Chapter 8: One Year Old Strategist

The morning light fell soft and golden across the floating spires of House Ragnar's outer estate, brushing through tinted skyglass to settle on the still form of a sleeping child.

Arthur opened his eyes without fanfare. He was awake—conscious far beyond what his tiny body conveyed—and today, after months of silent observation, was a day of quiet reflection.

One year

One full solar year of life in this world. Seven months since his rebirth.

Lying still in his silk-lined cradle, he stared at the gentle arcs of the vaulted ceiling above him. Embedded circuits shimmered across the panels—subtle veins of tech hidden beneath ornate celestial patterns. The room buzzed with faint, regulated energy. Clean. Perfect. Artificial.

It had taken him weeks to correlate the calendar data revealed by his system, matched against whispers of servants, fragments of formal dates on scrolls, and mentions of events. But the math was undeniable.

The current year was Astral Year 4048. In his original world—the Earth of Blue Star—that translated roughly to the year 2248.

The game, Astral Genesis, had launched in Earth Year 2268. Its in-game date had always read Astral Year 4068.

That meant… the world of Astral Genesis had existed all along.

And Arthur? He'd been reborn twenty years before it was supposed to launch as a game.

"If there's ever been a cosmic joke, this is it," he thought with the dry humor of a man far older than his limbs.

No Void Rifts.

No monster incursions.

No public-level tech chaos.

Not yet.

The galaxy was calm.

Which meant… something terrifying was about to happen in the future.

Early Morning Routine

Arthur slowly pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly on baby-fat arms. At one year of age, he had mastered the art of standing and toddling—at least when no one was watching.

He took careful steps across the soft gel floor, balancing against a table leg and then pivoting toward the windowed corner. The curved wall offered a stunning view of the estate's lower gardens and distant plasma bridges.

"Every step counts," he told himself. "Information. Muscle memory. Observation."

He practiced every morning before anyone entered.

His private time.

But not for long.

With a soft hiss, the door slid open.

Olivia

"Good morning, young master," came a smooth voice—light but trained.

The woman who entered was in her early twenties, tall and cleanly built. Her hair was a controlled cascade of pale blonde, her posture upright without stiffness. She wore a maid's suit—dark navy with white and silver trim, accented by a bowtie—high-collared, ironed smooth, and without a wrinkle.

But Arthur had already deduced: Olivia was no ordinary maid.

Every movement she made was measured. Efficient. Perfect. Her steps made no sound. Her hands moved like someone trained in split-second discipline.

She never looked over her shoulder. Never asked unnecessary questions.

She reminded Arthur, unsettlingly, of a field operative.

"Military… or ex-special forces?" he had wondered in his early days. "And now? A maid?"

But she was loyal. He could sense it.

If anyone in this place could be trusted besides Lyra, it was Olivia.

She crossed to the cradle, scooped him into her arms, and offered a small smirk.

"You're awake already. Practicing your walking again?" she murmured.

Arthur, feigning an innocent baby's stare, let out a quiet coo.

She chuckled and carried him to the bathing chamber, where warm mist and blue-lit sponges hummed to life. In practiced silence, she bathed him, dried him, and selected today's outfit: a dark sapphire tunic with thunderbolt etchings—a miniature formal robe reserved for noble children.

"Today's a special day," Olivia said softly, as she fastened the side clasps.

Arthur blinked once. He knew what she meant.

Today… marked his first birthday in this world.

Though in House Ragnar, there would be no grand celebration—yet.

A Noble in Waiting

In House Ragnar, birthday ceremonies were held only when a child reached the age of twelve—the age when elemental affinity was tested. Until then, children—no matter their bloodline—were kept in the outer sectors, trained, monitored, and judged quietly.

Arthur knew this well.

He also knew that despite being the son of the Valkar Empire's ruler—he was, in their eyes, still a bastard.

Lyra's Arrival

After Olivia left, the door opened again.

This time, Arthur felt something stir inside his chest.

Lyra.

His mother in this life.

She glided in like starlight—her white robe trailing behind her, inlaid with circuits of crimson thread that pulsed faintly. Her eyes were warm but sharp, her presence commanding.

"Good morning, my little bolt," she said, beaming.

Arthur smiled softly. That nickname again…

She approached and lifted him with natural ease, pressing him gently to her shoulder. She smelled of ozone and orchid—sharp but pleasant.

Then came the feeding ritual.

Not from a bottle. No synthetic formula.

Instead, Lyra pulled out a crystalline vial of golden-white liquid.

Soulfire essence-infused infant milk.

Arthur sipped carefully as she held the spoon to his lips.

Its taste was oddly familiar—rich, warm, with a subtle energy buzz that spread through his limbs.

He had never heard of this in the game.

"Must be exclusive to nobles," he deduced.

As she fed him, she spoke with warmth—rambling about her experiments, laughing at her lab assistant's clumsiness, humming fragments of lullabies.

Her voice… was life itself.

Arthur knew her name from his past life.

In the Astral Genesis lore, Lyra was listed in Valkar's political records.

Executed for treason.

Charged with selling Soulfire tech secrets to a rival empire.

But here—holding him, feeding him, singing to him—was not a traitor.

She was bright. Loyal. Kind.

He knew it now.

So someone had framed her.

And one of his core missions—if not the mission—was to change that fate.

He would not lose her.

Secrets of the House

After breakfast, Lyra lingered long enough to rock him to sleep. Arthur let her believe he drifted off under her lullaby, his eyes fluttering shut.

She stayed a moment longer, then left—her robe swishing gently, footsteps fading.

Arthur waited.

Five minutes.

Then opened his eyes.

And began… to train.

He moved his eyes in practiced patterns. Tilted his ears to locate distant echoes. Shifted fingers with fine muscle control.

"Every day I get stronger," he thought. "Every day I prepare."

Lyra only fed him in the mornings and evenings. Afternoons, she worked deep in the Ragnar Tech Labs—pioneering relic enhancements and Soulfire weapon conductors.

She was more than a wife of the ruler of Valkar Empire.

She was an asset.

Which made her dangerous… to some family members.

The Structure of Power

In the Ragnar Clan, there were three wives.

Two were nobles—daughters of branch families, carefully selected to preserve the clan's Thunder Affinity bloodline.

Lyra, a former commoner, had married the patriarch not through lineage… but love.

And talent.

That made Arthur special… but also vulnerable.

He had no allies among the other wives.

And more than once, Arthur caught servants watching him. Warriors tracking Olivia's path.

This wasn't the main palace.

It was an outer complex.

No child under twelve was permitted in the central estate.

The women lived in separate wings. Separate power structures. Separate webs of secrets.

"Politics and paranoia, dressed in silk and lightning."

Arthur almost laughed.

If only they knew… the baby they watched so closely was already preparing to outmaneuver them all.