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 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 bones. A person might awaken a mana core, but that alone did not guarantee traits. Out of a hundred awakeners, 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 in ten million. The population of the Virellian Empire was only fifty million, and yet Rowan already knew six of his classmates in Aurelian Academy possessed Gold-ranked traits. His own fiancée, the second princess, had one too. Perhaps it was plot armor. Perhaps the world sensed the coming catastrophe and decided to distribute power more freely.
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 look handsome, young master," she said, her tone warm but professional.
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—a subtle reminder of the family's naval dominance.
Pulling the carriage were two enormous horses. They were not mere noble steeds but third-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. Third-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, two figures stood with quiet authority. 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 crease and fold of his clothing was exact, flawless, as if no imperfection could exist on his body. His hair was jet black, slicked neatly back, and his expression was impassive, unreadable. He carried himself with the sort of discipline that could only come from years of rigid training and an unbreakable sense of duty. Coincidentally the butler's name was Alfred.
Beside Alfred, however, all other presences seemed to shrink. He was immense, both in stature and aura. From Rowan's point of view, the man must have been at least six feet five. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he exuded raw strength without looking uncouth. His hair was a deep red, free and flowing, falling to his shoulders like a lion's mane, catching the morning sun with a metallic gleam. His eyes were golden and piercing, sharp and commanding, scanning the surroundings as if everything within sight were his domain. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and the faintest hint of a scar along the brow gave him a distinguished, almost intimidating presence.
He was wearing a tunic similar to Rowan's own, crimson silk trimmed with silver embroidery, but layered with a heavier, floor-length cloak adorned with intricate patterns of waves, anchors, and naval insignia. Each embroidery was detailed so finely it looked almost alive, catching the light with subtle glints of silver thread. A wide leather belt cinched the cloak, holding a ceremonial sword at his side, and his boots, polished to a mirror shine, completed the commanding ensemble.
Rowan's heart skipped a beat. This was his father, Duke Arthur Wavecrest, Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy. Even standing still, he radiated power, authority, and the kind of confidence that made lesser nobles hesitate and commoners avert their gaze.
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. It was nothing grand, but that small gesture carried weight, a faint approval that made Rowan's chest tighten slightly.
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. Axel had spent hours crafting this city down to its smallest detail, and seeing it now, alive and bustling, filled him with an odd mix of nostalgia and pride.
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 built this part of the story myself.
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 seventh-order awakener, 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 and teasing. "It's because of my fiancée, isn't it? The king plans to use her gold-ranked trait at my trait identification ceremony to embarrass me and cancel our engagement."
Duke Arthur's face softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "At least you are aware. The new king's grip over the nobility is weak. He fears the alliance your marriage would represent. The Wavecrest family's might threaten the crown itself."
He leaned back slightly in the seat, the golden light of the morning glinting off the embroidery on his cloak. "As a loyal subject, I must comply with his orders and take you to the royal capital for the ceremony. Do not expect to awaken a gold-ranked trait," he said, voice firm yet not unkind. "You will, however, manifest our family's Silver-ranked Child of the Sea trait. That is nothing to underestimate. Neither I nor your elder brothers possess gold traits, but here we are, as the protector of the seas and the strongest ducal family."
Rowan let the words sink in. The authority in his father's tone carried reassurance, but also reminded him of the weight of expectation.
During the novel's publication, Rowan had always hated the king. The new king, recently ascended and constantly compared to his glorious predecessor, suffered from an inferiority complex and paranoia. He even ignored warnings about the revival of the Abyssal Dragon and other critical events.
In the original story, Rowan awakened three silver-ranked traits, which already exceeded his father's expectations. But three silver traits could not compare to a single golden-ranked trait. Because of this, his engagement with the second princess was canceled. At the academy, seeing the second princess close to the protagonist made Rowan bully the protagonist even more.
Rowan had been completely obsessed with the second princess and had seen everything in the memories, the cringe romantic lines he practiced in front of the mirror, and the scripted "hero saves the damsel in distress" scenarios he used to play out. It was surprising that the current Rowan was not fuming at what the king was about to do.
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. It was a matter of safety he knew that one of the main goals of the cult centered around the Abyssal Dragon was to sacrifice individuals with three gold traits. In the main story, the cult sacrificed three people with one gold trait each, but of he revealed his traits they would put him in first priority since it would be less work to do.
Revealing both of his gold traits would also drag Rowan into the empire's politics and put him directly in the cult's crosshairs.
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 seventh-order awakeners and any equipment used to detect traits. The original protagonist had used the same method to hide all four of his gold traits, revealing only one when necessary.
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-five, and Eric, the second, was twenty. Rowan was the youngest. Technically, he was their half-brother, as the duke had remarried after his first wife died. 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 navy's 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 dukedom itself.
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 portal in Marisola?Rowan thought. He was about to ask his father, but he swallowed the words, not wanting to sit through another hour-long lecture on patience
"It's been a while since we traveled together like this," Duke Arthur said, stiff as ever. "Last time, you were just a kid."
Rowan gave a faint smirk, keeping it neutral. I'm hardly a kid, but I also know better than to test him, he thought. "I'm not a child anymore, Father," he said carefully.
Arthur's lips twitched like he wanted to smile. "No, I suppose you are not. Still, you have much to learn. Even a ride from Marisola to Luminara can teach lessons, if one pays attention."
Of Course he talks about the life lessons, Rowan tilted his head, pretending to think. "Lessons like what? Keeping the horses from running off?"
Arthur's expression tightened slightly, the stiffness making him look even more awkward. "Not exactly. Patience, observation, humility. Even in comfort, you must always remain aware. Danger does not always announce itself, even on a straight road."
Rowan suppressed a small chuckle. Of course. He's trying to sound wise, but he's terrible at small talk. "I see," he said evenly, "so always expect something to go wrong, even if it probably won't."
Arthur's eyes narrowed, but not in anger just concentration, as if he were carefully measuring Rowan's understanding. "Exactly. One must not mistake caution for cowardice. Preparation is nothing without action."
Rowan leaned back, letting his arms rest casually. He was amused. His father had never been good at idle conversation. He commanded, he lectured, he advised ,but small talk? Impossible. And yet, beneath all that awkwardness, Rowan could feel it, genuine care.
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. How could a duke be so socially awkward? A noble, especially a duke, should be charming, approachable, polished. And yet here he is, sitting stiffly in the carriage, lost in his own thoughts.
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 survive 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.