The Bookmark: Posthumous Publication

From the moment the founder took up the sword to this very day, the Wolfhards have always been unparalleled in swordsmanship. Even those within the family who were considered "average" were seen as prodigies by the outside world. But I, Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard II, wasn't even granted the luxury of being average.

I was cursed.

My mana core was shattered, irreparable. In this world, that was the equivalent of being born without a future. I could never wield a blade like all the Wolfhards that came before me, never ascend to the pinnacle of power this name demanded. My path had been severed before I could even take a step. The Wolfhards revered strength, and I had none.

I couldn't even walk the dark path of the demon lord, it would only lead to my destruction and the loss of countless loved ones. My conscience couldn't bear the weight of any more suffering.

I had something no one in this world did. An eidetic memory from my past life and the knowledge of this world as its very creator, the one who wove this tale. I would use it. Twist it. Mold it. If fate had taken my strength, I would carve my own.

When the Patriarch's wives heard of Sushila's paralysis and my shattered mana core, it was like music to their ears.

Their fear faded.

They didn't hate Arthur because he was the son of a commoner woman or because the Patriarch loved his mother, Sushila, more than them.

No, they despised him because from the moment he was born, he reminded them of that one man. He bore, his features, snow-white hair and crimson eyes, as deep and ominous as blood on steel. Who? Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard l, the founder. It was as if the Wolfhard progenitor himself had been reborn, a specter clawing out of the past to seize power once more.

They dreaded the thought of Arthur rising to power, taking the patriarch position, and outshining their own children.

They saw me as a threat. A ghost of a legend that refused to stay buried.

So they conspired.

The knight carriage "accident"—a well-placed scheme, executed when Sushila and I were returning from her family's home. That night should have been my end.

It wasn't.

And one day, they'd regret not finishing the job.

Time passed swiftly. My body was new, but my mind was old, an imprisoned high schooler within an infant's fragile shell.

At four months, I was rolling over and clutching objects. By five months, I crawled and attempted to stand, with Raina's help. My first word, "mama." The light in Sushila's eyes when she heard it...if only I could make that moment last forever. At six months, I spoke more steadily and walked with growing speed and agility. By nine months, I conversed in full sentences. At one year old, I was reading, my vocabulary expanding rapidly. By age three, I had devoured all the essential books in the library, from basic swordsmanship to the Wolfhard family's techniques. At five, I practiced with a wooden sword, training relentlessly despite my limitations. Without a mana core, I could never produce Aura, the very essence that made a warrior. But my body? My instincts? They had been honed from my past life, armed with knowledge from another world, fighting styles, strategies, even combat techniques extracted from countless inked pages of Earth's greatest tales [the manga] and of course anime, how could I forget, a bunch of movies. On Earth, mastery required skill, not mana or aura. At six, I was as skilled as a black belt on Earth, though in this world, it was deemed useless. They considered me a genius, but in truth, I was a high schooler trapped in an infant's body.

They dismissed me. A child with a broken core could never be a threat.

Only Sushila saw what they couldn't.

And so I trained, a shadow lurking behind the true heirs, watching, waiting.

At that age, I was old enough to dine with the family. The Patriarch sat at the head, eyes like steel, watching over us like a god over his creation.

To his right, the first wife, the Emperor's sister, Leia van Wolfhard, regal and poised, sat beside her two children

Alexander van Wolfhard, the first-born, a paragon of nobility.

Valkyrie van Wolfhard, the third-born, elegant but with eyes sharp as daggers. Royalty ran in their veins, and their posture bled superiority.

To the Patriarch's left, sat Amelia van Wolfhard, the second wife, whose beauty belied the ruthlessness of a foreign aristocrat. Beside her sat Mercedes van Wolfhard, the second-born, whose presence carried a quiet authority. Amelia's noble blood brought alliances to the Wolfhards.

At the lower right seats sat Nike van Wolfhard, the third wife, draped in jewels, her wealth surpassing that of kingdoms. Her son, Caesar, the fourth-born, sat at her side, eyes brimming with arrogance. He was once the youngest before my arrival. Nike was the daughter of the empire's wealthiest merchant.

And then there was me.

Alone.

My mother's seat, beside me remained empty.

She couldn't dine with us. Her body wouldn't allow it. Instead, she ate alone, confined to her chamber, tended to by Zora.

Our dedicated maids stood along the walls, silent shadows against the golden glow of the chandeliers. Reginald, the head butler, stood by the patriarch's side, showing no emotion.

Beside me stood Raina, my maid, my only constant.

The table was a battlefield of silent wars, of fleeting glances laced with malice.

I did not belong here.

And they made sure I knew it.

The Patriarch stood abruptly, finishing his meal without a word. His departure signaled the end of civility.

The first strike came from Valkyrie.

"Would you look at that," she murmured, eyeing me with an unsettling smile. "Eyes as red as the devil's, hair as pale as Antarctica's snow. You really do resemble him. If only you were born on our side, but no, it just had to be from a commoner."

A sharp clatter broke the tension.

Mercedes.

Her fork rested against her plate, her gaze like cold steel. "Watch your mouth." Her tone was measured, but the weight behind it was undeniable. "I know royals think themselves above rules, but even a child knows not to speak while eating. Look at the youngest." Her gaze flicked toward me. "And you dare insult the founder, calling his eyes those of the devil?"

Valkyrie clicked her tongue but said no more.

I didn't respond. I didn't need to.

Instead, I calmly placed my utensils down, wiping my mouth with deliberate ease. "I'm done," I said plainly, pushing my plate away. "Let's go, Raina."

Without waiting for permission, I stood and left.

As we left, I felt their gazes lingering on my back.

The Demon Lord…his fate was so cursed that even a simple meal could not be peaceful.

I clenched my fists, silent rage coiling within me.

"Arthur… I'm sorry. If I ever write another story, I'll make sure the antagonist has a better life than this."

But for now.

I would endure.