The cabin lights flickered, and the deafening roar of turbulence sent passengers into panicked screams. Lucian Voss remained composed. A man who had orchestrated the downfall of monarchs, dismantled empires from the shadows, and carved his legend into the underbelly of history would not fear something as trivial as death.
He had been the best—the pinnacle of human efficiency in the art of assassination. Nations whispered his name with dread. And yet, fate had chosen mockery over honor. A malfunction. A simple, pathetic malfunction in the aircraft's system. This was how he was to perish? No final battle, no grand betrayal—just cold, indifferent inevitability.
The flames swallowed him whole.
Yet, death was not the end.
Awareness returned. A rush of sensation—warmth, breath, the weight of a foreign body. His senses flared with newfound vigor, sharper than ever before. He gasped, hands clenching over delicate, infant-like fingers.
A voice—gentle yet firm—drifted into his ears.
"Congratulations, my lord. A fine, healthy son."
His vision adjusted, revealing a regal chamber adorned with banners of gold and crimson. A woman, elegant and poised, cradled him close—his mother. A towering man, clad in ceremonial armor, gazed down at him with restrained disappointment—his father.
Lucian Voss, feared assassin, was no more.
In his place was **Valerian Dusk**, third son of House Dusk, the least significant heir of a noble lineage.
But insignificance was never his fate.
Power stirred within his newborn frame—a vast, abyssal force whispering promises of domination. **Mind. Illusion. Space.** The very fabric of reality bent to his will.
And in that moment, he vowed—this world would kneel.