It had been a week since his birth as Lucius Valerius Velcren.

  Seven days of silence, warmth, and whispered conversations around his cradle. Seven days of piecing together fragmented memories, names from stories, and symbols carved in polished stone.

  And seven days to understand the impossible.

  He was inside The Crimson Sun — a world he had once read about obsessively. But the emperor's name gave everything away. Aurelius Magnus Caelestis IV, the Sovereign of the Dawn Realm, stood as the current ruler of the Solarian Imperium. In the novel, he was a long-dead figure mentioned only in the footnotes of history.

  Lucius wasn’t just inside the story.

  He was centuries too early.

  By his best estimate, he was at least Thousand years before the events of the novel. Before the great wars. Before the rise of the Crimson Sun. Before the destruction.

  Now, he was part of House Valerius, the strongest ducal family in the empire. Renowned across the realms for the Via Gladii Arcanum — the Way of the Arcane Sword — one of the most potent and demanding martial disciplines in existence. Loyal to the imperial throne. Trusted by generations of emperors. Their crest — a single sword embedded in a wheel — hung over every wall, polished until it gleamed like captured dawnlight.

  His grandfather, Tiberius Valerius, stood as patriarch and the emperor’s closest confidant. His father, Marcus Valerius, was the vice-patriarch — strong, just, a man of order and unwavering discipline.

  His mother, Seraphina Velcren, was no less extraordinary.

  She was the sole heir to House Velcren, one of the Eight Founding Houses of the Serican Ledger — the oldest and most powerful banking alliance in the known world. But the Velcrens were not merely wealthy. They were power itself given form.

  While other houses managed trade routes, shipping guilds, or wartime investments, the Velcrens regulated the minting and valuation of currency itself — the economic lifeblood of civilization.

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  And their currency — the Solvante — was the spine of global commerce.

  An ancient term from Old Serican, meaning “weight of worth.” The Solvante was not merely minted in gold — it was infused with magic, bound by blood seals, and upheld by ancestral oaths. Each coin bore enchanted sigils, confirmed by all Eight Houses, and to forge or tamper with it was to invite immediate sanctions — or swift, silent assassination.

  From elven courts to dwarven vaults, from desert tribes to floating mystic cities — all bent to the power of the Solvante.

  And at the head of this silent dominion stood House Velcren, wielding unmatched influence from the White Chamber, the secret seat of the Ledger’s hidden council.

  They didn’t just move wealth.

  They moved nations.

  And this union, between Valerius and Velcren, was not forged for power. It was love. A rare, unbroken bond supported by both families.

  Lucius was the product of this union. The future heir to two legacies. And it showed.

  His cradle alone could rival thrones. Crafted from ancient darkwood, embroidered with platinum threads, and studded with crystals that pulsed with ambient mana. The silks beneath him were softer than anything he had ever touched, glowing faintly under floating lights. Their residence, nestled in the heart of the Valeria Capital, was a fortress of majesty — towering spires, magical halls, enchanted trees, and corridors lined with tapestries that moved as if alive.

  But more than wealth, more than heritage, something else filled the air.

  Mana.

  He had been born during a Mana Storm.

  A cosmic phenomenon so rare, it occurred only once every few centuries. It was a time when the very essence of mana condensed, flooding the land in its most pure and potent form. In the human realm, such storms usually descended over ancient forests, never cities. But this one had taken root above the Valeria capital — a surge of raw, unfiltered power.

  Mana had thickened in the air like mist. And even as a newborn, Lucius could feel it — drawn to him, surrounding him, soaking into his very bones. It felt warm, wild, infinite. Like breathing in magic itself.

  But beauty came with danger.

  The Mana Storm was not just a blessing. It was also a time of dread.

  When mana thickened, monsters grew restless, and ancient creatures awoke. Villains, once dormant or in hiding, would emerge with maddened eyes and unstable power. Even mages — those highly attuned to magic — risked losing control if they drew too deeply from the storm’s heart.

  And in the midst of it all — a single room in a towering spire — he was born.

  Beneath the rumbling sky. Surrounded by power, privilege, and protection. Wrapped in warmth and legacy.

  And as he lay in his golden cradle, a whisper touched the edges of his thoughts.

  The system — still offline. But slowly syncing.

  Seventy percent.

  Lucius blinked up at the ceiling, stars painted in motion above his head. And despite the storm outside, despite the shadows of danger, a small smile tugged at the corners of his infant lips.