CHAPTER SIX: KNOWLEDGE IS A FOUNDATION

Chronifer could still feel the cold sweat on his back, the lingering aftermath of his conversation with the boy who bore no name. That talk had stirred something deep within him, something primal, a realisation of what he had become and the faint reawakening of a hunger that had once driven him in his past life.

The boy’s words had unravelled a hard truth: he was no one.

No longer was he a name that graced every headline, a figure whose fame and wealth turned even his smallest actions into events that the world watched with bated breath. All of that was gone. Now, in this second life, he was just one of countless others.

Yes, he bore the name Montcroix-Wythe, a name feared and revered across the multiverse. But no one knew the name Chronifer. The weight of his family’s legacy was immense, but would he hide beneath it? Or would he forge his own legend, carve his own tale of horrors and mythical deeds that would stand apart, unshakable in its own right?

His steps slowed as he passed the door to Slora and Cipher’s room. His mother and father. The very things he had lost. Famous, powerful, feared, admired… influential.

He paused there, memories pulling him back to another time, another life. In that life, as John, he had built everything from nothing. He had clawed his way up, one agonising step at a time, defying the odds to create an empire. But the System had taken it all from him, reduced his existence to ashes.

And yet, here he stood, reborn. Given a second chance. This time, he wouldn’t start at the bottom. This time, he wouldn’t claw and scrape for survival. This time, he would prey.

He heard muted voices through the door, Slora and Cipher’s tones low, unreadable. They were his parents now, a constant reminder of everything that had changed. That sound alone crystallised a stark truth in his mind:

He was John no longer.

John had fought for every scrap, for every breath, in a world that had given him nothing. But John was gone. Chronifer had taken his place, a name brimming with potential, teetering on the edge of greatness or ruin. His future was ripe, almost too ripe, and it would spoil if left unattended. He would seize every opportunity, crush every obstacle, and claim everything he had lost – and more.

The conversation with the boy with ashen skin replayed in his mind, the words and their implications circling like a predator.

Was he ready?

He exhaled deeply, his resolve hardening as he turned away from the door. Yes.

The decision had already been made. Now, there was only one path forward. If it feels too easy, it isn’t the right path – only the hard road leads to what matters.

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Chronifer stepped out of the mansion, his mind lingering on his conversation with the nameless boy. It played through his mind.

“Hey.” Chronifer had first noticed the boy standing silently in the corner of a dim hallway. His frame was thin and hunched as though the walls themselves might swallow him whole. Despite the grime covering him, the boy’s features caught Chronifer’s sharp eye – ashen skin with a faint metallic hue, silver hair tangled and dull, and lifeless, pale lips.

His face, even in its gaunt state, held a sculpted elegance: taut like polished obsidian with a nose that might have belonged to a master artist's model. The eerie glow in his pure white eyes served as pupils, an unnatural contrast to the dirt smeared across his angular features. Even his hands, slightly too long to be human, trembled as they hung by his sides, bony and raw from labour.

Well. I knew there were other races, but damned does he Look like a multi million dollar tv show character.

Chronifer approached with an easy smile, trying to put the boy at ease.

“Do you not talk?” he asked, extending a hand. “My name’s Chronifer. Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

The boy’s head dipped slightly, his expression unreadable.

“I talk,” he said finally, reaching for Chronifer’s outstretched hand with both of his own, a hesitant gesture that spoke volumes. The tension in the boy’s movement was palpable, like he was bracing for something to go wrong.

Chronifer tilted his head and, seeing the hesitation, retracted one hand with a wave. “Relax. One hand is fine.”

The boy nodded, but his frown deepened as he glanced at his hands. He seemed almost ashamed of them.

“That’s nice,” Chronifer continued. “What’s your name?”

“I... I don’t have one,” the boy admitted, his voice tight. Though he stood a full two heads taller than Chronifer, he seemed to shrink in that moment, retreating into himself.

Before Chronifer could think of what to say, the boy stiffened. His eyes fluttered briefly, and a faint but noxious smell seemed to emanate from him. Then, almost imperceptibly, his form blurred, blending into the dim light of the corridor like a shadow.

“Cool!” Chronifer stepped forward in excitement, his golden eyes gleaming. “You just did something!”

“What? I did nothing…” The boy’s voice wavered as he glanced down, avoiding Chronifer’s gaze. He shifted on his feet as if hoping to escape notice.

Chronifer, not one to miss a moment, fixed him with an expectant look. “Oh, come on. You can tell me. What was that? It looked pretty useful!”

The boy hesitated, but something in Chronifer’s tone coaxed him forward. “Cowardicelore…” he murmured, the word barely audible and tinged with guilt. “He called me that once... and... a Bloodline Patriarch.”

Chronifer blinked, taken aback. “A Bloodline Patriarch?” He reached out instinctively as the boy swayed on his feet. His hands caught the boy’s bony shoulders, steadying him. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the boy said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. His glowing eyes flicked upward briefly before darting away.

Chronifer leaned in slightly, his voice gentler now. “Are you sure?”

“I’m just… tired,” the boy admitted, his tone reluctant, as though the confession itself might bring trouble.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Chronifer nodded thoughtfully, patting the boy lightly on the back. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He gestured down the hallway. “Come on, I’ll show you to a free room. Maybe you can explain this ‘Bloodline Patriarch’ thing on the way.”

The boy hesitated again before following, keeping to the shadows as they walked. “A Bloodline Patriarch is someone who’s the first to possess a Bloodline,” he began, his voice low but steadying as he spoke.

Chronifer tilted his head, curious. “What’s a Bloodline?”

“It’s…” The boy paused, searching for the words. “It’s what happens when someone’s body develops a unique branch connected to their body and soul. When Essence flows through their soul tree, and into their body, the reaction with the branch creates something rare, almost like an inheritance, but it’s born within you. It… I hear it can change you.”

Chronifer was thankfully not lost about Branches and the soul tree anymore, the last book he had read: The Tree Within having explained the basics of it all. Branch huh, so the body develops an affinity? And It works as some sort of catalyst for a mutation. Interesting.

“Huh.” Chronifer’s interest deepened as he processed the explanation. His mind wandered briefly, wondering if he himself might possess one or, better yet, become a Patriarch someday. “So... Do you know yours?”

The boy’s face darkened, his steps slowing. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “There’s a seal placed on me.”

“A seal?” Chronifer echoed, glancing back at him.

“I cant view the system status.” The boy’s voice wavered as he continued, his hands clenching at his sides. “When your father and his second wiped out the Dygan Syndicate, they found me. His general, Oniihino, promised to remove it someday... but for now, I don’t know anything.”

Chronifer frowned but kept his tone light. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon enough. When they do, promise you’ll tell me what your Bloodline is, okay?”

The boy’s glowing eyes widened slightly in surprise at Chronifer’s sincerity. He nodded quickly. “I will.”

Chronifer’s grin returned, sharp and playful. “Great! Now, about my father, what’s a ‘second’ and who? And who are the Dygan Syndicates? What do you mean he wiped them out?”

The boy spoke carefully, his words measured. "Your father... I wouldn’t presume to know much about him beyond what’s widely known," he said, addressing the topic with reverence. "Your father, the Lurking Dirge, is a living legend, like all the Montcroix-Wythe, and the Division Lords of the Sombre Remembrance. But of course, you’d know far more about that than I ever could. The missions they’ve accomplished, the things they’ve done..." His voice trailed off, filled with awe.

Chronifer almost interrupted to demand details about those accomplishments, but he restrained himself.

The boy hesitated, his hands fidgeting nervously as if trying to wipe away invisible sweat. His gaze dropped, avoiding Chronifer’s piercing eyes filled with curious glee. "I don’t think this is widely known," the boy finally said, "but your father… he’s become a Rank Five. A Fiend. A Demigod"

Chronifer blinked, his thoughts racing. He could feel the power behind the word, it felt like something tangible.

The boy continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "A Second, as I understand it, is more than a lieutenant. They’re the most trusted representatives, the extensions of their lord’s will and authority."

Chronifer’s eyes narrowed as he connected the dots. "Hold on. You mentioned Cowardicelore earlier." His tone sharpened. "Is this Cowardicelore… my father’s Second?"

The boy nodded, shrinking slightly under the weight of the question.

"The pale-haired man?" Chronifer pressed.

Another nod.

Chronifer groaned, the implications crashing down on him.

The boy waited for Chronifer to collect himself before daring to speak again. "The Dygan Syndicate, my masters, were once thought to be the peak of the black market. They ruled in shadows, untouchable... or so I was taught. But before your father, his Second, and his seven generals..." His voice faltered as he stared into the dimly lit corridor, as if haunted by memories only he could see.

"They crumbled," the boy said softly.

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Chronifer walked through the yard, the conversation with the boy from the previous night lingering in his mind. The boy had said little but revealed enough. Now, he knew more about Cipher, the existence of his generals, though not much, and his second, the man drilling the boy.

“C'mon, little piss. Is that all you’ve got in you? After all the food? Is this the strength you can muster? Don’t stop until you faint, or I tell you to stop,” the man barked, pausing with a low giggle. “Though I should inform you, that’s never.”

Chronifer jogged toward the boy, laying down beside him. Without a word, he joined in, matching the boy's crunches.

The mansion's grounds loomed around them, their grandeur steeped in an uneasy stillness. Ancient trees lined the edges, their dark green leaves whispering faintly despite the still air. Rare, dark flowers bloomed amidst twisted vines, their eerie beauty stark against the dark earth.

“What’s this, now?” the man, called Cowardicelore by the boy, growled.

“Dante, peace. I don’t mind the boys training together,” came a voice from behind. It was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried authority that demanded attention.

Dante, the man called Cowardicelore, snorted. “I think you’ll mind when your boy starts talkin’ like a real man. Not some weakling.”

“You’re right,” Cipher said, his tone calm and precise. “Son, come with me.”

Chronifer was at his side before the command fully left his lips.

“Morning, Father,” Chronifer greeted.

“Morning, my son,” Cipher replied as they began walking.

The yard stretched before them, a labyrinth of stone pathways and marble statues. Some were chipped and worn, their once-proud faces weathered by time. To the east, a small lake shimmered black, reflecting the faint light of the overcast sky.

Chronifer had a thousand questions, but his father’s steady silence swallowed them. The sounds of rustling trees, the chirping of crickets, and the distant whistle of the wind filled the air. He glanced at Cipher, who seemed perfectly at ease in the quiet.

Finally, Cipher spoke.

“I’ve made a decision. Your mother and I have agreed on how things will proceed.”

Chronifer tensed. His father’s calm voice made every word heavier.

“Your training begins in earnest now. Physical, intensive. Knowledge is a foundation, but action sharpens it into a blade.”

He paused, glancing at Chronifer. “I’ve seen the books you’ve read. Theories, guides, anatomy, monsters. You’ve laid a foundation, and for the next three months and twenty days, we’ll make it solid. Your mother will ensure you’re crammed with more knowledge, but I’ll teach you how to wield it. After your birthday, the pace will change. More combat. More brutality. Because six is when official training begins.”

Chronifer nodded but hesitated. Finally, he said, “I understand. I’ll do it. More than that, I’ll do more.”

Cipher studied him, his golden eyes sharp. “Why?”

“I want power,” Chronifer answered.

Cipher tilted his head slightly. “Is that all? No grander reason?”

Chronifer faltered. The memory of Dante’s harsh words replayed in his mind, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He feared the obscurity of a nobody’s death, fading into nothingness without leaving a mark.

But he couldn’t say that. Not yet.

“I... I don’t think so,” he said, the lie sticking in his throat.

Cipher’s gaze lingered on him, then softened. “Don’t worry. Power is a start. It’s a framework. The rest will come.”

They walked on, the statues seeming to watch as father and son disappeared into the shadows of the towering trees.

Two days later, Chronifer—a gym bro in his past life and a relentless hard worker in this one—found himself grappling with a profound philosophical question:

Where does hard work end and insanity begin?

His conclusion was simple:

Help me!