It was a typical warm, damp morning in Leviathan City, the heart of House Enzo’s domain in the southern reaches of the Vaelthor continent. Southward stretched the endless sea, its breezes kissing the land with a gentle spring-like touch year-round; northward loomed jagged mountains, a natural fortress walling off the rest. The Enzos’ greed even seeped into their geography—they hogged the blissful coastal monsoon climate all to themselves, letting the peaks block any shred of it from reaching their neighbors. Of course, such terrain also made this place a bastard to attack and a dream to defend, a gift from the gods they probably well deserved, or so they thought.

  For Oliver Enzo, though, it was just another damn fine morning. He sprawled in a cozy seaside cottage, savoring the “hospitality” of two local girls—leftovers from last night’s revelry. He loved his life here. Loved it hard. Loved it more than anything he’d ever had back on Earth.

  Funny thing was, Oliver Enzo arrived in Vaelthor with the same first name—Oliver—just slapped with another shiny, badass surname. Yep, he was one of those legendary “rich kids.” Landed here at eighteen, fresh into college back home—a paradise of booze, drugs, and screwing around in private jets or VIP rooms, girls who flung themselves at his handsome mug, tall frame, and fat family name. Not a single one could resist, or so he thought. Sure, he’d had to slip “something” into a drink now and then—when he wanted something, he got it, no exceptions. His family always cleaned up the mess after. Only folks he didn’t mess with were the other big shots—too pricey a game for a quick thrill.

  Here, though, the Enzo name was even bigger, and he’d gained something he’d never had back home: strength. Real, raw strength. It fed straight into his little role-playing fetish, and oh, how he ate it up.

  See, Oliver loved playing the part—disguising himself as some scruffy wanderer, showing up just in time to save a damsel in distress. He’d keep his identity under wraps, tossing out cryptic warnings to the “bandits” or “thugs” he’d stumble across. “I’m not someone you wanna mess with,” he’d growl, all serious-like. “Stop this shit now, or you’ll regret it.” Cue the idiots laughing their heads off—right before he summoned his favorite trick: that big-ass magic hand. With a flick, it’d sweep through like a goddamn tornado, smashing those fools into the dirt, teeth flying everywhere. Then came the grand finale—he’d rip off his tattered cloak, revealing the sleek robe beneath, the massive Leviathan crest blazing on his back. Hero saves the day, smooth as silk, a classic drama straight out of a playbook. Afterward, the grateful ladies would “thank” him proper—sometimes with a little nudge from his charm magic if they hesitated. He made damn sure they wanted to.

  Why didn’t Oliver Enzo just kill those bandits, you ask? Wipe out the scum plaguing his lands? Because finding and training a crew that played along with his little charade wasn’t easy. Beating them off was smarter than beating them dead—killing them would’ve been a waste of good props. Say what you will, but the guy had a merchant’s mind for screwing people over while keeping his toys intact.

  Such a life was pure bliss. He was basking in that thought when one of the girls, her voice soft but edged with a careful hitch, broke his reverie. “Lord Oliver, you sure you want this? You were… having trouble last night—right from the start.”

  Oliver didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, and he raised his right hand, mana flickering at his fingertips, ready to nudge her with another charm spell. Her mouth was running too much—better put it to work than let it yap. A little “help” would sort that out, right?

  Before he could cast, a sharp buzz ripped through his skull—his system, slamming him with alerts. He jolted, kicking the girl by his feet away in a flash of irritation, her yelp drowned out by the flood of messages:

  [System Notification]

  [Branch Quest Activated: Assist House Enzo in completing Mana Spring experiments]

  [Reward: 1 Skill Point (Note: Cannot be used to upgrade mental manipulation skills)]

  [Branch Quest Activated: Convince Douglas Enzo to permit a Skirmish Match between Leviathan Academy and Aurora Academy]

  [Reward: 1 Skill Point (Note: Cannot be used to upgrade mental manipulation skills)]

  [Branch Quest Activated: Defeat all opponents in the Skirmish Match, lead your team to victory]

  [Reward: 5 Skill Points (Note: Cannot be used to upgrade mental manipulation skills)]

  [Branch Quest Activated: Secure the contract power of House Enzo’s Leviathan]

  [Reward: 5 Skill Points (Note: Cannot be used to upgrade mental manipulation skills)]

  [...Additional tasks pending...]

  [Main Quest Activated]

  [Objective: Kill the other transmigrator, BaiYun]

  [Reward: 10 Skill Points (No upgrade restrictions)]

  Oliver froze, the system’s voice pounding in his skull like a damn war drum. A surge of irritation flared in his gut—shit, more chores crashing his perfect little paradise, dragging him out of this sweet, lazy life he’d built. Why the hell couldn’t he just stay sprawled here, soaking it all in? His jaw tightened, but then a flicker of something else sparked—BaiYun? Another transmigrator? His mind churned, annoyance giving way to a twisted thrill. Wait—if this punk was the story’s big bad, some asshole messing up his show, then killing him could be the kick he’d been craving. Stomping out a villain? Hell yeah, that’d be a riot. His smirk widened, eyes glinting with a dark, giddy malice—this was getting good.

  Before he could savor it, the cottage door banged open, a breathless servant stumbling in, his face slick with sweat. “Lord Oliver!” he gasped, bowing low. “The master—Lord Douglas—demands your presence. Now!”

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  He snapped out of it, annoyance boiling over. With a snarl, he snatched the nearest wine cup and hurled it at the servant, the glass shattering against the wall in a spray of red. “You fucking blind?” he roared, voice dripping with venom. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?” The servant flinched, bowing lower, but Oliver’s temper flared hotter—he knew he had to go now, and that pissed him off even more. Spinning around, he planted a sharp kick into the girl still sprawled on the floor, her muffled cry barely registering. “All of you—get the hell out!” he bellowed, waving them off like flies. “Now!”

  The girls scrambled up, clutching their clothes, and the servant bolted for the door, leaving Oliver alone with his simmering rage boiling over, fists still clenched tight.

  It was the cool, shadowed expanse of Douglas Enzo’s office in Leviathan City’s central keep. Polished stone walls gleamed under torchlight, etched with the Leviathan crest—a beast coiled in ruthless elegance. Catherine stood near a broad desk, her sharp eyes locked on Douglas Enzo, the family patriarch, as they spoke of the Mana Spring. Her voice was clipped, precise, detailing yields and experiments, when the heavy door creaked open. Oliver strode in, still reeking of wine and smugness.

  Both pairs of eyes turned to him—Catherine’s narrowing with a flash of disdain, Douglas’s glinting with a colder, deeper disappointment. Catherine’s look said it all—she knew exactly where he’d been last night, rolling in some girl’s bed again. In a twisted, almost laughable way, she didn’t mind much; if he wasn’t home, he was predictable—tangled up with some nobody instead of off doing something actually dangerous. No, her real gripe was that his pointless floundering might drag her own climb up the Enzo ladder.

  Douglas, though—his stare cut deeper, carved from raw frustration. The Mana Spring was fully unearthed now, a prize clawed from the earth finally, and where had Oliver been? Not once had he bothered to check in, leaving this backwater village tramp, Catherine, to bustle around like she owned the place. Was this how his son planned to carry the family? Letting a woman like her run the show? What a waste of blood and name.

  Still, Douglas swallowed that thought. He needed Oliver to step up, to take the reins. With a tight, polite smile, he turned to Catherine. “You’ve done well—sharp work, as always. Thank you.” His tone was courteous, clipped. “You can step out now.”

  Catherine straightened, her lips parting to protest. “I can still help—”

  One razor-sharp glance from Douglas shut her down, his eyes like steel. “No need,” he said, voice flat and final. “Please leave. Oliver and I have matters to discuss.”

  Catherine’s jaw tightened, but she bowed stiffly and slipped out, the door thudding shut behind her. Douglas’s gaze swung back to Oliver, heavy and unreadable, lingering in silence. Oliver shifted, a bead of sweat prickling his neck. He hated that look—same damn feeling he got from his real dad back on Earth, like every dirty little thought he had was laid bare. He opened his mouth, scrambling for something to lighten the air—“Hey, I—”

  “Not a word,” Douglas cut in, his voice low and hard, eyes boring through him. “Listen.”

  Oliver clamped his mouth shut, tension coiling in his gut as Douglas leaned forward, hands steepled on the desk. “Magic is power,” he said, each word deliberate, “and magic is rule.” He paused, letting it sink in. “Our latest work—heart transplants. Stripping one body’s heart, planting it in another, and keeping it pumping mana. If we finish this, we won’t need to grovel to gifted peasants or waste knives on their backs. We’ll just take them—rip out their hearts, plug them into our bloodline. Every generation stronger, every Enzo a mage beyond match.”

  Oliver blinked, swallowing hard as Douglas went on, his tone steady but edged with frustration. “The experiments are stalled. Every heart we pull dies on the spot—stops making mana the second it’s out, even if it beats a bit longer. We’ve tried everything, and it’s still a bust.”

  He straightened, a glint of hunger breaking through his calm. “Until the Mana Spring. That water—it’s our shot.”

  They stepped out, crossing the keep to a shimmering portal framed in runes, held open by a dozen mages chanting in low unison. It pulsed with a faint hum, linking to Green Village—to that Mana Spring. The air thickened as they passed through, emerging beside the spring’s edge. The water flowed slow and ghostly, glowing a faint blue, eerie and alive. Night winds brushed past, carrying a whiff of raw magic.

  Dominic Enzo, the family’s physician, waited there, his lean frame poised beside the spring. A magic circle spun lazily at his feet, and beside it slumped a “test subject”—a man gagged by a silencing spell, eyes wide with terror, mouth gaping in a mute scream as his throat spasmed.

  He knew what was coming.

  But the Enzos didn’t rush in—they savored it. Sure, they could’ve used a Frostfall Silence spell; it’d mute him just as well, and the ice would’ve calmed him into a numb, quiet death—no fuss, no fight. But where’s the fun in that? No, they liked it this way—watching the pleading, the squirming, the raw terror clawing up from the pit of his soul. Playing with life and death like it was their toy—that was power, and the Enzos drank it deep.

  Douglas’s gaze stayed cold, unyielding. Oliver’s lips curled into a nasty little grin, barely hiding his glee. Dominic didn’t even glance at the man—his eyes were locked on that chest, on the heart he’d soon carve out.

  The experiment kicked off.

  They plunged the “subject” into the spring, icy water swallowing him whole. His body convulsed, pale skin trembling under the surface, hands flailing uselessly, grasping at nothing, desperate to break free. Dominic’s fingers flicked, a thread of blue mana slicing the air. He reached in—no blood, no mess, just a clean, cruel cut through flesh and bone. The man’s jaw stretched wide enough to crack, his silent howl tearing through his face, tears streaming, fingers clawing at the water in blind agony.

  Douglas stood still, face a mask. Oliver chuckled low, pressing a hand to his mouth like it was a damn show. Dominic stared, rapt, as the heart slid free—red and pulsing, mana flickers dancing across it.

  It was still pumping mana.

  Dominic’s breath hitched, eyes wide as he cradled the heart, its crimson glow shimmering in the spring’s light. Even wilder—the man wasn’t dead. He thrashed in the water, alive, wracked with pain but clinging to life.

  “Get it here—let me see!” Douglas barked, stepping forward, a rare spark of heat in his voice.

  Dominic nodded, lifting the heart slowly from the spring. The second it broke the surface, the mana glow snuffed out—gone, like a candle pinched dead, the beating stilled instantly. He frowned, scribbling in his notes: “The Mana Spring sustains mana production—briefly. Removal terminates it.” Glancing at the man twitching in the water, he grabbed his hair, yanking him up with a casual tug. The legs kicked once, then fell limp—a corpse, nothing more. “Same for the subject,” he muttered, adding a quick line.

  He looked up at Douglas, voice flat. “I need more samples—to pin down how long the core and subject hold in the water.”

  Douglas met his gaze with a glint of approval, nodding sharply. “Granted.”

  They stepped away from Dominic’s “lab,” the spring’s glow fading behind them. Oliver trailed Douglas, the silence pressing until he couldn’t hold it. “Father,” he ventured, voice low, “don’t you think Dominic’s… a bit twisted? Never heard of him chasing a skirt.”

  Douglas shot him a sidelong glance, cold and cutting. “He’s from a branch family, but he’s useful—more than you can say.” He paused, voice dropping to a dark hiss. “Keep slacking, Oliver, and I’ll have no qualms sending that little concubine of yours—Catherine—to Dominic’s table. Then we’ll see if he’s interested in women.”

  Oliver’s smirk vanished, a chill crawling up his spine as Douglas’s words sank in. He fell silent, footsteps echoing in the stone corridor, his mind reeling. All of a sudden, that golden haze of his perfect life—booze, girls, playing hero—cracked like cheap glass. Everything felt off, sour, like the party was over and someone had yanked the rug out from under him. Just yesterday, it’d all been damn fine—warm beds, sweet moans, the world bending to his whims. What the hell happened? His thoughts spun, clawing for an answer, until it hit him—BaiYun. That other transmigrator. That bastard had to be the glitch, the thorn screwing it all up. Oliver’s fists tightened, and in the dark of his mind, he muttered a vow:

  I’ll hunt you down, BaiYun. Make you choke on every miserable second before I kill you.