X rose slowly from the leather chair, its polished fra whispering as it turned a full circle beneath him. The seat alone was worth more than most n’s lifetis—a quiet testant to the empire he had built.
The room around him was perfectly circular, a deliberate design. No corners. No blind spots. Every inch of it reflected control.
And tonight, it belonged solely to him.
He had dismissed every technical staff, every aide, every shadow that usually lingered at his side. This hour—this silence—was reserved for one thing:
Planning the future of his economic dominion.
A future that was now... threatened.
By an island.
A small, insignificant island in the central plains of Azuverda.
His jaw tightened.
Ares Zuvel.
That man was too lucky.
At first, X had scoffed at the reports. A discovery in Isla? A royal mausoleum? It had all sounded like nothing more than a carefully staged farce—propaganda ant to inflate the Zuvel na and manipulate the masses.
A historical hoax.
He had almost admired the audacity of it.
But the reports didn’t stop.
They multiplied.
And worse... they were confird.
Foreign scholars. Renowned historians. Experts who had no stake in Azuverda’s politics and economy—all of them testified to the sa conclusion:
The Royal Mausoleum was real.
A relic of imnse historical significance.
And the Zuvel family...were rumored to be descendants of the Kromwels.
The air in the room seed to grow heavier.
X’s fist tightened, veins rising beneath his skin.
This wasn’t just about prestige anymore. It was legitimacy.
Power of a different kind.
The kind that couldn’t be bought—only inherited.
...
But then, a thought surfaced. Sharp. Sudden.
His dark eyes glinted with calculation making him look dangerous.
According to the sarcophagus, Emperor Alaric Kromwel had five children—four princes and only one princess.
Five branches of history.
And history... was never perfectly recorded.
X’s eyes narrowed.
Who was to say the Zuvels were the only surviving line?
A slow smile crept across his face, cold and deliberate.
Could he not... be one of them as well?
Yes. Why not?
If history could be rewritten once, it could be rewritten again.
He turned, the chair spinning softly behind him as if in quiet approval.
His decision settled like iron.
His ancestor would be the youngest prince. The forgotten son of Emperor Alaric Kromwel.
And from that mont on...
He would make the world believe it.
...
anwhile, in a secluded villa nestled deep within the mountains south of Lanura...
The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of pine through the half-open windows. Inside, the villa was quiet—almost reverent—save for the soft clatter of keys echoing through the study.
Then—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The asured sound of a cane striking a tiled floor broke the silence.
"Amy, my dear grandchild..."
An old man stepped into the room, his silver hair catching the warm glow of the lamplight. His posture was slightly bent with age, yet there was nothing fragile about him. Each step was deliberate and steady.
He bore the unmistakable presence of an old-world scholar. Ti had etched itself into his posture, yet it had not diminished him—it had refined him.
His gait was unhurried, steady, carrying the quiet authority of a man who had spent decades in conversation with history itself.
There was dignity in him, not worn like a title, but ingrained—shaped by a lifeti spent chasing truth, preserving knowledge, and guarding it from those unworthy of its weight.
"Pack your things," he said calmly. "We are leaving for Isla tomorrow morning."
Alia froze.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she slowly closed her laptop with a soft click. Turning in her chair, she faced him, her brows knitting together.
"Grandpa... why so sudden?"
There was hesitation in her voice, but also sothing else—uncertainty rooted in old mories.
Isla was in Laguna. That place wasn’t just a destination.
It was where her parents lived. Where her siblings were.
Where she used to belong.
...
As a child, when her world had felt too loud, too overwhelming—when words and emotions tangled in ways she couldn’t untangle—her parents had made a decision.
They sent her away because they could not accept her mild autism.
To her grandfather.
To this quiet villa in the mountains.
To a life of structure, silence... and understanding.
Her grandfather had never treated her like sothing broken.
Instead, he taught her music.
The steady logic of piano keys. The discipline of strings. The comfort of patterns she could control.
And books.
Endless books.
Ancient histories, modern accounts, forgotten civilizations—his study was a sanctuary of knowledge. Shelves lined with weathered tos, brittle parchnts, and scrolls that looked as though they had survived centuries.
So even felt older than ti itself.
"They are heirlooms," her grandfather would always say, his voice lowering with quiet reverence. "Treasures passed down through our bloodline."
What Alia didn’t know...
Was that the ones he handled so freely were only replicas.
The originals—far more valuable, far more dangerous—were locked away in a bank vault, hidden from prying eyes.
...
"Pack these as well," the old man added, gesturing to a bundle of parchnts and scrolls on the desk. "They will co with us."
Alia blinked, then stood, walking over. "You’re bringing those too?"
She reached up absentmindedly, tugging at his long beard—a habit she had never outgrown, even as an adult.
"But Grandpa... what are you going there for?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of realization forming.
"Don’t tell ..." she said slowly, "you’re going to work there?"
A faint smile tugged at the old man’s lips.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "I will."
There was pride in his voice now—quiet, but unmistakable.
"Your grandfather holds a doctorate in Ancient History," he continued. "I am more than qualified to stand among those foreigners."
He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her.
"And I have already made arrangents for you."
Alia stiffened.
"You’ve been accepted," he said gently, "as one of the field scribes."
For a mont, she said nothing.
"Grandpa—" she began, her tone instinctively protesting.
But the words didn’t carry weight. Because beneath that thin layer of resistance...
Her heart was racing.
This was it.
Not the quiet safety of the villa. Not borrowed stories from old pages.
But history—alive, unfolding, waiting to be written.
And for the first ti—
Alia would be part of it.
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