In the heart of the Sun Kingdom, where spires of gold kissed the sky and crimson banners fluttered in the morning light, stood the royal palace—an ancient fortress turned masterpiece of marble and sunstone. Within its towering halls, the throne room stretched like a grand cathedral, columns rising like tree trunks of a celestial forest, each carved with tales of kings long dead.
The old king sat atop the High Throne, a towering seat of burnished steel inlaid with obsidian and quartz, raised far above the lesser seats that lined the chamber's edge. Though his face bore the weight of age—deep lines etched by decades of rule—his voice still held the thunder of command. The air inside was thick with anticipation and tension, as dukes, earls, ministers, and aristocrats stood beneath the golden chandeliers, holding their breath.
After hearing both sides of the matter, the king stood with a weariness born not of age, but of betrayal. His voice cracked through the chamber like a blade unsheathed.
"There is no need to descend into war between the First Prince and the Second Prince! No need to support theft and pay thieves to spark a royal rebellion! No need to convince earls and dukes to draw swords against each other! You stand accused of treasonous manipulation!"
A gasp rippled through the crowd, but the king raised a hand for silence.
"And so," he declared, voice thundering with finality, "I, King of the Sun Kingdom, hereby demote you to the rank of courtier. This is my royal decree."
The man receiving judgment stood unmoving at the center of the chamber—Al Draven. His shoulders were broad, his stance unbowed, his dark cloak rippling slightly in the room's sudden chill. Though in his late forties, his aura pulsed with restrained force, the kind honed through years of swordplay, strategy, and command. Power lingered in the stillness around him, like a storm held at bay.
But the decree had been spoken. Irrevocable. Irreversible.
The court bowed in reluctant agreement. No one dared speak. Al Draven turned without a word, his footsteps echoing through the marbled expanse as he departed the throne room—stripped not only of title, but of pride, of land, of legacy.
The journey home was long. Draven City, perched near the kingdom's fringe where verdant hills gave way to jagged cliffs and silver rivers, awaited him. It was a place once feared and respected, a fortress of his making—its skyline dominated by a white-stone citadel whose inner halls shimmered with luxury and quiet defiance.
Inside that fortress, beneath soaring ceilings painted with tales of war and prophecy, in a sun-drenched chamber of polished marble and soft silk drapes, the Third Young Master Ryan had just awakened.
Noon light filtered in through stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the floor. Ryan, wrapped in a loose robe, yawned and stretched like a lion basking in ease. At the long dining table, he ate lazily—fruits, meats, and pastries laid out before him, silver cutlery glinting. The servants flinched at every sound, their eyes flicking nervously toward the arched entrance.
They feared her.
If the lady of the house were to appear, fire and fury would follow. Yet Ryan, unfazed, sipped his tea with half-lidded eyes, lost in thought.
He suddenly turned to his butler. "Get me the newspaper."
Silence swallowed the room. Trays trembled. A spoon clattered to the floor.
The young master—who had never lifted a book, let alone shown interest in the written word—had asked for the newspaper.
When it was brought to him, Ryan unfolded the crisp pages, the rustle unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber. The headline stared back at him: Al Draven—Demoted to Courtier.
A scandal. A shift in the very fabric of the kingdom. Taxes would rise, alliances crumble, and the grip of the Draven family would weaken like rotting timber.
Ryan read it, and then—he laughed.
A strange laugh, light and carefree, rising in volume until it echoed off the polished walls like the cry of a madman or a monarch too wise for his age. The servants froze. The very air seemed to pause, unsure whether to breathe.
He was laughing at the ruin of his own house.
Just then, Maya stormed in—boots striking the floor like hammers on steel, her presence slicing through the atmosphere like a drawn blade.
She was more than a bodyguard. More than a servant. Maya, once hailed as a prodigy, had earned her place through grit and brilliance. At fifteen, she had bested warlords. At twenty-two, she was as formidable as a veteran commander. Though she bore no noble blood, her strength made kings hesitate. Her aura crackled faintly, like embers waiting to ignite.
She didn't hesitate.
"What the hell is wrong with you!?" she shouted, voice ringing with raw frustration. "You sit here laughing while your father is disgraced—your family thrown into chaos!"
But Ryan barely blinked. The newspaper remained open in his hand.
He looked up slowly, eyes gleaming with something alien—too knowing, too amused.
There was power there, though not physical. Something deeper. Like the soul of another watching from behind those eyes.
She had cared for the previous soul in this body.
But that soul was gone.
Ryan—or whoever now bore that name—smiled faintly. This life isn't bad, he thought. Compared to the last one, this is paradise. Earthly pleasures were within reach. Every brothel, every comfort, every delight. And no one dared question him—not just because of his bloodline, but because his mother was the second daughter of Duke Raav. That made him untouchable.
But indulgence alone wasn't enough. Not anymore.
He realized something profound: he couldn't leave this body. Whatever had happened—soul transfer, reincarnation, a second chance—it was real. So he would live. And this time, he would use every advantage.
The first thing he needed was to reclaim his health.
Maya was still raging. "I'm talking to you, Ryan! Keep going like this and you'll be nothing but a stain on the Draven name!"
Ryan rose, casually pushing his chair back. The silk of his robe whispered with every step.
He met her eyes—beautiful, determined, and dangerous.
"I wish I cared about that," he said flatly.
Then, without looking back, he walked away—leaving behind shock, fury, and silence.
And returned to his room.
An hour passed.
Maya burst into the room, her voice sharp and cutting through the still air.
"The whole castle is talking behind your back!" she snapped. "You're here, laughing—reading the newspaper—while the news spreads about the downfall of the Draven house. If the next heir is laughing at his own family's ruin, then what future does this house have?"
She stood tall, her posture rigid with frustration.
Ryan, reclining in his chair by the arched window where golden light filtered through embroidered drapes, remained calm. His eyes, half-lidded in composure, flicked up to meet hers.
"That is not news," he said evenly. "It's just a piece whispered into a publisher's ear by those with power to manipulate ink. Everything in it is false. My father was played… trapped by the vipers in the capital."
Maya froze, taken aback. She hadn't expected clarity—certainly not from Ryan. The Ryan she knew was arrogant, impulsive, always reacting from pride or pleasure. But this… this was different. His words cut with precision, and not a trace of insolence stained them. It unsettled her.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she wrestled with the strange clarity she'd just witnessed.
Ryan—newly reincarnated into this body—remained seated. The warm wind from the balcony stirred the pages of the book on his lap. He sifted through fragments of the body's past life, cross-referencing them with the dusty tomes scattered across the room. This world was unfamiliar, and yet… it was beginning to unfold its secrets.
Moments later, the old butler entered with a quiet bow and a message: the Lady of the house—his mother—had summoned him.
"I refuse," Ryan said without hesitation, his eyes still on the text before him.
The butler, accustomed to the eccentricities of the previous heir, bowed again and departed silently. Ryan knew how this would play out. She would come herself.
And she did.
A few minutes later, the heavy doors opened without a knock. The woman who stepped through carried the gravity of nobility. Draped in silks the color of falling dusk, her presence drew a line through the room. In her late forties, elegant and poised, she paused—just briefly—upon seeing Ryan immersed in his books. But she said nothing of it.
Instead, her voice rang clear and final.
"Ryan, tomorrow we are returning to the Raav household. The Duke will ensure our safety and comfort. If your father couldn't uphold his title, how can he protect us? We leave at first light. Take whatever you want."
She spoke not as a mother, but as a ruler delivering decree.
"I refuse," Ryan answered, his tone firm. "I am the son of the Draven, not of the Raav."
She stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide with disbelief. This was not the son she knew—the one Draven by luxury, indulgence, and fleeting pleasure. Something had changed. He was calm. Composed. Rooted.
And he was choosing this ruined house… this hollowed legacy?
She studied him, silently probing for answers. But whatever was going on in his mind, she could not see it.
With a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes, she replied, "Duke Raav's doors will always be open for you. Come when you're ready."
She turned, her silken robes trailing behind her as she left. She knew—once the court funds stopped flowing—he'd come crawling. She didn't look back.
Ryan watched her go. The truth settled heavy in his chest: his family was fractured. His mother hadn't waited to face the court. She'd chosen escape before justice even knocked on the door.
He sighed. Another visitor was coming.
And right on cue, the doors opened again.
Maya returned, flanked by her ally—a striking figure with the poise of a knight and the grace of a lady. Her beauty was sharp as a blade, wrapped in flowing garments that shimmered like enchanted silk. A woman shaped by strength and charm—a dream for many in the Capital Region of the Sun Kingdom.
"What are you thinking?" Maya shouted again. "You've rejected the second daughter of Duke Raav! Do you understand the weight of that decision? It could ruin your name—your reputation!"
Ryan looked up, steady and unmoved.
"As a knight," he said softly, "are you telling me to retreat from my own house?"
Silence fell. Maya stood speechless.
Then Ryan rose, his voice low but resolute.
"I will rebuild this house," he said. "From dust to sky—until the world must look up to see it."
The words hung in the air like a spell.
Maya froze, stunned by the sheer audacity—and sincerity—of his declaration. Questions danced behind her eyes, but none found voice. She turned and quietly left, sensing that Ryan needed solitude more than anything now.
Alone, Ryan approached the tall window. Outside, the winds whispered through the withering courtyards and rusted gates. The ancestral banners of House Draven hung limp, faded by time and neglect. Yet in the distance, the sunlight kissed the tips of the towers.
A storm brewed in his mind.
Where to begin?
His thoughts swirled like an oncoming tempest. So many paths, so many strategies. But what was the first step?
Then… a spark.
He turned toward the bed.
A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. There was nothing beneath it. No secret door, no hidden artifact.
Just an idea.
But it was enough.
The smile deepened, dark and knowing.
And for the first time since his return to this life, Ryan felt the surge of something more—something dangerous, something powerful.
A plan.