15 days old.
That's how long it had been since Ashok—the mind that once bent nations to their knees from the shadows—had been reborn.
His new name?
Lucien Arkanveil.
A name that rolled off tongues with imperial flair. It didn't just suggest nobility—it demanded reverence. In his past life, Ashok had clawed his way up from the gutters of Earth, mastering politics, power, and war. This time?
He'd been born into a throne disguised as a cradle.
And his cradle was velvet-lined myth.
They'd brought him home from the hospital—a sprawling tower laced with mana circuits and healing enchantments that made Earth's most advanced ICUs feel like obsolete junkyards. From there, he was carried into the heart of House Arkanveil, through walls carved from soulstone and corridors where magic hummed in the air like wind chimes of power.
His new estate?
It was less home and more fortress-palace—a sanctum where arcane runes pulsed on the walls and chandeliers held crystallized starlight. The estate was guarded not just by men but by intelligent golems and spirit-bound sentinels. Lucien was surrounded at all times by a dozen maids, each unnaturally beautiful, dressed in uniforms that seemed crafted by someone who had binged on fashion magazines and anime at the same time.
It was absurd. Gorgeous. Dangerous.
And Ashok—now Lucien—was helpless in it.
He couldn't walk. Couldn't even crawl. Worst of all? He had no control over his bowel movements. He had conquered empires in his last life… and now he couldn't even conquer his own bladder.
Still, he endured.
Because he knew this world ran on systems. And he was waiting for his.
And then, on the fifteenth day, it arrived.
---
[Proficiency Panel Detected]
Bound Soul: Ashok (Lucien Arkanveil)
Origin: Earth (Previous Life - India)
Rebirth Authorization: Granted
Unique Treasure: [Primordial Proficiency Panel]
State: Infant (15 days old)
> > All skills practiced will level up naturally
At Lv. 10, skills evolve
Muscle memory and upgraded understanding will be granted upon evolution
Current Skills: [None acquired]
---
Lucien stared at the floating panel only he could see, flickering softly in the corner of his vision like a secret between gods.
This was it.
Not divine punishment. Not karmic redemption.
Reward.
He had earned this. He'd bled for it, suffered for it. In that ruined temple hidden beneath the Western Ghats, when his dying fingers had touched the shard pulsing in Lord Shiva's crypt, he hadn't known what he was unlocking. But now? He understood.
This panel—this power—was a fragment of something primordial. Older than gods. Designed not to guide… but to elevate.
And now it was his.
---
Life in House Arkanveil wasn't merely luxurious—it was surreal.
He spent most of his days in the arms of Lady Aria Arkanveil, his mother.
And oh, what arms they were.
Lady Aria was the kind of woman sculptors gave up trying to replicate. Hair like molten gold, eyes like sapphire kissed by starlight, and a voice that turned lullabies into spells of peace. She smelled of lilies and old magic. When she cradled him, her mana—pure and radiant—wrapped around him like a second blanket.
For someone who once wore power like armor and never bowed to any throne, this woman made him feel small—in the most comforting way imaginable.
He was pampered, adored, and constantly fed exotic milks infused with micro doses of mana, alchemical nutrients, and essence extracts from divine beasts. Even the bottles looked like royal artifacts.
He could get used to this.
---
Then there was Raelan Arkanveil, the father.
Silver-haired, crimson-eyed, and stoic to the core. The kind of man who made swords nervous. His presence was an iron storm held in check by iron will. He rarely spoke, but when he looked at Lucien… there was warmth. Quiet. Steady. Real.
He didn't know how to hold a baby at first. But now? He did. And when he did, Lucien could feel the man's essence—disciplined, powerful, yet wrapped in tenderness he showed to no one else.
Lucien respected that. Deeply.
---
And then came the chaos brigade.
His eldest brother, Aleron Arkanveil, age seven.
Aleron tried to act noble. Practiced his sword forms in the hallway. Recited family values like mantras. But all that collapsed the moment Lucien so much as hiccupped.
> "Lucien is mine! I'll train him! I'll protect him!"
Aleron declared himself his brother's guardian daily, puffing his chest like a baby lion. Lucien humored him with gurgles.
Then came Celia Arkanveil, four years old.
A whirlwind of hair ribbons, sass, and emotional weather.
> "Don't touch him, dummy Aleron! He likes me more!"
She would pinch Lucien's cheeks, claim he smiled only at her, and guard him like a dragon over gold. Her voice was high-pitched chaos; her tantrums, world-shaking. And yet… she made Lucien laugh.
Because for all her dramatics, Celia's love was genuine. Fierce. Pure.
And terrifying.
---
His uncle was a phantom in comparison.
A man of few visits and fewer words. But whenever he came, he left something behind—a rune, a silver fruit, a flick of mana across Lucien's forehead. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
Lucien had known men like him before.
Killers in the skin of caretakers.
He marked him for future observation.
---
His grandparents were a comfort he hadn't expected.
Warm. Soft. They didn't treat him like a future hero or a noble heir. They told him stories. Soothed his cries with old songs. Argued over which side of the family his nose resembled.
Lucien didn't know what a "normal" childhood was supposed to be.
But this?
This was… nice.
---
And so, time moved like a dream wrapped in sunlight.
Years passed like pages turning.
Lucien learned to walk. To speak. To fake ignorance with frightening precision. Every stumble, every lisped sentence, every awkward gesture—it was all training. He monitored his progress with quiet satisfaction.
---
[Walking: Lv. 3]
[Speaking: Lv. 4]
[Observation: Lv. 5]
---
They called him gifted.
Whispered that he was a prodigy.
But only Lucien knew the truth.
He hadn't even started yet.