Eldoria's greatest warriors and mages were not simply powerful—they were enlightened in their craft. They did not wield their strength blindly; they embodied it. And therein lay the terrifying truth.
What happens when someone comprehends a concept too well?
Arin's grip on his knee tightened. What happens when someone reaches a level where their understanding surpasses mortal limits?
The novel had hinted at beings—not gods, not demons, but something in between—who had done just that. Individuals whose comprehension of existence had allowed them to step beyond the laws of reality itself. They were the ones who had shaped Eldoria's past, leaving behind legacies of power that still rippled through history.
The problem? Power like that did not fade.
It waited.
Buried in forgotten ruins, locked away in forbidden tomes, slumbering in bloodlines that had long since lost their way.
And now, with his past-life knowledge, Arin could piece together something the novel had only hinted at.
The world of Eldoria was not just dangerous because of its people. It was dangerous because it was waking up.
The balance of power was shifting. Ancient forces, long dormant, were beginning to stir once more. And if history had taught him anything, it was that the world had a habit of correcting imbalances in the most brutal way possible.
He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. Then there's my own role in this.
He had already deviated from the novel's script. By saving Evelyne, he had changed the timeline. And the thing about fate was that it rarely accepted change without consequence. He was no longer just an observer; he was a participant. And that meant he had to be prepared.
A thought came unbidden.
What does it mean to truly defy fate?
It was a question he had no answer for. Could fate even be defied? Or was every choice simply another piece in a preordained design?
His gaze flickered toward the city beyond the carriage window. The towering spires of noble estates, the distant glow of the palace, the shifting silhouettes of guards patrolling the streets. So many lives, each moving forward without knowledge of what lay ahead.
Is ignorance truly bliss?
Arin scoffed at the thought. No, ignorance was simply another form of bondage—one he refused to be shackled by.
As the carriage approached House Devain's gates, he straightened, exhaling slowly. Tonight had given him much to consider. But one thing was certain.
He could not afford to remain passive any longer.
Because whether he liked it or not, the game had already begun.
---
The Lurking Shadows Move
Somewhere in the depths of Eldoria, far from the capital's glittering halls, a figure stood in the ruins of a once-great temple. Moonlight filtered through the broken ceiling, illuminating worn carvings depicting ancient battles. A gust of wind stirred the dust, revealing a sigil carved into the stone floor—a sigil pulsing faintly with an eerie light.
The figure kneeled, running their fingers over the markings, lips curling into a knowing smile.
"It seems history is shifting once more. How... interesting."
Their voice was soft, almost reverent, as they traced the edges of the sigil.
"Time to see if our little 'anomaly' is truly capable of defying the will of the world."
And with that, the ruins shuddered, as if something beneath them had begun to stir.