Darkness.
That was all Marcus Valen knew in the final moments before death.
Not the roar of a crown's cheers, nor the scent of incense from the royal altar—just silence, blood, and cold stone beneath his broken body.
His fingers twitched against the obsidian base of the throne.
The golden crown still sat atop his head, though it tilted askew, smeared with crimson.
His vision blurred.
Across from him, silhouetted by the dying embers of the chandelier fire, stood three figures: Leona Serin, his betrothed; Grand Magus Fein, his mentor since childhood; and Karl Wess, his most trusted captain.
Betrayal did not come as a surprise.
But the sting of it was sharper than any blade.
"I gave you everything," he rasped, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the drip of his own lifeblood onto the marble floor.
"My trust… my power…"
Leona's lips curled into something between pity and satisfaction.
"You were never meant to wear the crown, Marcus. You always saw too far. Thought too fast. You scared them."
Grand Magus Fein stepped forward, robes pristine despite the carnage around him.
"You were brilliant, yes. But brilliance without control is chaos. We simply ensured the empire remained stable."
Karl said nothing.
His eyes were unreadable, but the dagger still dripped in his hand—the same one Marcus had gifted him years ago.
A low groan escaped Marcus's throat as pain lanced through his chest again.
He could feel his soul unraveling, slipping like sand through open fingers.
Yet, in that abyss, something stirred.
A whisper brushed his mind—a sound older than time itself.
"The cycle of reincarnation continues, and destiny can be changed."
The words were unintelligible, yet they burned into his consciousness like a brand.
Something deep within him responded.
Then darkness took him.
Light.
Blinding, warm, and impossibly sharp.
Marcus gasped awake, lungs convulsing as if emerging from drowning.
His hands clawed at his bedsheet, heart hammering wildly in his chest.
Sweat drenched his linen tunic, and the scent of ink and old parchment filled his nostrils.
He was lying on a narrow mattress in a small, cluttered dormitory room.
The faint hum of arcane glyphs floated above the ceiling beams, casting soft illumination across the stone walls.
Outside the arched window, the first rays of dawn spilled over the towering spires of the Arcane Lyceum.
He wasn't dead.
No, he was sixteen again.
Memories crashed into him like waves against a cliffside—his childhood, his early training, the politics, the betrayals.
Every smile hidden behind a dagger.
Every promise turned to ash.
This was the year he'd entered the Lyceum.
Before the throne.
Before betrayal.
Before death.
Before everything.
His fingers trembled as he sat up, scanning the room.
Familiar furniture.
The same battered trunk at the foot of his bed.
Calvin Rester snored softly in the adjacent bunk, oblivious to the storm raging inside Marcus's mind.
He pressed his palm to his forehead, breathing deeply.
This wasn't a dream.
The clarity, the weight of memory—it was real.
And then, as he reached for his worn leather satchel beside the bed, his hand brushed against something foreign.
Cold. Heavy.
A book.
Its cover was dark, almost black, bound in aged leather etched with faintly glowing gold runes.
He pulled it into his lap.
No title marked its spine.
Only a single rune pulsed faintly at the center of the cover—"Σ"—the sigil of fate.
The moment his fingers traced the symbol, the book flared alive in his hands, pages flipping open by invisible wind.
Words formed in the air above the parchment, crisp and burning like molten silver:
> Fragments of Past Life Memories: Coronation Night — Unlocked
Remaining Consciousness Record Complete: List of Traitors Compiled
> ——Leona Serin (87)
> ——Grand Feyn (91)
> ——Karl West (79)
Marcus's breath hitched.
Names he would never forget.
Faces he had once loved.
And now… targets.
As if reading his thoughts, a second line materialized beneath the list:
> [Steal Fortune] option available.
> Each successful attempt reduces the target's fortune by 1% and increases your potential by 0.5% of the maximum.
His lips parted slightly, exhaling a slow, measured breath.
Power.
Tools.
Knowledge.
All laid bare before him like an offering.
He closed the book gently, heart steady now.
The rage had passed.
In its place came clarity.
They had taken everything from him once.
This time, he would take it back.
And more.
Later that morning, under the watchful gaze of Mistress Aelia Serin, the Lyceum's infamous freshman mentor, Marcus walked the halls with calculated ease.
She stood tall, clad in the midnight-blue robes of the senior faculty, her presence commanding even among students who had long outgrown their awe of instructors.
Her violet eyes missed nothing—not the way Marcus's gaze lingered too long on the glyph-inscribed banners lining the hallways, nor the way his steps slowed ever so slightly when passing certain corridors.
"You've changed, Valen," she murmured as he approached.
"Your posture is different. Your gaze sharper. Almost… predatory."
Marcus smiled politely, bowing just enough to show respect.
"Is that a bad thing, Mistress?"
Aelia narrowed her eyes.
She had been his instructor during his first year.
She had seen him struggle, falter, and retreat into shadows while his peers mocked him for being the forgotten prince.
Now?
There was no hesitation in him.
"Depends on what you plan to hunt," she replied coolly.
Marcus merely inclined his head.
"Let's see how much I've grown."
Behind him, Solan Fein, the silent observer from the royal council, watched from the stairwell.
He hadn't spoken to Marcus yet, but his gaze was calculating.
The Lyceum had many ears.
Some belonged to the king.
Others, to darker masters.
For now, Marcus said nothing.
He only tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel.
Inside it, the dark tome waited.
In the opening chapter of Reincarnated Sovereign: The Uncrowned Conqueror, Marcus Valen, once the brilliant but tragically betrayed third prince of the Ourea Empire, awakens in his sixteen-year-old body—moments after rebirth, yet long before the treachery that led to his death.
He finds himself back at the Imperial Arcane Academy, a place where he once flourished academically but was politically isolated.
Now, armed with the complete memories of his past life's rise and fall, he begins anew—not as the naïve youth he appears to be, but as a reincarnated sovereign with vengeance etched into his soul.
As Marcus regains consciousness, he experiences an eerie sensation—a black, leather-bound book materializes in his mindspace.