A faint breeze whispered through the half-drawn curtains, carrying the scent of aged parchment and cold stone. Golden threads of morning light painted streaks across the high-vaulted ceiling, their glow refracted by the intricate carvings of celestial runes woven into the wooden beams. A fire had burned in the hearth the night before—its embers smoldered now, leaving behind the fading aroma of oak and incense. Somewhere beyond the tall windows, birds sang in the distance, their calls crisp and serene, but muffled by the thick velvet drapes.

Laziel Von Arcadia opened his eyes.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, his senses drinking in the unfamiliar yet strangely known environment. The ceiling was too high, the bed too soft, the sheets lined with silk that whispered against his skin. His breathing was slow, measured. His heartbeat steady. His body… light.

This isn’t Earth.

The thought settled over him like a stone sinking into water. Memories—fragments of another life—surfaced, colliding against the knowledge imprinted in his mind. The endless glare of fluorescent office lights. The hum of a computer screen. The mechanical repetition of signing documents, checking figures, calculating profits for a corporation that never once cared for the workers who sustained it.

He remembered the exhaustion. The cold, crushing weight of days and nights blending into each other. The moment his body had collapsed, betrayed by overwork, by sleepless nights and caffeine that could no longer keep his failing heart going.

And then, this.

He shifted, the silken sheets rustling as he rose into a seated position. His fingers traced the fabric of the dark tunic draped over his form—fine material, well-stitched, aristocratic. A noble’s attire. His mind supplied the information without hesitation, without doubt.

He was Laziel Von Arcadia, third son of Duke Edric Von Arcadia, a name that carried weight in the northern territories of the Empire of Veltoria. The knowledge settled seamlessly within him, as if it had always belonged there. This body, this identity—it was his.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a palm against his forehead. No dizziness. No pain. No disorientation. In fact, he felt… perfect. Every muscle in his body rested in perfect balance, every breath filled his lungs with smooth efficiency. His mind was clear, sharper than it had ever been in his past life. He could recall information instantly, sort through details without effort, process thoughts at a speed that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Then, an instinct. A subtle pulse of something beneath his skin, something woven into his very being.

A thought was all it took.

[Status.]

A translucent interface materialized in his vision, hovering in the air before him.

Name: Laziel Von Arcadia

Race: Human

Class: None

Level: 1

Titles: [Unawakened] [Fate’s Anomaly] [???]

Attributes:

Strength: 999 (MAX)

Agility: 999 (MAX)

Intelligence: 999 (MAX)

Mana: 999 (MAX)

Endurance: 999 (MAX)

Luck: ???

Skills:

Passive Mastery (EX) [All skills and abilities develop automatically to maximum efficiency.]

Adaptive Evolution (EX) [All physical, mental, and magical growth occurs without conscious effort.]

???

Laziel’s fingers curled against the sheets.

…What is this?

It wasn’t just unusual. It wasn’t even just broken. This was beyond the realm of logic. He was at Level 1, yet every stat was at an impossible limit. He had no class, no training, and yet his abilities had already reached what should have been the pinnacle of human potential.

His mind sharpened further. He considered the implications, the dangers. The very concept of this ability meant that no training, no hardship, no struggle would ever be necessary. His body would simply adapt. His mind would refine itself endlessly. His strength would never stagnate.

A chilling thought struck him: Even if I do nothing, I will always be stronger than those who dedicate their lives to mastery.

His grip tightened. A lesser man might have celebrated. Might have seen this as a blessing, a shortcut to ultimate power. But power invited attention. Attention invited enemies. And Laziel had no desire to become entangled in the wars and ambitions of those who would seek to control or destroy him.

A quiet knock at the door.

His gaze flickered toward the entrance, the polished oak trembling just slightly under the force of delicate yet practiced knuckles.

He had heard her coming.

Not just the sound of her steps. He had felt the slight shift in air pressure as she approached, the controlled pattern of her breathing, the subtle way she slowed her movements just before knocking.

He knew, without needing to confirm, that the person outside his door was a professional.

The handle turned.

With a final exhale, Laziel smoothed out his expression and prepared to meet his new reality.

The door opened.

A woman entered, her posture perfectly measured, her movements crisp yet silent. She wore the uniform of a high-ranking household maid—black and silver, embroidered with the sigil of House Arcadia. Her long, silver-blonde hair was tied back in a sleek braid, exposing the sharp angles of her face. Golden eyes met his, unflinching.

Laziel met her gaze without reaction.

She wasn’t just a maid.

She was a watcher. An observer assigned to him.

She assessed him in turn, a flicker of curiosity beneath her otherwise impassive features. Then, she bowed.

“My lord,” she said, her voice smooth, carefully devoid of emotion. “It is time for your audience with your father.”

Laziel held her gaze for a fraction longer.

Then, with a slow, controlled motion, he rose from the bed.

“As you say,” he replied.

For now, he would play along. He would be the obedient son, the unremarkable noble. He would give them no reason to see him as a threat.

But one thing was clear.

The moment his presence was truly noticed—there would be no turning back.

The corridors of House Arcadia were vast and silent, built from polished marble and reinforced with enchanted stonework that whispered of old power. The soft glow of mana-infused chandeliers illuminated every detail—the towering, gold-inlaid pillars, the intricate patterns woven into the deep crimson carpets, and the grand portraits lining the halls. Each painting depicted a figure of noble lineage, their eyes cold, their expressions severe. A legacy of warriors, rulers, and tacticians.

Laziel walked in measured silence, his pace unhurried, his posture calculatedly relaxed as he followed the silver-haired maid through the labyrinthine estate. Despite the lack of effort, his every movement carried a natural grace, an unconscious efficiency that set him apart from an ordinary noble. Even without intention, his body moved without wasted energy, without imbalance.

Sylvaine Aldeon, his assigned attendant, walked slightly ahead, her presence both elegant and dangerous.

A maid in title. A watcher in truth.

Laziel studied her in his peripheral vision. Everything about her was precise—her controlled breathing, the subtle yet constant tension in her posture, the way her hands never fully relaxed, always prepared to reach for a hidden weapon.

She’s trained. More than that—she’s elite.

The realization solidified something he had already suspected: his father didn’t trust him. Or perhaps, it was simpler than that. Perhaps Duke Edric Von Arcadia had already decided that Laziel was useless—an expendable son to be discarded.

Sending an assassin to watch over him was likely not a precaution, but a statement.

They reached the entrance of the Great Hall, its towering doors crafted from darkwood, carved with ancient symbols of protection and dominance. Two armored knights stood guard, their silver-plated armor marked with the insignia of House Arcadia—a black dragon encircled by a sword and crown. The air around them was still, heavy with the weight of unspoken authority.

One of the knights stepped forward, bowing slightly.

“Lord Laziel.” The knight’s tone was respectful but distant. “Your father awaits within.”

Laziel simply nodded.

Sylvaine pulled open the heavy doors, the soundless motion betraying her unnatural strength. The hall beyond stretched into a grand chamber, its arched ceiling supported by obsidian pillars. A single, massive throne-like chair dominated the far end, carved from black ironwood, exuding an aura of power and finality.

Sitting upon it was Duke Edric Von Arcadia—his father.

The Duke of Arcadia was a man whose presence commanded absolute respect. His form was broad-shouldered, clad in military regalia, a high-collared coat embroidered with the golden insignia of the Arcadian House. His ashen-gray hair was slicked back, revealing a face hardened by war, his golden eyes sharp with scrutiny. A man who had spent decades in battle, leading legions, shaping the empire’s northern dominion with steel and strategy.

Beside him stood Reynard Von Arcadia, the eldest son and heir.

If their father was a general, Reynard was a perfected version of that legacy—a knight of unmatched skill, a commander respected by soldiers, and a noble whose very name carried weight across the kingdom. His presence was suffocating, even without words. He stood in a relaxed yet powerful stance, a predator watching its prey, his crimson-lined cape flowing over his battle-worn armor.

Laziel entered without hesitation.

He did not bow.

Silence stretched between them, the air taut with expectation, judgment, and preordained decisions.

At last, his father spoke.

“You are leaving,” Duke Edric said, his voice like a blade cutting through steel. “Tomorrow, you depart for the Aetherial Vale.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Laziel had already known. But hearing it spoken aloud confirmed everything.

The Aetherial Vale. A remote territory on the edge of House Arcadia’s domain—a land of dense forests, forgotten ruins, and little political value. It was neither punishment nor exile in name, but in function, it was a disposal.

No titles. No responsibilities. No expectations.

A place to be discarded.

He understood.

They wanted nothing from him.

They expected nothing of him.

Which meant he was free.

For the first time, something akin to relief stirred beneath his composed expression.

Laziel’s gaze flickered to his brother, whose expression remained unreadable. Reynard had always been the ideal son—the kind of warrior and leader their father had molded with his own hands. Strong. Intelligent. Ambitious.

“Understood,” Laziel said, his voice calm.

Duke Edric’s golden eyes remained locked on him, searching, evaluating. A man who never wasted words unless necessary. Finally, he leaned back, expression unreadable.

“You will be granted fifty retainers, a stipend of ten thousand gold, and full control over the land’s resources. It is up to you whether you waste them or not.”

In other words: If you fail, no one will care.

Laziel inclined his head slightly—a non-answer, neither acceptance nor resistance.

Then, Reynard spoke.

“I suggested this arrangement,” the eldest brother said, stepping forward. His voice was smooth, deep, yet carried an unmistakable edge. “Aetherial Vale is undeveloped, isolated. If you truly wish to waste your days in peace, it is the perfect place.”

A subtle challenge lingered beneath his words.

Laziel met his gaze.

He saw the faintest flicker of curiosity in Reynard’s otherwise impassive expression. His brother was testing him. Expecting weakness, disinterest, surrender.

He gave him nothing.

“I see,” Laziel said simply.

Reynard studied him for a moment longer. Then, his lips curled—not in a smile, but in something akin to amusement.

“…Then I expect we won’t be seeing each other again.”

Laziel nodded. “I expect so.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, Duke Edric dismissed him with a wave.

It was over.

Laziel turned without another word and exited the hall.

As he stepped into the corridor once more, Sylvaine fell into step beside him.

She had remained silent throughout the entire meeting, her expression never shifting.

Only once they were beyond the guards’ hearing did she speak.

“I expected anger. Resistance,” she murmured. “Most nobles would not accept such a blatant dismissal so quietly.”

Laziel glanced at her, his face unreadable.

“Most nobles care about their place in court,” he replied.

“And you do not?” she asked, her golden eyes assessing him.

“I never asked for it,” Laziel said simply.

A small pause. Then—a flicker of something in her expression.

Curiosity.

Something about his answer unsettled her.

He did not care.

The world had just given him exactly what he wanted.

Isolation. Freedom. Silence.

Yet, as they walked through the dimly lit halls, Laziel knew—peace was never truly given.

It had to be taken.

And should anything threaten it…

He would erase them before they could rise.

The halls of House Arcadia faded behind him as Laziel stepped into the open-air training grounds, a vast expanse of hardened earth and stone surrounded by towering ironwood walls. The sky stretched above in cold, steel-colored hues, the clouds tinged with the fading warmth of the afternoon sun. Despite the season, the air held a subtle sharpness, a lingering chill carried from the northern mountains.

The training grounds were nearly empty at this hour—only a few knights remained, finishing their personal drills. Swords clashed in rhythmic precision, the metallic ring cutting through the otherwise quiet space. The scent of sweat and oiled leather hung faintly in the air, mixing with the ever-present whisper of mana, thick in the Arcadian estate.

Laziel exhaled slowly, his breath steady.

He had not intended to linger here. His departure to Aetherial Vale was set for tomorrow, and there was little reason to spend time in a place that no longer belonged to him.

And yet…

His body moved before his thoughts could settle.

A single step forward. Another.

His fingers brushed against the wooden hilts of practice swords, lined neatly on a weapons rack nearby. He lifted one, feeling the weight, the balance. It was light. Too light. The moment he took hold of it, his body adjusted automatically, his grip settling into flawless form.

Something within him stirred. Not hunger. Not excitement.

Just a quiet realization.

[Passive Mastery (EX) Activated.]

The knowledge came unbidden, effortless. His mind processed the weight distribution, the length of the blade, the trajectory required for the most optimal movement. It was instinctive, as though he had trained for decades, lived through battlefields, honed every motion to perfection.

He took another step forward, adjusting his stance. His feet aligned automatically, his breath flowed in perfect synchrony with his center of gravity. He raised the wooden sword.

Then—he moved.

One strike.

The practice dummy before him shattered.

Not cracked. Not split.

Shattered.

The wooden frame splintered into fragments, bursting apart like fragile glass against overwhelming force. A dull thud echoed as the remains scattered across the ground, leaving nothing but dust in their wake.

Silence followed.

Laziel stood there, unmoving, his breathing still measured.

No resistance. No effort.

That single movement had been too efficient. Too precise.

His grip tightened around the sword, a strange sense of unease settling over him.

[Adaptive Evolution (EX) Activated.]

A pulse of something—an adjustment, a refinement. His body absorbed the feedback, correcting its own already perfect motion. If he swung again, the strike would be faster, sharper, impossibly more precise.

Even without training. Even without trying.

His strength had already surpassed human limits.

And it would only continue to grow.

“You hid that well.”

Laziel did not react outwardly, but he had already sensed her approach.

Sylvaine Aldeon leaned against a nearby stone pillar, her golden eyes keen, assessing. There was no amusement in her expression. No mockery. Only cold observation.

How long had she been watching? From the beginning? Or had she arrived just in time to witness the unnatural destruction of the practice dummy?

He did not speak.

Sylvaine pushed off the pillar, stepping forward in measured, controlled strides. The dying light of the sun framed her in hues of amber, casting sharp shadows across the training ground.

She stopped a few paces away, her gaze flickering to the scattered remnants of the broken dummy.

“…You did not even use a fraction of your strength.”

It wasn’t a question.

Laziel said nothing.

He watched her instead—not with wariness, but with certainty. Sylvaine was not normal. From the beginning, she had been placed by his father’s side for a reason, and if she had been observing him closely, then she would not overlook what had just happened.

She studied him in turn, golden eyes unreadable.

Then, she moved.

A blur—a flicker of mana-infused motion.

The next instant, a dagger gleamed in her grip, aimed directly for his throat.

A test.

A confirmation.

Laziel did not flinch.

His body reacted before thought.

A shift in weight. A precise counter. The wooden sword in his grip flicked upward, intercepting the dagger’s trajectory with inhuman accuracy. The force of the impact should have been enough to knock the weapon from her grasp—but Sylvaine twisted, retracting instantly, her expression unchanged.

They stood there, neither speaking, both knowing.

A long pause.

Then—Sylvaine exhaled softly, lowering her weapon.

“You’re far more dangerous than I was told.”

Laziel remained silent.

She sheathed the dagger with a practiced motion, studying him one last time.

Then, she bowed.

Not deeply. Not out of respect.

But in acknowledgment.

And for the first time since waking in this world, Laziel understood something.

He had been noticed.

The Arcadian Combat Trials were a tradition older than the empire itself. A display of martial skill, held within the stone amphitheater at the heart of the estate. The circular arena was carved directly into the earth, surrounded by towering spectator stands where nobles, knights, and high-ranking vassals observed the next generation of warriors prove their worth.

By the time Laziel stepped onto the white stone floor, the sun had dipped low, casting the arena in amber light and elongated shadows. The air buzzed with an unspoken tension, a mix of noble pride and sharpened expectation. Knights in silver-plated armor stood in ordered ranks, banners bearing House Arcadia’s sigil fluttering in the evening wind.

At the far end of the arena, seated atop a raised platform, Duke Edric Von Arcadia watched from his throne-like chair. His posture was unmoved, his golden eyes unreadable.

Beside him, Reynard Von Arcadia stood with arms crossed, expression calm but observant.

Laziel ignored them.

He had no interest in spectacle.

He only needed to end this as quickly and efficiently as possible.

A voice rang out across the arena.

“Lord Laziel Von Arcadia will now face Sir Gaelhart of the Silver Lances.”

A knight stepped forward.

Sir Gaelhart was a veteran warrior, his build broad, his stance practiced. He wore a black combat tunic reinforced with leather plating, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of a longsword strapped to his hip. The man’s expression was indifferent, but his stance carried subtle arrogance.

Laziel understood why.

To the watching nobles, he was already a failure. The third son of Duke Arcadia, yet unremarkable in both talent and ambition. He had never trained alongside his brothers, never competed in knightly tournaments, never proven his worth.

To them, this was not a battle.

It was a formality.

A final embarrassment before he was cast away.

Laziel exhaled softly.

How tiring.

A herald raised his hand.

“Begin!”

Sir Gaelhart moved first.

A fluid advance, controlled, measured. The knight closed the distance with practiced footwork, his longsword flashing in the golden light as he swung in a calculated diagonal cut—a testing strike, meant to gauge his opponent’s reaction.

Laziel did not move.

Not yet.

He felt it. The rush of air, the shifting of weight, the precise trajectory of the blade—his mind calculated everything in an instant.

He did not need to dodge.

He did not need to block.

He simply tilted his head.

A movement so small, so imperceptibly efficient, that the sword passed within a breath of his cheek.

Gasps rippled through the watching crowd.

Sir Gaelhart’s eyes flickered with surprise. The knight recovered instantly, shifting into a follow-up attack—a sweeping horizontal slash, faster, aimed for Laziel’s midsection.

Laziel shifted one step back.

The sword missed by less than a hair’s width.

It was not evasion.

It was absolute control.

And then—he moved.

A single step forward. A single strike.

The wooden practice sword in his hand blurred—an effortless, impossibly precise counter.

A dull crack split the air.

Sir Gaelhart crumpled.

The entire arena fell silent.

The knight lay motionless on the stone floor, his sword clattering uselessly beside him.

The duel had ended in one attack.

Not through brute force.

Not through overwhelming speed.

But through absolute, inescapable precision.

Laziel’s single counter-strike had struck the knight at the exact moment his balance wavered—a perfectly timed impact that shut down all movement.

A strike no normal human could have performed.

The silence stretched, thick with disbelief.

Then, movement.

A healer rushed forward, kneeling beside the fallen knight. Sir Gaelhart groaned, consciousness slowly returning—his injuries were minimal, but his defeat was absolute.

And everyone watching knew it.

The herald hesitated before raising his voice.

“…The winner is Lord Laziel Von Arcadia.”

Murmurs rippled through the noble spectators, quiet but intense. Confusion. Disbelief. Reassessment.

From the raised platform, Duke Edric’s gaze remained unreadable.

But Reynard—

For the first time, Reynard Von Arcadia narrowed his eyes.

Laziel turned from the fallen knight, his face blank, his mind already calculating the aftermath.

This was bad.

He had planned to underperform. To let this duel pass as uneventfully as possible.

But his body had moved too naturally, too perfectly.

His instincts had optimized the encounter, removing all unnecessary movement, executing the most efficient outcome.

And now—

He had been noticed.

He exhaled slowly.

Without another word, Laziel turned and walked away from the arena.

The whispers followed him.

But he ignored them.

This changed nothing.

Tomorrow, he would leave for Aetherial Vale.

And whatever the world believed, he would fade into obscurity once more.

At least—

That had been the plan.

Until a royal messenger arrived before dawn, bearing a summons sealed with the imperial sigil.

The halls of House Arcadia were silent as the night deepened. The echo of Laziel’s measured footsteps barely registeredagainst the polished stone floors, his mind distant despite his outward calm. The weight of the duel still lingered—not in his body, for he had expended no effort—but in the shift it had caused.

He had not intended to stand out.

Yet, in a single moment, the course of his exile had already begun to unravel.

The world had noticed him.

And now, it would seek him out.

Laziel reached his quarters just as Sylvaine arrived, her presence as measured as ever. She carried a black-sealed envelope, its wax insignia bearing the golden crest of the Imperial House.

He took it without question, breaking the seal in a smooth motion. His eyes scanned the contents.

A formal summons.

The imperial court had taken notice of his duel and now requested his presence in the capital.

A summons from the empire was not a request. It was a command.

Laziel exhaled slowly. This was the worst possible outcome.

He had wanted distance. Obscurity.

Now, he was being pulled into the very heart of political conflict and power struggles.

Sylvaine watched him closely, her golden eyes flickering over his expression.

“You aren’t surprised.”

“No,” Laziel said. “Only inconvenienced.”

A pause. Then, with quiet precision, she said:

“You let them see you.”

Laziel glanced at her.

For the first time, there was no pretense between them. No careful avoidance of the truth.

She knew.

She had watched him fight. Watched him eliminate his opponent in one movement—not through overwhelming force, but through absolute perfection.

He held her gaze.

“…I miscalculated,” he admitted.

Sylvaine studied him, unreadable.

Then, after a long silence, she asked:

“Are you going?”

Laziel’s grip tightened slightly on the letter.

He could refuse. But that would make him a target.

The empire did not like unanswered summons.

Aetherial Vale had been meant to be his escape—his place of quiet exile. A place where he could slowly erase himself from the eyes of the world.

But now—

Laziel set the letter down.

“…I will go,” he said finally.

The words felt heavier than they should have.

He had spent his past life drowning in obligations, shackled to expectations he had never chosen.

And yet, fate refused to leave him alone.

Sylvaine watched him a moment longer, then stepped back.

“…Understood.”

She turned to leave, her silver-blonde hair catching the flickering torchlight as she reached the door.

But before she stepped out, she paused.

“Be careful,” she said. “The court is not a battlefield of swords. It is a battlefield of knives in the dark.”

The door shut behind her.

Laziel exhaled, alone once more.

He looked at the imperial letter resting on the desk.

And in the cold silence of the night, he understood something clearly.

He had no choice but to walk this path.

But that did not mean he had to follow it.

If the world refused to leave him in peace—

Then he would simply remove every obstacle in his way.