7:45 PM, 1 August 1946 of Imperial Calendar.

Novo Village, Residence of the Zuvorin.

Winter.

For two hours, I had no idea what was going to happen next. Until the very last moment, I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t simply get rid of me. First, I was aboard some strange aircraft vessel.

Then, when we landed on the grounds of someone’s palace, I was taken to a reception area. The guards escorted me from door to door, but then the men locked themselves in an office and argued for nearly an hour before reaching a decision and coming out.

“So, this is what Queen ah my bad-Florentia’s son looks like,” said the gray-haired man with a cane to whom I was brought. His tone was grim. I still hadn’t fully recovered, keeping my weakened body upright by relying on mana on the air, though I knew I couldn’t maintain this for long.

If you throw a dying man in a desert into a cold lake, he’ll be happy—but only for a short while.

“Father, are you seriously planning to take him into the family?” asked the commander of the stormtroopers, Roman who had helped me out. We hadn’t gotten a chance to formally introduce ourselves during the trip to the countryside estate.

He had sat in silence, clenching his teeth, while I was simply strapped to one of the seats in the troop compartment.

“What are you planning to do?”

“The same as you did and what I’ll do if necessary. The curse of the Zuvorin…” the gray-haired man said meaningfully. I couldn’t hide my surprise.

‘What curse? What the hell?’

But the sturdy old man seemed to interpret my expression in his own way. “Yes, young man, you stand before the disgraced Zuvorin's of Alderstone. Yes, they call us bloodless, but our spirit remains strong.”

“Father, there’s no need to spill your bile on a stranger,” the captain tried to intervene.

“Leave it, Roman. This boy is your nephew. That was your elder brother’s wish, and all our troops accepted it without question. If you want the curse to stop hanging over our family, give me a grandchild already! They killed Yulka Zuvorin and this boy, he named him his child. If you don’t want this child to be heir, go tumble with the whores in a brothel if you must,” the family head said angrily, striking his cane against the marble floor.

“Until then, he is your kin. His origins have never mattered—it doesn’t matter whether he’s a son of the betrayed ruler. He is now one of us.”

“Every rule has its exception, Father. If we accept him into the family and his enemies find out he’s here…” Roman Zuvorin shook his head, and I realized they knew the secret of my body’s origin, even if I didn’t.

Judging by their words about my “mother,” I had become the heir to a ruling dynasty—one that had been overthrown. Considering the guard captain YULKA who had protected me and Roman who had sided with the attackers, it seemed they served different emperor.

‘So, Zuvorin’s eldest served the my mother, and Roman had sided himself with the emperor who is now ruling.’

“It was Yulka’s last wish, and I will fulfill it,” the old man said, striking his cane again. “Just as I would fulfill yours. But we mustn’t forget caution. Who, besides our guards, saw you take the boy with you? Report the details.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman responded confidently, instinctively straightening his posture. “During the assault, we covered Commander Dispana, codenamed Witch of Corvette. By the order of His Excellency and following imperial protocol, we suppressed the Black Troops’s revolt and cut off the leaders who were in ties with Florentia. And then, we failed to reach the Witch in time for support, and upon arrival, we found her dead.”

“No witnesses remain?” The elder Zuvorin cast a grim look at his son from beneath his bushy gray brows.

“None. Moreover, we were not involved in her death,” Roman replied with military precision. “By the time we breached the shuttle’s outer hatch, it was already over.”

“Are you saying Yulka, your elder brother killed your fiancée?” The old man raised his eyebrows in surprise. “If not for the betrayal, I’d call it a feat.”

“I’m afraid not, Father. Young man, show him your wrists!” Roman ordered as if I am his subordinate.

I raised my hands, palms up, and immediately stared in surprise at the tattoo of a blade that had appeared on the back of my hand.

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“This is the Blade’s…mark.”

The old Zuvorin chuckled and stepped closer, taking my hand in his rough, calloused fingers. It felt like my hand was caught in a vice, though that was more a reflection of my frail body than the old man’s strength.

I was barely keeping myself upright.

"Strength never lies," Roman remarked dryly.

“Well, son, I’d argue with that,” the Old man replied with another chuckle. “I’ve seen enough brutes, sadists, and maniacs who had unmeasurable strength. Your fiancé wasn’t the worst of them. But if our family has a gifted one now, we must raise him with utmost rigor.”

“Father…” Roman attempted to protest again but straightened to attention under his father’s stern gaze.

“No arguments. This is an opportunity—for the boy and for us,” Zuvorin said in a slightly softer tone. “By the way, young man, how shall we address you? Keeping the name your mother gave you would raise too many questions. Giving you a new name without a proper christening isn’t possible either…”

“If I may—Marc,” I offered, only to see the old man grimace in disapproval, clearly rejecting the suggestion. “Victorian?”

“Sure, why not Maximus Zuvorin while you’re at it?” Roman quipped, catching his father’s mood. “How about Yulkian? After his adoptive father?”

“Rivet? Yaromir?” the elder muttered, eyeing me closely.

“I don’t mind a simpler name—Alexei, Julius… maybe Julius?” I ventured, shifting gears.

“Remembering our ancestor, are you?” the elder’s eyes flashed with irritation.

‘For god’s sake! I don’t even know your ancestors!!’

“We mustn’t tarnish the name of a great forefather,” Roman shook his head.

“What ancestor? Julius Zuvorin? He wasn’t even your forefather, as I understand it,” the old man said in surprise, looking between Roman and me.

“Well, you are not wrong, and this boy is…Scrawny, you could even say puny and feeble… just like our ancestor was at the start of his journey,” Roman seemed to accept defeat with a sigh.

“So be it. I, Miro Yashta Zuvorin, name this lad Julius Yulka Zuvorin. Do not disgrace the proud name. Now, off you go.”

“Pardon me,” I interjected, earning annoyed looks from both men. “Ahem. Though our ancestor said to keep the stomach hungry and the head cool, I doubt he meant complete starvation. I haven’t eaten a crumb since morning.”

“Hmm, the lad’s no fool and knows a bit of history too. And he’s right.” The elder nodded approvingly. “Assign him a valet, someone discreet. Preferably an officer with knowledge of languages, history, and the like.”

“Yes, father. I have someone in mind,” Roman agreed. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Let’s go, Julius.”

It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me, and another three seconds to gather my shaky limbs and follow him, though my body protested every step. I used mana to flush pain from my stiff muscles and work my joints into motion.

Today I’d walked more than this body likely had in its entire life. If not for the care given by my fleeing mother, my condition would have been far worse. I owed her thanks for her healing and nurturing.

Yet with every passing moment, my mind churned with more questions. Without answers, it was clear I was a complete outsider in this world.

This world… Magic didn’t exist in mine, nor did noble houses, duchies, or an empire resembling the old period.

Yet as I glanced around, I saw surprisingly familiar objects of daily life. Smartphones, tablets, computers—none of the brands were recognizable, but they were distinctly modern.

No holograms, floating tables, or advanced tech—just solid, tangible devices.

‘This world is same as the modern earth, only it’s democratic development lagging behind…’

Roman kept trying to pick up the pace but slowed when he realized I couldn’t keep up. When I stumbled, barely managing to stay upright, he finally cursed under his breath and pointed to a chair in the corridor.

“Wait here,” he ordered, not waiting for a reply before striding off, his pace quickening as he disappeared down the hallway. Catching up to him was impossible in my current state, so I sat down obediently, piecing together the events of the day.

So, I’m the son of some lady—likely the former Queen—who conspired with Black Hundreds and various nobel houses for who know what cause.

Since the palace was stormed and she had to flee, it seems like a coup has been carried out against her.

‘So, the slandering she conspired against the country-Alderstone, must be false.’

The good news? I not only survived but also found temporary shelter. I owed my thanks to the brave Yulka, the guard who protected me and his brother. They seemed almost satisfied with the witch’s death, judging by the elder Zuvorin’s reaction.

Why? Was it the complicated dynamic between ordinary soldiers, and those with gifts?

“Gifted,” a peculiar word in this world full of strange concepts. Yet looking out the window, I saw cars parked outside—a mix of Mercedes and Porsche among unrecognizably sleek vehicles.

The logos were familiar, but the cars’ aggressive designs rivaled the most modern imports.

So, history diverged not long ago—maybe a century or so.

‘Judging by the weather and the people, this may most likely be former Russia.’ Questions kept piling up, but for now, all I could do was channel mana through my chakras.

I returned to focusing on the first Chakra. It was associated with the earth element by mystics and with hormonal balance, reproductive health, and libido by scientists. Both approaches were distant from the truth yet partially correct.

“There he is, Vasily,” Roman’s voice interrupted my thoughts. Opening my eyes, I saw two military men. Compared to the burly, broad-shouldered Vasily, my uncle seemed lean, though sharp.

“Meet Julius, Yulka’s adoptive son. And this is your valet and mentor—Vasily Novo, a loyal servant of our family and my comrade.”

“Hello,” I attempted to stand and shake the man’s massive hand, but dizziness hit me like a wave.

“Hello, lad,” the man, slightly over forty, with streaks of grey in his cropped black hair and beard, boomed in a deep voice. “Where’d they find someone so skinny? Off the streets, I suppose?”

“Well, you’re not far off,” Roman chuckled. “I entrust my nephew’s life to you. I must go—my father is waiting.”

“I won’t let you down, Your Grace,” Vasily saluted smartly.

Together, we watched Roman’s retreating figure disappear down the corridor. Only when he was out of sight did Vasily turn to me and crouch slightly so our eyes met.

“Well, kid, can you walk?” he asked with a kind smile.