He awoke to the gentle caress of sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, illuminating the room with its golden rays. Rising from his bed, he meticulously tidied the disheveled sheets, then made his way to the bathroom for his customary morning shower. With unwavering determination, he vigorously brushed his teeth, each stroke echoing a sense of purpose. A peculiar tranquility enveloped him as he performed these mundane yet essential tasks, prompting him to reflect

Yeah, this is what life should be like. He thought.

In his past life, Daemian had always embraced confrontation and conflict, even finding a strange satisfaction in them. However, as his life took an unforeseen turn, he came to realize the value he had unknowingly forgotten about the ordinary.

Carefully dressing himself, he took great care not to crease his freshly pressed garments. It was a rarity for young individuals of noble lineage in New Enarathia to dress themselves at his age. While More typically for female nobles accompanied by a horde of maids, the males often had at least two or three attendants. Yet, Daemian had none. Nevertheless, this discrepancy didn't trouble him greatly. He surmised that it must be a newly adopted custom in this world, as he had never encountered such a situation as a noble in old Enarathia. Although he was devoid of personal attendants, his status as a son of Lunaeris ensured he lacked nothing. However, enduring constant ridicule and humiliation was the inevitable price paid by any stained individual whether they belong to a noble house or not.

As he meticulously adjusted his tie, a thought struck him with a tinge of concern:

I forgot to speak to father about the playground.

His entire weekend had been consumed by the impending visit of the Daine, causing this crucial issue to slip from his mind. Having given his word to the headmistress, he could ill afford to backtrack now.

Daemian left his room and began to traverse the grand halls of the estate. Contacting the patriarch of a prominent house was no trivial task, even for his own son. He pondered upon the appropriate person to approach for guidance on such matters. Although young Daemian’s memories offered a solid foundation, his knowledge was scant and obscured by the decades of Killian’s memories that had flooded into his fragile young mind. Even his fainting spell at the playground had been a result of "Killian" using Enerith disproportionate to what a child's body could bear.

"Focus!" he muttered to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear away the superfluous memories. He delved into the recesses of young Daemian's mind, a labyrinth of inconsequential recollections, until, he found it.

"Oh, my apologies, young lord," he heard suddenly as he collided with someone in his distracted state.

"No, it was my fault entirely. I failed to pay attention to my surroundings,"

He replied courteously, lifting his gaze to behold the unexpected encounter. His eyes lit up with satisfaction. A fair young maiden, no older than seventeen, stood before him, her flowing silver hair cascading down her back. Overgrown bangs partially obscured her left eye, while her deep purple eyes resembled the hues of Wisteria. She curtsied gracefully, lowering her head and parting her hands, revealing the attire of a maid.

"My lord, it is I who should apologize for not watching where I was going," she humbly retorted.

"Valaeria," Daemian uttered, a soft smile forming on his lips. What a fortuitous coincidence to have stumbled upon her. While most of the estate staff showed him respect, it soon became apparent that their regard was far from genuine, as they sneered and laughed behind his back. But not Valaeria. She had always treated him with unwavering kindness, even extending an offer to become his personal maid—an offer young Daemian had declined, fearing repercussions not only from his older siblings but also from Valaeria's fellow maids. She was the perfect confidante to consult regarding his father.

"It's alright, Valaeria..."

"Val," she interjected, correcting him without a change in her tone.

"What?" Daemian inquired, his confusion evident.

"You used to complain that my name was too difficult for you to pronounce, so you always called me Val," she explained, her tone unwavering.

"Right, well, I thought it would be impolite to alter someone's name to suit my convenience. Hence, I decided to address you by your given name."

"It's quite alright, young lord. I am here to serve you. Feel free to call me whatever you wish."

A tinge of frustration bubbled within Daemian. Why was this conversation veering in such a direction? Gathering his thoughts, he steered the conversation back on course, saying,

"Anyway, there is something I wanted to ask you."

Val nodded attentively, awaiting his inquiry.

"I found myself in a bit of trouble at the academy, and I need my father's assistance in resolving the matter. Is there any way I can—"

"Impossible," she interjected firmly, her voice resolute. "The patriarch only returns to the estate for matters of great import or significant occasions. It would be entirely impossible to meet with him at this moment."

"I see..." Daemian mused, placing his hands on his chin in contemplation. "Ah, what about the upcoming reception for the Daine dignitaries? Would my father not attend that event?"

Val paused for a moment, carefully considering her response. "While I cannot guarantee it, it is more likely that the patriarch would return for such an occasion."

"Perfect," Daemian exclaimed, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Then I shall approach him during the dinner. Thank you, Val."

A faint blush colored Valaeria's cheeks, her attempt to conceal her joy apparent.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I'm running late for class, so I must take my leave. Farewell for now, Val!” he said as he hurried down the corridor

"Wait, young lord," Val called out, halting his hurried departure. He turned to face her. "Please be careful," she implored, her eyes betraying her genuine concern.

Daemian smiled warmly, raising his middle and index finger in a gesture of gratitude. "Thank you for your concern, Val."

***

Upon Daemian's arrival in the classroom, a remarkable shift had taken place in the weather. What was once a sunny day had transformed into a dreary scene, with the sky draped in a somber shade of gray reminiscent of ash. The desolate atmosphere outside perfectly mirrored the sentiments within the classroom, where all the other children had instinctively gravitated towards one side, doing their utmost to distance themselves from him.

Perched in his chair, Daemian assumed a lax posture, his chin cradled by his left hand. A sigh escaped his lips, laden with the weight of exhaustion. Understandably, he couldn't fault them for their behavior. Regardless of their bullying tendencies, they were still children, and witnessing the unleashing of his sacred art would naturally elicit such reactions.

Interrupting the palpable tension, a figure entered the classroom, resembling a man in the grips of illness. With a commanding tone, he implored,

"Alright, everyone, cease this foolishness and return to your seats at once."

A timid voice rose in protest, a child attempting to present their case, only to be swiftly silenced by the sickly-looking instructor. "Enough. I will hear none of it.”

With a single authoritative decree, order was restored, and the children timidly resumed their places. Those who happened to be seated closest to Daemian found themselves succumbing to clammy sweat, while others concealed their sorrow behind silent sobs. Unfazed by their distress, the instructor carried on.

"Now, with your imminent path selection approaching, I have decided to dedicate some time to revisiting this crucial topic. Can anyone here elucidate the importance of path selection?"

A hush settled over the classroom, pregnant with anticipation and trepidation. Finally, a student from the back of the room raised his hand, his voice unwavering in its confidence. Daemian recognized him as the leader of the bullies during the playground incident.

Instructor Caid acknowledged the student, Fien, granting him permission to speak.

Confidently, the child responded

"Though most practitioners can manipulating all primal essences, as they advance in their studies, they must elect a specific path aligned with one or more essences to which they possess a natural affinity," Fien explained, his conviction palpable.

"The question, Fien, was why" Caid interjected, his tone devoid of warmth.

With tears clouding his eyes, Fien resumed his seat. Daemian couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the young child. It was remarkable for a five-year-old to possess such knowledge. Yet, even this level of proficiency failed to meet the exacting standards set by House Lunaeris. Each of these children hailed from either orphanages or the households of the house's staff, and failure to meet the requisite expectations would result in banishment. Though Caid's severity might appear harsh, it likely served the best interests of the children.

"Anyone else?" Caid's voice reverberated sternly through the tense room, rendering the children trembling in trepidation.

Having reached his limit, Daemian impulsively blurted out, "Inefficiency."

Caid's eyes sparked with intrigue. "Oh? Care to elaborate on that, young lord?"

A mischievous smirk danced upon Daemian's lips as he continued, "While practitioners of the sacred arts possess the capacity to wield all primal essences, employing an essence for which one lacks affinity drains their Enerith pool at a significantly faster rate then if they were to use the essences they have an affinity with."

Before Caid could acknowledge his response with a customary "Correct," Daemian pressed on relishing the opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge. "Furthermore, there is the matter of resonance. It is prudent to abstain from utilizing essences with which one lacks affinity, as doing so weakens one's bond with their primary essence."

Once more, silence descended upon the room, with Caid swiftly regaining his characteristic air of indifference and clearing his throat. "That is indeed correct, young lord."

Naturally, Daemian thought to himself, confident in his assessment.

As Killian, he had ascended to the ranks of a transcendent sacred artist, mastering the art of Enerith manipulation. In truth, there was little that Caid could impart to him as a sacred artist. Nevertheless, the unexpected exchange had yielded a sense of satisfaction that Daemian had not anticipated, a glimmer of enjoyment in this otherwise mundane exchange.

A few hours had passed, and Caid's class had finally come to an end. Normally, this would signal the start of a much-anticipated break, with children rushing out to the playground. However, the unfortunate destruction caused by Daemian left them confined within the classroom. The atmosphere was tense, as Daemian could sense the fear and apprehension in the glances of his classmates gradually transforming into animosity.

"I have to do something," he thought to himself.

Rising from his seat, Daemian approached Fien, who hastily tried to flee. Swiftly reaching out, Daemian caught hold of Fien's collar, gently guiding him back into his seat. The remaining students reacted with panic, scrambling to escape the room while Fien pleaded for their help.

Daemian, feeling the onset of a headache, massaged his temple in an attempt to alleviate the growing discomfort. "That's enough," he commanded, hoping to pacify Fien. However, his words only intensified Fien's cries, as he desperately pleaded,

"I'm sorryyyy! Please don't kill me!"

Eventually, Daemian released his grip on Fien, allowing him to gradually calm down. "Can you talk now?" Daemian asked, trying to adopt a friendlier tone.

Still wary of Daemian, Fien nodded cautiously.

"Alright," Daemian continued, "what did you tell the others about me?" He inquired, hoping for an honest response.

"...I told them you destroyed the playground and almost killed us," Fien admitted.

Daemian found himself momentarily at a loss. He couldn't deny the truth in Fien's words; had he been in Fien's position, he might have thought the same.

"I wasn't trying to kill you; it was an accident," Daemian explained, attempting to clarify the situation.

Curiosity began to replace the fear in Fien's eyes as he asked, "But why? Why wouldn't you try to kill us? You're the young lord of the main family... and we bullied you for being stained. You could kill us, and nobody would care..."

Daemian let out a weary sigh, realizing the weight of Fien's words. "I wouldn't kill you over something so trivial," he replied honestly, hoping to dispel any misconceptions.

Fien stared at Daemian, appearing unconvinced by his explanation.

Growing weary of the conversation, Daemian decided to bring it to an end. "Listen, no hard feelings, alright? I wasn't trying to kill you, so please refrain from spreading any unfounded rumors about me."

Just as Daemian was about to exit the room, Fien blurted out, "I'm sorry!" This time, Daemian could sense the sincerity behind Fien's words. He offered a reassuring smile before making his way out of the classroom.

As Daemian stood outside the classroom, a sense of familiarity washed over him when he saw the face of Headmistress Alara. His voice carried a tinge of shame as he addressed her,

"Headmistress Alara..."

The headmistress regarded him with a stern expression.

"Young lord, you have been causing quite a disturbance in recent days, haven't you?" she questioned, her voice carrying a note of disappointment.

Daemian's head sank lower as he replied,

"I'm sorry, Miss. I haven't forgotten my promise." He attempted to reassure her, his words laced with genuine remorse.

With a playful tone, she responded, "Oh, I'm sure our young lord is a man of his word." Her demeanor shifted subtly as she leaned forward, a subtle shift in her energy sent a shiver down Daemian's spine, causing him to instinctively take a step back.

The headmistress let out a nonchalant sigh, her voice carrying an air of intrigue.

"Oh, my~ Care to explain why our dear stained lord is able to respond to my sacred art?"

She inquired, her words veiled by the reflection on her glasses. Behind that occlusion, Daemian could discern a malevolent and piercing gaze.