​[DING! Starting memory input...]

​Kael bit down on the rolled-up linen cloth so hard his jaw cracked, squeezing his eyes shut as he braced for the white-hot, soul-tearing agony.

​A second passed. Then two.

​Instead of a fiery explosion in his brain, a gentle, soothing warmth washed over his mind. It felt like stepping into a hot bath after a freezing winter day. The memories didn’t violently tear into him; they flowed naturally, settling into his consciousness as if they had always belonged there.

​He slowly opened his eyes, spitting the cloth out of his mouth. He let out a breathless, exasperated chuckle. The system really had a twisted sense of humor.

​But as the memories settled, the smile quickly faded from his face.

​His name in this world was Ian Thorne. Seventeen years old. He was the eldest son of Aron and Caroline Thorne. His father, Aron, was the second-born son of the main family, meaning he had no right to inherit the position of Patriarch. Ian also had two little sisters, a pair of energetic twins named Emma and Emily.

​The Thorne family had a complicated history in the Trillah Kingdom. Decades ago, they were merely exceptionally wealthy merchants. But, like all merchants, they eventually craved something gold couldn’t directly buy: political power and security. Ian’s grandfather had made a massive, secret financial deal with the Crown Prince, effectively purchasing a Baron title for a staggering sum of gold.

​Along with the title, the kingdom had granted them a small, underdeveloped fiefdom on the far western edge of the territory, bordering the lands of the Zenin and Willson baronies.

​But buying a title didn’t buy respect.

​The established nobility despised them. To the old bloodlines, the Thornes were just commoners playing dress-up. They were heavily scrutinized, endlessly mocked, and almost entirely blacklisted from high-society gatherings.

​And there was one glaring reason why the nobles felt so comfortable bullying them: The Thorne family was completely, utterly powerless.

​In this world, power ruled everything. At the age of ten, children could begin training to absorb mana from the atmosphere. The faster a child formed a "Mana Heart" in their chest, the higher their talent. Those who failed to form a Mana Heart could attempt the path of the Knight, forcing their physical bodies to generate a powerful internal energy called Aura.

​Ian had tried. On his tenth birthday, he sat for days trying to sense the mana in the air. Reality slapped him hard in the face.

​It wasn’t just him. The entire Thorne bloodline possessed exactly zero talent for magic or aura. It was as if their family was cursed. The religious fanatics of the kingdom even whispered that the "Thorne Curse" was a divine punishment from the Gods for their worldly greed.

​Because of this lack of martial strength, no Mages would ever agree to work for them, deeming the "fake nobles" unworthy. To survive, the family had to pour all their energy into business, using their massive profits to offer exorbitant salaries to wandering knights and mercenaries just to guard their borders.

​Wow, this whole family’s talent is absolute trash, Kael thought, resting his hand against his forehead.

​But as he dug deeper into the memories, a sense of respect washed over him. Ian hadn’t been a spoiled, useless young master. Knowing he had no magical talent, the seventeen-year-old had thrown himself entirely into the family business, working tirelessly alongside his father to keep their clan financially afloat.

​Which brought Kael to the most pressing question: Why did someone want a hardworking, magically crippled merchant boy dead?

​The final memory surged forward, answering the question with brutal clarity.

​It was earlier that very day. Ian and his father, Aron, were returning from the Capital in a luxurious horse-drawn carriage after securing a major trade deal. They were just miles away from the safety of their own fiefdom.

​Suddenly, the carriage halted.

​Before Aron could even ask why they had stopped, the carriage doors were violently yanked open by two of their own hired guard knights.

​"What is the meaning of this?" Aron had demanded, his voice thick with authority.

​The knight didn’t say a word. He simply drew his longsword and, with a cold, dead-eyed stare, plunged it directly into Aron’s heart.

​"FATHER!!!" The phantom memory of Ian’s scream echoed in Kael’s mind. The shock and grief had been paralyzing. Ian watched the light leave his father’s eyes as the man slumped backward against the velvet seats, struck down instantly without even the chance to fight back or defend his child.

​"You killed him!" Ian had shrieked, tears streaming down his face, a sudden, blinding anger completely overriding his natural cowardice. "Why did you kill him?!"

​The traitorous knight just snorted, flicking the blood off his blade. He found absolutely no reason to explain himself to a dead boy.

​But the knight had underestimated the boy’s grief. With a feral cry, Ian had lunged forward, tackling the fully armored knight out of the carriage and into the dirt. In the chaotic tumble, the knight’s dagger slipped, slicing a deep gash across Ian’s stomach.

​It wasn’t a fatal strike, but it was enough to force Ian off. Scrambling to his feet, clutching his bleeding stomach, the seventeen-year-old turned and sprinted blindly into the dark, dense forest. He ran like hell, ignoring the tearing pain, leaving a thick trail of blood on the leaves.

​After thirty minutes of desperate running, his frail body simply gave out. His vision blurred, and he collapsed in the dirt, waiting for the traitorous knights or the hired guild assassins to finish the job as he slowly bled to death.

​That was the exact moment Kael’s soul had taken over.

​Sitting up in the luxurious bed, Kael suddenly realized his vision was blurry. He reached up and touched his cheek. His fingers came away wet.

​Tears were streaming down his face, dropping silently onto the fine silk sheets. He hadn’t expected this. He was Kael, a hardened soul who had died alone in a cold prison cell. But the system’s memory integration hadn’t just transferred facts, names, and faces; it had transferred the raw, bleeding hole in Ian’s heart.

​Aron Thorne wasn’t Kael’s real father. But as the memory of the man being brutally murdered before his own son’s eyes replayed in his mind, Kael felt a profound, aching kinship. In his previous life, Kael had lost his siblings because he was too weak to protect them. Aron had died because he, too, was completely powerless.

​The grief washed over him, heavy and suffocating, mourning a father who had truly loved his son.

​But seconds later, that grief ignited. The tears stopped, dried by a terrifying, boiling anger rising from the very depths of his soul. The men who killed Aron weren’t just random bandits. They were the family’s own hired guards, paid off by someone on the inside.

​Kael wiped his face, his golden eyes narrowing into cold, dangerous slits.

​He hadn’t died in that forest, which meant whoever ordered the assassination probably already knew he was awake and breathing inside this very estate. The assassins would undoubtedly try again. The Thorne family was surrounded by wolves, and their only defense was the very mercenaries who were stabbing them in the back.

​Ian Thorne used to be a coward who would hide from this reality. Kael was not.

​"System," Kael whispered into the empty, luxurious room, his voice completely devoid of fear. "Open the Clan Cultivation interface. It’s time to get to work."