It had been a little over half an hour since he woke up.
He had sent the physician away almost immediately after a brief examination. Too many questions. Too much concern. He did not want advice—he wanted quiet.
Silence mattered more than reassurance right now.
The room settled into stillness.
For thirty minutes, he let memories drift through his mind without order or restraint. His own life tangled with another's, overlapping in places they had no right to overlap. Some thoughts felt foreign—until he realized they weren't.
They were his now.
When he stood and tried to leave his room, reality corrected him.
There were guards patrolling outside the door. Upon asking, he was informed that he had been forbidden from leaving.
This was no longer casual grounding.
It was deliberate surveillance.
Even someone of his intelligence can figure it out.
So he sat back down and stared at himself in the large mirror.
He quietly looked at the dark black tattoo on his neck.
In this world, strength commanded respect—and bloodlines commanded patience.
Not because they guaranteed power, but because they justified waiting.
Some awakened their bloodlines through hardship or training. Others inherited them through lineage tied to Monarchs or divine favor. A rare few were born already marked—silent, dormant, unmoving.
Those few were expected to become legends.
He was one of them.
He had been born with a bloodline.
Not awakened.
Just present.
The bloodline of the legendary Archaeopteryx.
The Ancient Wing.
There had been no surge of power at birth. No miracle. No omen. Only a mark—etched into his flesh like a shadow that refused to fade.
At the base of his neck rested the symbol.
A black bird, wings spread mid-flight. Completely dark. No shine. No detail. It stood in stark contrast to his pale skin, as if it did not belong to him.
Proof.
Not power.
That single mark had been enough.
Enough for tutors to be assigned.
Enough for physicians to observe.
Enough for mistakes to be forgiven.
They said ancient bloodlines required time.
That patience was necessary.
So they waited.
Years passed.
Nothing happened.
By every standard, he should have awakened by the age of ten.
He did not.
He watched others awaken instead.
Siblings. Cousins. Children of allied houses. Even nobles with lesser bloodlines surpassed him. One by one, they were praised, tested, trusted.
He remained the same.
By thirteen, the scrutiny faded.
The courtesy remained—but belief did not.
He never understood the distinction.
To him, it felt like betrayal.
From the outside, he appeared fine. Loud. Confident. Carefree. A noble who laughed easily and never seemed bothered.
Someone too bright to be broken.
Inside, something rotted slowly.
He trained obsessively in private, trying every method he could find to force his bloodline to stir. Meditation. Combat drills. Endurance trials. Nothing changed.
Expectation without fulfillment weighed heavier than neglect.
There is no point of having "The Ancient Wing" which is dormant.
For outdiders he is just the second son who could not awaken.
He learned early that being watched without being chosen hurt more than being ignored.
Cruelty came next.
Not all at once. Not consciously. Slowly, in rhythm.
It felt easier than waiting.
Drinking dulled the noise. Excess filled the emptiness. Women became distractions—proof that he was still wanted, still desirable.
Power games reminded him that others could still be made small.
People looked away.
After all, he was a Valcrest.
A memory surfaced.
Sebastian Obsidian Valcrest.
His cousin.
Smaller. Quieter. Always smiling too carefully, as if it might shield him.
He remembered cornering him in the training yard years ago. Remembered laughing as others joined in. Remembered shoving him to the ground and kicking him—once, twice—just to see how much he could endure.
Sebastian never fought back.
Even though he was awakened.
That had been the satisfying part.
He scoffed softly.
"Tch… should've at least fought back."
He leaned against the bed and let his thoughts drift again.
He was still in denial even after waking his memories.
He still believed awakening was his only obstacle.
Once his bloodline awakened, everything would change.
Hd believed the ancient Wing was not weak—it was merely late. Ancient things required time. When it finally stirred, it would be overwhelming. That was how legends were born.
He imagined it vividly.
Power surging through his veins like wildfire.
Wings unfurling behind him—vast, dark, undeniable.
The air itself bending in acknowledgment.
Nobles lowering their heads without being asked.
The so-called protagonist—self-righteous, hypocritical, parading justice as if he invented it—would finally lose that irritating halo once someone truly worthy stood before him.
When Ancient Wing awakened, the narrative would correct itself.
The world would recognize its true Protagonist.
He would not be a stepping stone.
He would be the axis.
Women looking at him differently.
Not with indulgent amusement—but with hunger.
With admiration. With desire.
He would choose a wife worthy of him. Perhaps more. Power justified privilege. He would build a household that reflected his status—strong, elegant, unquestioning.
The Astral Crowncrest Academy?
Once he entered there, the real story would begin.
He would rise faster than anyone expected.
Faster than his brother.
Faster than his rivals.
Faster than the supposed "chosen one."
He would replace him.
Naturally.
Inevitably.
He smiled at his reflection.
"This world is simple," he muttered. "They're just blind."
The scandal barely registered in his thoughts.
An accident. A misunderstanding. Something trivial.
Once Ancient Wing awakened, no one would dare judge him.
He would be untouchable.
That was when the door opened.
He did not notice at first.
He was too busy admiring his own reflection—his face, his name, the future he had already claimed.
A young maid stood frozen in the doorway.
Beautiful in a quiet, composed way.
Her eyes met his in the mirror.
He realized—too late—that he had been speaking aloud.
About power.
About women.
About his inevitable rise.
The maid stared at him, expression unreadable.
Then she slowly closed the door.
A moment passed.
Knock. Knock.
Lucifer's smile vanished.
Heat rushed to his face. His ears burned. From the hallway, he could swear he heard faint laughter.
Lucifer Obsidian Valcrest sat frozen on the bed, staring at the door.
For the first time since waking up—
He felt embarrassed.