In my first life, I was a man of equations.
I lived in a world where power wasn't measured in mana or sword-arts, but in data and influence. I was a System Architect—the kind of person who looked at the "unbreakable" structures of the world and found the single line of code that would bring it all down. I spent my life building empires for people who eventually saw me as a threat.
I died in a cold room, betrayed by the very people I had empowered. My last thought wasn't about regret; it was a cold, calculating vow: If I ever get another chance, I won't just build the system. I'll be the one who stands outside of it.
Then, I woke up as a crying infant in a stone castle.
I was Philip, the Thirteenth Prince. A spare. A shadow. I spent years trying to hide the fact that my mind didn't belong here—that I could see the "logic" of this world's magic like it was a glowing terminal.
I thought I was safe. I thought I could just be a quiet prince.
I was wrong.
The Royal Convergence Hall had been built to inspire awe.
Vaulted pillars of white stone rose like frozen waves toward a ceiling etched with ancient runes—laws carved by kings long dead, each one reinforced by magic older than the current dynasty itself. Mana flowed through the hall in slow, deliberate currents, visible only to those with trained perception.
Philip could feel it.
He stood at the center of the chamber, small against the vastness, bare hands clenched at his sides. The mana around him reacted subtly—rippling, tightening, as if uncertain how to treat his presence.
The status orb floated before him.
It was a relic of the First Age, a crystal sphere large enough to require four archmages to stabilize during ceremonies like this. Its surface shimmered with layers of containment spells, each designed to prevent overload, backlash, or distortion.
It had never failed.
Until now.
The moment Philip's hand touched the orb, the hall had changed.
Mana surged—not explosively, but incorrectly. Readings cascaded across the crystal's surface, overlapping, rewriting, erasing themselves. Symbols flashed and collapsed. Numerical values spiked, froze, then fractured entirely.
A sound like glass cracking through water echoed through the chamber.
The orb shattered.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
It simply… failed.
Fragments of crystallized mana hung suspended in the air, caught mid-fall by emergency containment spells. The archmages staggered back, faces drained of color. One dropped to a knee. Another clutched his chest, gasping as if the mana itself had struck him.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise.
Philip's breath caught.
He hadn't done anything. He'd followed instructions. He'd placed his hand on the orb like every royal child before him. He hadn't pushed mana. Hadn't resisted. Hadn't tried to influence the reading.
And yet—
Whispers spread like rot.
"That's impossible…"
"The readings contradicted themselves…"
"It exceeded containment—no, it bypassed it…"
"He's the thirteenth—how could—"
"An error. It must be an error."
Philip's gaze darted instinctively toward the throne.
His father stood.
King Aurellion Valecrown did not rush. He did not shout. He rose with the slow certainty of a man who had already reached his conclusion.
His presence alone altered the hall.
Mana bowed.
The air cooled, sharp and deliberate, as the King descended the steps of the throne dais. His golden crown reflected the floating shards of the shattered orb, refracting light into fractured halos.
Philip felt it then.
Pressure.
Not physical. Existential.
The weight of a ruler who had crushed rebellions and rewritten borders with a word.
"Philip."
The King's voice was calm.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Worse—measured.
"You are an abnormality."
The word landed with surgical precision.
Philip's chest tightened.
"I—" His voice faltered. He swallowed. "Father, I didn't—"
"Silence."
The single word froze him in place.
"You did not cause this intentionally," the King continued. "That much is obvious."
A flicker of hope stirred.
Then it died.
"That makes it worse."
The King turned, sweeping his gaze across the gathered nobles, mages, and warriors—men and women whose families had sworn loyalty to the Valecrown bloodline for generations.
"You all saw the readings," he said. "Or rather, the lack of them."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"The Laws of Succession exist for a reason," the King went on. "Power of this nature is inherited, not discovered. It is granted through firstborn lineage, tempered by expectation, controlled by tradition."
His eyes returned to Philip.
"You were not chosen."
The words felt heavier than iron.
Philip's fingers trembled.
"I'm your son," he said, quieter now. "I'm still—"
"You are my blood," the King corrected. "Not my heir."
A noble mage stepped forward, staff trembling slightly in his grip. "Your Majesty… this reading violates established parameters. If allowed to exist, it undermines—"
"The foundation of our world," the King finished. "Yes."
He raised a hand.
The hall fell silent again.
"Philip, Thirteenth Prince of the Royal House of Aurellion Valecrown," the King declared, voice carrying with absolute authority, "you are hereby stripped of all royal standing, inheritance rights, and succession recognition."
Philip's ears rang.
A thirteenth prince.
That was all he'd ever been. The spare beyond spares. The child no one expected anything from.
And yet—
"To preserve balance," the King continued, "you are banished from the kingdom."
Gasps broke through the stillness.
Banishment.
Exile.
That alone would have been a death sentence for a child his age.
Relief flickered across some faces. Shock across others.
Then the King smiled.
It was thin.
Cold.
"And that is not all."
The relief vanished instantly.
"You will be cast into the Abysmal Dungeon."
The words echoed.
Several mages stiffened visibly.
"That dungeon has no confirmed depth—"
"No recorded survivals—"
"Your Majesty, that is not exile, it is—"
"A mercy," the King interrupted.
Philip's legs weakened.
The Abysmal Dungeon.
A newly discovered anomaly beneath the western mountain range. No stable mapping. No confirmed core location. Parties sent to scout had vanished without trace.
Even S-rank adventurers avoided it.
The King leaned down, meeting Philip's eyes for the first time since the orb shattered.
"You threaten the order of this world by existing," he said quietly. "If you survive, then perhaps you deserve to."
He straightened.
"If you do not… then balance is restored."
The journey was swift.
No chains bound Philip's wrists.
No hood covered his eyes.
He was marched through corridors he'd never walked before, past guards who would not meet his gaze, through gates sealed by magic older than the kingdom itself.
At the edge of the Abysmal Dungeon, the land simply… ended.
The pit yawned open like a wound in the world.
Light bent strangely near its edge, pulled downward as if the abyss itself drank it in. No bottom was visible. No sound returned when stones were dropped.
Philip stood at the brink.
Behind him stood the King.
Beside the King stood his twelve siblings.
Some watched with curiosity.
Some with fear.
One or two smiled.
The King rested a hand lightly on Philip's shoulder.
"Let's see how strong your abnormality truly is," he said.
His voice carried no hatred.
Only interest.
"Let's see if royal blood truly flows in you."
Then he pushed.
The world vanished.
Wind screamed past Philip's ears as gravity seized him violently. The sky shrank to a distant ring of light. Mana tore at his skin as unstable currents ripped through the pit, slamming his body against invisible forces.
Pain blossomed.
Something cracked.
Then something else.
Philip screamed, but the sound was devoured instantly.
His vision blurred.
Thoughts scattered.
He saw faces fading above him—his father's calm expression, his siblings' silhouettes, the palace lights shrinking into nothing.
Anger flared.
Hot.
Bitter.
Why?
He hadn't asked for this power.
He hadn't wanted to be different.
I'll survive, he thought desperately as darkness closed in. I'll prove you wrong.
[SYSTEM WARNING]Critical damage sustained.
[NOTICE]Vital integrity failing.
[ERROR]External interference detected.
[ERROR]Existence parameters unstable.
Philip never felt the impact.
The abyss claimed him.
And the world forgot him.
End of Chapter One