Elyn Vane

Felix jolted awake, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The sound of heavy rain pounding against the roof filled his ears, and the faint flicker of a single candle lit the small room he was in. Shadows danced across the cracked walls, their movements almost taunting him.

He clutched his head, his thoughts a chaotic mess. Where was he? Why was his body so small, so weak? His mind spun with fragments of unfamiliar memories, disjointed and fleeting. Names, faces, and places he didn't recognize swirled in his head.

Felix felt a wave of nausea. It couldn't be. His mind was racing, unable to make sense of the situation. His throat was dry, painfully so, and the oppressive weight of his confusion only made it worse. He needed water—something to ground him in this strange reality.

Stumbling out of the rickety bed, he nearly tripped over his own small feet. His body was awkward and unsteady, and every step felt like a monumental effort. He reached the door and pushed it open, the old wood groaning under his touch.

The hallway beyond was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of a few candles. The air was damp and carried the faint scent of mildew. Felix shivered as he stepped forward, his bare feet cold against the uneven floorboards.

He was halfway down the hall when he saw it. Hanging on the far wall, was the one item that didn't belong—the one thing that stood out in this dreary home.

It was a large, ornate portrait. It stood out like a jewel in a pile of dirt. Felix's eyes locked onto the figure in the painting, and his heart stopped.

The man in the portrait was striking, with sharp features, wavy dark hair, and piercing red gem like eyes that seemed to look right through him. His lips were curled into a faint smirk, an expression that radiated arrogance and self-satisfaction.

Realization struck him. His legs felt weak, and he stumbled back a step, his small hands clutching the wall for support. He knew that face. He'd seen it countless times before, staring back at him from the pages of a web novel.

Sylas Vane.

"No…" Felix whispered, his voice trembling.

Memories surged forward, clearer now, painting a picture he didn't want to see. Sylas Vane—the playboy lord, the untouchable scion of power and wealth, the man who fathered countless children and discarded them like afterthoughts. A man Felix had loathed, both for his character in the story and for the suffering he inflicted on those around him.

And now, the bitter irony of it all hit Felix like a punch to the gut.

He was one of them. One of Sylas Vane's countless bastard children.

The realization was too much. Felix sank to his knees, his hands trembling as he stared up at the portrait. Sylas's smirk seemed to mock him. The man who epitomised everything Felix despised was now, by some cosmic joke.

His memories became sharper, and clearer, and they only confirmed the harsh truth. This house, this life—it all belonged to a forgotten child of Sylas Vane. A child left to fend for himself on the outskirts of Morhill, he didn't even know where it was, cared for only by an old butler bound by the Curse of the Chain.

The hall's cold, the air's dampness, and the portrait's mocking presence all pressed down on him. He wanted to scream, to cry, but all he could do was stare at Sylas's face, his mind a whirlwind of rage, despair, and disbelief.

Without warning, a shadow moved in the corner of his vision. Felix turned sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

Standing beside him, as if he had materialized from the shadows, was an old man named Albert. His clothes were torn and patched in places, the fabric hanging loosely on his frail frame. His posture was unnervingly straight, his movements precise, almost mechanical. But it was his eyes that unnerved Felix the most—dull and lifeless, like those of a puppet waiting for its master's command.

The man inclined his head slightly, his expression devoid of emotion. "Young Master," he said in a voice as hollow as his gaze.

Felix's heart sank as recognition dawned. This was the butler—the one cursed to serve him, bound by the Curse of the Chain. The weight of the man's servitude, his very existence tied to the whims of a bloodline he couldn't escape, pressed down on Felix like a stone. For all his curses at Sylas Vane, Felix now found himself staring into the eyes of a man who embodied the legacy of that cursed family—a legacy he was now a part of.

The butler moved silently, almost ghost-like, as he fetched a clay jug of water from a corner of the hall. Felix watched him with a mix of unease and pity. The man's every movement seemed calculated, devoid of individuality, as if the curse binding him had stripped away any trace of humanity. When the butler returned, he handed Felix a chipped cup filled with lukewarm water.

Felix took the cup, his small hands trembling slightly, and drank deeply. The water was stale, but it soothed his parched throat. As he finished, he handed the cup back to the butler, who took it without a word and stood silently nearby, his presence both reassuring and oppressive.

"Thank you," Felix muttered, though he doubted the man cared or even felt anything resembling gratitude. The butler simply inclined his head, his hollow eyes fixed ahead.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on Felix as he made his way back to the small room he had woken up in. The rickety bed creaked under his weight as he sat down, his head hanging low. The reality of his situation pressed down on him like a suffocating fog. He was a child in a world that didn't care about him, the forgotten offspring of a man he despised, with nothing to his name but a cursed servant and a miserable shack.

He let out a bitter sigh, his eyes wandering to the flickering candlelight. "This can't be it," he whispered to himself. "This can't be all there is."

Suddenly, a faint chime echoed in his mind, cutting through the oppressive silence.

Ding!

Felix jolted upright, his heart racing. A translucent interface appeared before his eyes, glowing faintly in the dim room. For a moment, he was too stunned to react. Then, as the realization dawned, a mix of disbelief and muted excitement bubbled within him.

"A system…" he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. He'd almost forgotten about it, the staple of everyone in the novel he read.

[STATUS]

Name: Elyn Vane

Age: 4

Title: Bastard of Sylas Vane

Strength: 0.2

Agility: 0.3

Endurance: 0.1

Will power:1

Intelligence: 1.0

Mana: 0.2

Innate Ability: Mind's Eye

Stage: 0

Abilities:

Appraisal: The ability to assess and analyze objects, people, and situations with a glance.

Mental Influence: The power to subtly affect the thoughts or emotions of others, though its effectiveness is currently limited.

Elyn blinked, his heart sinking as he took in the pitiful numbers. Weak wasn't the word for it—this was abysmal. A newborn puppy might be stronger than him. His strength and endurance were practically non-existent. But then, something caught his eye.

His eyes widened as he read the description. Mind's Eye was leagues above anything he had expected, even in its nascent stage. It was rare, unique, and unlike anything the other children could possess.

Then another line of text appeared, making his breath hitch.

Awakening Bonus: 10 x Allocation Points

Available Points: 150

Elyn blinked, his mind reeling. Most others only received 15 points upon awakening their system. He had 10 times that. "Hundred fifty points…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "That's insane."

The realization hit him like a tidal wave. For all the misery and despair of his situation, this system—this Mind's Eye—was his one advantage. His one chance to rise above the circumstances he'd been thrust into.

His fingers hovered over the interface as a faint spark of hope flickered in his chest. For the first time since waking in this unfamiliar body, Elyn felt the faintest glimmer of control.