Chapter 1: A Rotten House and the Only Way to Survive
Valerius Fortress, Council Hall.
Beneath the vaulted ceiling, the enormous family crest—a black dragon strangling a broken sword—shimred with eerie silver light under the glow of magical lamps.
Today was Caesar Valerius's eighteenth birthday, his coming-of-age ceremony. More importantly, it was the day of judgnt that would decide whether he lived or died.
He stood at the center of the hall. Beside him was his elder brother Lucius, two years his senior, standing tall and upright like a pine tree.
The two stood side by side, yet the contrast was as stark as that between a mighty lion and a sickly dog.
Before them, seated high upon the black iron throne, was their father—Baron Anjou, the absolute master of these lands.
The Baron's gaze passed over Caesar and fell directly upon his eldest son, Lucius. On that face, hard as carved stone, a rare trace of warmth appeared.
"Lucius, my eldest son."
The Baron's voice was deep and resonant.
"You have not disappointed ."
"You have fully inherited the swordsmanship of Roland the Skullcrusher. Last year, during the conflict with the orcs at the Blackwater River, you personally beheaded three orc chieftains and won glory for our family."
"From this day forward, the family's most fertile land, Silvermoon Valley, along with its three hundred serf households and seven mills, all belong to you!"
"I fight for you, my father!"
Lucius stepped forward, right fist pressed to his chest, his handso face radiating undisguised joy and pride.
He turned his head and glanced down at his younger brother with condescension. That look was like one gazing at a pile of roadside filth—filled with pity and contempt.
Caesar kept his head lowered, long bangs covering his eyes, as if completely unmoved by his brother's glory and provocation.
He was waiting.
Waiting for that boot hanging over his head to finally drop.
Ever since he'd transmigrated into this damned world ten years ago, he'd understood one iron rule: in a martial family that worshipped strength and revered bloodshed, a second son who was naturally frail and unable to condense Battle Energy—any attempt to display competence would only accelerate his own death.
So he'd acted for ten years.
Acted the part of an ignorant wastrel who indulged in pleasure, whose legs went weak at the sight of a sword, who retched at the sll of blood—a purebred piece of trash.
He had succeeded.
Everyone believed he was nothing more than an insignificant burden who posed no threat whatsoever to his genius brother's inheritance rights.
This was the survival strategy of the weak, his only ans of staying alive in this cold family until adulthood.
"Caesar."
Finally, the Baron's voice rang out, devoid of any warmth, like a stone hurled into a winter lake.
Caesar raised his head, his expression precisely calibrated—three parts cowardice, three parts unease, and four parts confusion. He looked directly into his father's deep purple eyes, the hallmark of the direct Valerius bloodline.
"Father."
His voice was not loud, even carrying a faint tremor.
"Your brother will guard the fertile Silvermoon Valley for the family."
The Baron's voice revealed neither pleasure nor anger.
"As for you, my second son, the family also requires your 'contribution.'"
Here it cos.
Caesar's heart felt as if an invisible hand had seized it, but the expression on his face remained flawlessly controlled.
The Baron extended his thick fingers, pointing toward the enormous map of the Empire's territory hanging on the wall. His fingertip heavily jabbed at a large area in the eastern frontier that had been painted pitch black.
"Beyond the Eastern Border lies the Wailing Wastes."
"That is a cursed land forsaken by the gods."
"The soil there is barren as sand. It's infested with countless bandits, outlaws, and monsters that crawl up from underground rifts."
"For a hundred years, the Empire has launched multiple eastern expeditions to expand our territory. Every single one ended in devastating losses with nothing to show for it."
The air in the hall seed to freeze.
Every guest's gaze converged on Caesar like a spotlight, their eyes mixing sympathy, pity, and a trace of barely concealed schadenfreude.
Everyone knew that the Wailing Wastes wasn't a fief—it was the Empire's public graveyard.
"However!"
The Baron's tone shifted abruptly, his voice rising sharply with a hollow, inciting quality.
"Crisis also ans supre glory!"
"Imperial law explicitly states that any noble who can establish a permanent settlent in the Wastes with a stable population exceeding five thousand residents, maintained for three years, shall be unconditionally promoted to Count!"
Count!
Gasps of astonishnt erupted throughout the crowd.
From hereditary Baron to Count with real power—that was an impassable chasm, a gulf that countless minor nobles could not cross in an entire lifeti, or even over multiple generations.
Even Lucius's breathing grew heavier, greed flaring in his eyes, only to be imdiately extinguished by reason.
He knew better than anyone that this was a complete fraud, an impossible mission.
"Father…"
Caesar's voice carried a perfectly asured tremor and sob.
"I… I'm afraid… I cannot do it…"
"Cannot do it?"
The Baron let out a cold snort, like a hamr striking an anvil.
"The Valerius family dictionary has no room for those three words!"
"I shall grant you the title and glory of Pioneer!"
"You will lead a detachnt to the Wailing Wastes and plant our family's black dragon banner upon that land! This is an order, not a negotiation!"
The Baron's words fell like shackles, tightening around Caesar's neck.
This wasn't a choice—this was exile.
A form of respectable murder, more dignified than directly executing him, that would better showcase the family's "glory" and "rcy."
Let him die in the grand cause of "pioneering," becoming yet another foolish and tragic joke in the mouths of wandering bards.
Caesar's body shook "uncontrollably" with violent tremors, his face turning "deathly pale," as if he might faint at any mont.
He perford brilliantly.
Yet deep within his soul, a voice that had been suppressed for eighteen years was roaring with all its might.
「Fuck! Old bastard, you're ruthless enough! Acted for ten years and you still kicked into the shit pit!」
「But… that's fine! The sky is high and the emperor far away. Once I leave this suffocating castle, no matter how fucking dangerous the Wailing Wastes is, it's better than being a dog under your and that 'good brother's' watchful eyes!」
「I can finally breathe freely in a different place!」
He took a deep breath, as if mustering every ounce of courage in his life, and his knees gave way. He collapsed heavily to the ground.
"I… I submit to your will, my father."
The instant his knees struck the cold, hard obsidian floor, a chanical voice that seed to co from another dinsion suddenly exploded in his mind!
【Ding!】
【Detected: Host "Caesar Valerius" has reached adulthood (18 years old), ntal threshold satisfied…】
【Detected: Host is about to obtain legal ownership of pioneering territory "Wailing Wastes (Unnad Zone 073)"…】
【Lord System binding conditions fulfilled!】
【…Activating…】
【Supre Lord System officially online!】
【Beginner's Gift Package has been distributed, please check!】
【Detected: Host possesses Black Dragon Bloodline. Beginner's Package special bonus added: Dragon Egg (Unhatched) x1】
BOOM!
Caesar's brain felt as if a depth charge had been dropped into it. His entire body froze in place.
Before his eyes, a pale gold compass that only he could see slowly materialized. At the compass's center, an ornate treasure chest icon flickered.
His heart instantly broke free from its restraints and began pounding like a war drum!
It's here!
The standard equipnt of transmigrators! The golden finger that had been eighteen years late!
He bit down hard on the tip of his tongue, using sharp pain to force himself to calm down. He buried his head even lower, his shoulders trembling slightly, letting out one or two suppressed sobs—perfectly playing the role of a desperate youth utterly crushed by fate.
From his high seat, Baron Anjou looked down at this worthless second son. A flicker of complex emotion crossed his eyes, but ultimately, everything turned to ice.
He waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a botherso fly.
"Roland!"
From the shadows at the side of the hall, a massive figure erged.
He was encased in full plate armor, old but well-maintained, his steps steady as a mountain.
Beneath the helt was a weathered face, a vicious scar running from his left eyebrow to the right corner of his mouth, making him look like a slumbering beast.
It was none other than the forr chief knight instructor, Roland the Skullcrusher.
"Baron, my lord."
The old knight knelt on one knee, his voice raspy like two pieces of rusted iron grinding together.
"Roland, you have followed for twenty years. You are old now."
The Baron's tone was flat and emotionless.
"From today onward, you are no longer my knight."
"You will assist Caesar as his guardian knight and captain of his guard."
The old knight's body visibly shook, the face beneath his helt instantly losing all color.
This was exile for his old bones as well.
He remained silent, offering no defense, rely turning his head toward Caesar and accepting this humiliating command.
"Besides Roland."
The Baron continued his pronouncent.
"I will also give you fifty guards, the most 'loyal' n from the castle."
"Additionally, the steward will prepare ten wagons of supplies and one hundred gold coins as your pioneering funds."
"Go. Until you 'achieve rit,' I do not wish to see you in Valerius Fortress again."
"Yes, Father."
Caesar "choked back tears" as he climbed up from the floor. Under Roland's "escort," he stumbled toward the hall's exit.
He did not look back, but he could clearly feel his brother Lucius's undisguised gleeful gaze behind him—colder than the wind outside the castle.
Caesar's hand gripped the cold, heavy brass door handle.
Farewell, Valerius Fortress.
Farewell, my foolish brother, and my "great" father.
The Wailing Wastes?
The graveyard in your eyes will, from this day forward, beco my kingdom!
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