"If the collar is uncomfortable, please do let me know, Young Master." The maid’s fingers brushed against his skin as she adjusted the stiff fabric.

  Tristan gave a fleeting nod, his gaze fixed on the rich, vibrant navy blue of the engagement robes. He rubbed the material between his fingers, the smooth texture a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

  A team of maids fussed around him, adjusting his clothes, and straightening his sleeves.

  Looking at the silver mirror that reached from floor to ceiling, sixteen-year-old stared back.

  Sharp jaw. Sharper blue eyes. Black hair spilling over his shoulders.

  Tristan swallowed hard. He clenched the robe’s sleeve, grounding himself in the fabric, but the past still clawed at the edges of his mind. He had been old. No—ancient. He remembered the heaviness in his bones, the slow ache of every movement. The suffocating loneliness. The way even the sun had seemed dimmer after so many centuries.

  And yet, here he was.

  Whole. Young.

  His gaze flicked to Keal, hunched in the corner, surrounded by parchment—just as he had always been. Just as he remembered him.

  "Maybe I shouldn't get married," Tristan muttered under his breath, a flicker of rebellion sparking in his eyes. "Now that I think about it, one woman isn't enough for me."

  A lie.

  A distraction.

  Because if he let himself think too much, he might just shatter.

  Still, his thoughts drifted back to the Young Lady of the Ellsworth family, his betrothed. He could almost see her face, her cool, appraising gaze, her lips curved into a polite, distant smile.

  He remembered the day he'd met her in his previous life, the elaborate marriage arranged by his uncle, the subtle pressure to secure an alliance with this small, insignificant province to tie him up locally. Never to return to Skyreach, the Capital City of Earth after System Integration.

  Kael had been quite insistent, emphasizing the benefits of such a match, the strengthening of his influence. Tristan had dutifully listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, until he saw the beautiful Regina.

  Then he was all ready to marry the most beautiful girl in Cinderbrook City. That decision had marked the beginning of his unfortunate life.

  Returning to the present his mind was preoccupied with how to solve this existential problem that was more than just politics.

  The problem was that Young Lady Regina Ellsworth was a Scion. A descendant of an ancient bloodline, blessed with extraordinary abilities and a destiny that defied mortal comprehension.

  While geniuses often die young, Scions are the favored children of destiny, living long lives.

  They're like characters from a story. The heroes who always win, who get the girl or boy, the power, the glory. Imagine them effortlessly dodging danger, emerging unscathed from battles.

  Scions could be forces for good or agents of chaos, their choices shaping the world around them. They were the movers and shakers, the heroes and villains, and everyone else was merely a spectator.

  To cross a Scion is to invite disaster, Tristan reminded himself, a shiver running down his spine. They are untouchable, invincible. The only way to survive is to stay out of their way. And never cross them. Never.

  He recalled stories of those who had dared to challenge Scions, their attempts ending in ruin.

  One Scion had toppled the centuries-old government in a single night, another had become the leader of the New Dawn Movement. And then there was the Crimson Hand, a global superpower brought to its knees not by armies, but by the subtle manipulations of a single Scion.

  Even nuclear arsenals, the ultimate deterrent, were rendered useless against their… something. Luck? Destiny? Tristan didn't know. He only knew the chilling truth: Fate seemed to bend at their whim.

  Initially, these individuals were merely seen as geniuses. However, as time passed, the world would discover their true capabilities and extraordinary powers. Organizations would then compete to recruit them into their ranks.

  And now I had to deal with two of them because Regina's childhood friend, a young man named Rhys Stark, who was rumored to be infatuated with her was, unfortunately, also a Scion.

  Two Scions, Tristan groaned inwardly. This engagement is turning into a disaster. He already remembered the chaos Rhys would unleash, the havoc he would wreak in his desperate attempt to claim Regina Ellsworth for himself.

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  "You can choose other girls to serve on any other day, Young Master," Keal's voice cut through his thoughts. "Please stop joking." Keal's tone was calm, almost dismissive as if Tristan's concerns were nothing more than childish whims.

  Tristan's jaw tightened. Keal's advice wasn't just unhelpful—it was utterly worthless, the kind of misguided counsel that practically guaranteed Tristan would end up a feckless wastrel. But he knew better than to argue with Keal.

  It was almost baffling how Keal managed to maintain any semblance of power given the sheer ineptitude of his guidance. Yet, despite the simmering irritation, Tristan knew it was pointless to voice his disagreement for now.

  Whether due to Keal's position, their past relationship, or some other unspoken dynamic, challenging him directly would only lead to further complications. So, he held his tongue.

  As the maids withdrew, Keal materialized beside Tristan, his presence announced only by the faintest rustle of fabric and handed Tristan a stack of papers. "Young Master, Lady Amy Ellsworth has sent over the dowry agreement as well as some extra... requests."

  Amy Ellsworth, cousin of his future fiancee.

  Tristan wasn't surprised that the marriage was transactional. It was how things worked in their world. But he couldn't help but feel a surge of anger at the audacity of this Amy Ellsworth.

  Half of his problems with the lady scion started due to this girl.

  He remembered the last time he'd been presented with the secret agreement. He hadn't even bothered to read it, snapping at the girl for daring to make demands before the marriage had even taken place.

  But this time, curiosity got the better of him. He glanced at the first page, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

  That... that's an absurd amount of money! Tristan’s breath hitched. The sum listed was obscene. His past exile had been a gilded cage, his family doling out funds with an iron fist. A bitter suspicion gnawed at him – had Keal been skimming from his parent’s estate, fabricating expenses and lining his own pockets?

  He flipped to the next page. There, in elegant script, was a single, chilling sentence:

  'Cripple her.'

  The fury that had been rising within Tristan vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity. A slow smirk spread across his lips. So, that's how it is. Quite the cunning girl, using a borrowed knife to destroy her own cousin.

  "It seems that Amy Ellsworth can't wait to snatch the position of the Young Lady of Ellsworth."

  ? ? ?

  The grand hall buzzed with tension. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, illuminating the opulent space where members of the Ellsworth family and their esteemed guests had gathered.

  Strange, Tristan thought, a flicker of suspicion arising within him. These are all people close to the City Lord, his inner circle. None of the city's true nobility is present. He mentally chided himself for not noticing this detail before. Why had he been so blind to these nuances in his past life?

  All eyes were fixed on a young man standing defiantly in the center, his voice ringing with righteous anger.

  "Is this how the City Lord of Cinderbrook conducts himself?" the young commoner roared, his handsome face contorted with fury, his fists clenched tightly.

  "You bully the weak to appease the strong, without a shred of shame for condemning your own daughter to a life of misery!" His voice echoed through the hall, piercing the air of complacency. "Did you even bother to consider Lady Regina's feelings? I stand here today to demand justice on her behalf! And mark my words, City Lord, I, Rhys Stark, will not forget this humiliation!"

  Tristan observed the scene from the sidelines, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. He took a small sip, his expression carefully neutral, a mask of indifference. He aimed to project an air of detachment, of a man observing the world from a distant, elevated plane.

  At least, that's how he wanted everyone in the hall to see.

  Of course, what nobody knew was that Tristan's so-called indifference was purely due to the war inside his mind. It wasn't that he didn't care about the unfolding drama; he simply couldn't bring himself to engage. His mind was a battlefield, grappling with subtle suggestions, and whispers of influence that attempted to dictate his actions.

  He recognized the insidious tendrils of World Fate, attempting to manipulate him like a puppet. It was a subtle pressure, but with his powerful soul and the weight of fifteen hundred authority, he fought the insidious pull.

  The attempts by the World Fate were one of the reasons why Scions, those favored by Destiny, were so formidable. Their enemies often succumbed to these silent suggestions, making foolish mistakes, their minds clouded, and their actions driven by an unseen force.

  Tristan recalled pieces of knowledge from the Karmic Monastery, details of how a Scion's destiny could overwhelm the very will of others.

  "Such audacity!" an elderly man sputtered, his face flushed with indignation. "How dare a mere commoner speak to the City Lord in such a manner? You must be weary of life!"

  Tristan watched, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. He recognized the pattern, the classic narrative. He, the arrogant Young Master, was destined to be humbled by this Child of Destiny.

  The name 'Rhys Stark' itself screamed protagonist, a cookie-cutter hero plucked straight from a bard's tale.

  And what better way for this Rhys to rise to prominence than by crushing a seemingly powerful figure like Tristan?

  "Who are you to speak, old man?" Rhys retorted, his voice cutting through the hall. He turned his burning gaze towards Tristan, who remained seemingly unfazed, sipping his wine. "And you," Rhys spat, his voice dripping with contempt, "hiding behind your goblet like a coward. You think you're above it all, don't you? Too good to even acknowledge the injustice happening right under your nose?"

  He stalked closer, his every step radiating defiance. "Or maybe," he sneered, "you're just afraid? Afraid to confront me, afraid to defend your precious honor?" He stopped directly in front of Tristan, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. "Prove me wrong, Tristan Von Astar," Rhys challenged, his voice echoing through the hall. "Step forward and fight me. Show everyone what you're truly made of."

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