4. Tristan: The Heir

  If at first Tristan believed that living in wealth couldn’t be as hard as Gartan had promised, he quickly realized how wrong he was.

  His father wasn’t just any criminal, nor was he merely a crime lord – he was Kain Vortalis. Known as Ifrit, he was likely the most fearsome man in all of Stulan, operating in its capital, Dalina.

  From the moment Tristan was born, the ashen-haired man had never shown an ounce of love toward him. He barely spoke to him, never held him. All he had were expectations. And even those were passed down through the mansion’s servants, not directly from him.

  Whenever Tristan actually saw him, the man always sent a shiver down his spine, while not even looking at him.

  In the six years since his birth, Tristan had rarely set foot outside the mansion’s perimeters. But even within its walls, he could tell – from the lavish robes their visitors wore – that his father’s web of influence ran deep, perhaps even into the royal family itself.

  As for why he wasn’t allowed outside, it was a precaution set by his father. In fact, only a select few even knew that Kain Vortalis had a son. Tristan assumed it was to prevent anyone from using his existence as leverage against his father, while Ifrit prepared him for adulthood, waiting for the right moment to reveal him to the world.

  His mother wasn’t in the picture either. Rumors around the household suggested that she had been paid to come from a distant land and carry Kain Vortalis’ son – that it had been nothing more than a business transaction to her.

  But Tristan knew that couldn’t be the truth.

  He remembered the fear in her eyes when Ifrit had taken him from her arms – the way she had desperately tried to hold onto him. He remembered how carefully she had cradled him on the night of his birth, and for a few months after that – before she disappeared without saying a word.

  One day, when he was old enough, he knew he would look for her.

  But that wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

  Gartan.

  He needed to learn more about him.

  But the problem was, he couldn’t just ask. A six-year-old wouldn’t just ask about some deity who can grant reincarnation. That would be too weird and suspicious.

  For now, he would have to be patient.

  First, he’ll learn. Slowly and surely. His father made sure he wouldn’t have a moment of idleness.

  From the moment he had spoken his first words, his father had arranged private tutors to teach him everything – literally everything.

  And so, alongside world history, mathematics, etiquette, science, and the intricacies of his father’s criminal enterprise, Tristan had been trained restlessly.

  No one dared to question whether teaching such things to a young child was logical. Those who did were not heard from ever again.

  Either way, Tristan had no difficulty learning any of those things.

  His martial arts training had started as theory – as he was still too small and weak to practice – but for months now, he had been learning how to throw punches, execute holds on dummies, and even swing a sword.

  His schedule was ruthless. He wasn’t allowed to have a normal childhood. He never had time to breathe, constantly forced to either learn or train.

  Tristan was always exhausted, but he had made a decision early on: if his life was going to be harsh and unforgiving, as Gartan promised, then he would take everything his father could give him.

  So, he had shown promise from an early age, building upon his previous life’s knowledge, shocking everyone around him with his unusual focus and comprehension.

  Everyone – except one person.

  His father.

  Ifrit had never once seemed impressed, not even when Tristan had been forming full sentences at only a year and a half. It was as if he had expected it – as if anything less would have been unacceptable.

  But there was one thing Ifrit wanted Tristan to learn more than anything else – magic.

  Specifically fire magic – the very magic that had earned him his legendary nickname.

  Kain Vortalis was obsessed with the idea of his son controlling this power as well. He had constantly pressured Maester Flaghern – the same old man who had feared Tristan on the night of his rebirth and one of his father’s most trusted advisors – to begin his training immediately.

  “If he can speak, then he can understand speech.” Ifrit told Flaghern back then. “Start explaining him the basics. I want him to have as many Threads as possible before he’s ten.”

  But the old man managed to keep Ifrit at bay, insisting that it was too early. That a child’s cognitive abilities were not developed enough to understand the complexities of weaving Threads or the concept of the Inner Eye.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  A compromise had been made – Tristan would begin his training once he turned six.

  Today was his sixth birthday.

  And of course, rather than any kind of celebration, his father had already arranged his first magic lesson with Flaghern. As Tristan had expected.

  “C’mon, Little Demon, Flaghern is waiting.” Rosalina, Tristan’s personal bodyguard, called out as she leaned against the threshold of his room, arms crossed.

  Rosalina was a woman in her late twenties, her short dark hair cropped into a sharp pixie cut. Her tanned skin held a warm, golden undertone, a trait common among people from the southern kingdom of Ostia. She was relatively short, her body incredibly fit, carrying a sixpack of abs. But her most striking feature was the black eyepatch over her left eye.

  Despite that, she was still one of the most beautiful women Tristan had ever seen – in both his lives. She was also really scary carrying a massive greatsword on her back.

  From what Tristan gathered, Rosalina was a mercenary from Ostia who had begun working for his father in her late teens. Over time, she had proven her loyalty to him, rising through the ranks to become one of his top officers. But after a terrible accident that cost her an eye, Ifrit had relegated her to “simpler” tasks – one of which included babysitting Tristan since he was two years old.

  When he was younger, and Rosalina rightfully assumed he couldn’t understand her, she often ranted about how humiliating it was to be reduced to a glorified nanny.

  At first, Tristan felt bad for her – but that feeling had quickly passed. Instead, she had become his primary target for bullying and teasing – the only outlet he had to alleviate the stress of his new life.

  “I can’t change with you standing there.” Tristan said, subtly teasing her.

  She sighed, incapable of understanding humor as usual. “Trust me, there’s nothing there I haven’t already seen when you were smaller. Just change already.”

  “I won’t until you leave, Rosie.” Tristan crossed his arms, grinning after calling her with that nickname – he knew she hated it.

  Her eye twitched in irritation as she slowly approached him. “Listen here, you little shit – if Flaghern tells Ifrit we were late, guess who’s getting the blame? Me. So get ready.”

  Then, after a brief pause, and before Tristan could retort with another tease, she cleared her throat. “…Please.”

  That single ‘please’ made Tristan pause. He knew he was untouchable – the son of someone powerful – but he didn’t want to abuse it too much. He wanted to keep his humanity in check as much as possible, for as long as possible.

  “Fine.” He exhaled, relenting.

  Rosalina smiled weakly, showing her softer side for just a moment. “Here, I’ll turn around.”

  Tristan smiled for the third time that week. All of them had been because of Rosalina.

  He liked her. They got along better than he did with anyone else in his new life.

  He dressed quickly, but before he could leave, Rosalina reached into her back pocket and pulled something out.

  “By the way, Little Demon, I got something for you.” She extended her hand. “Happy birthday.”

  A small dagger rested in her palm.

  In her hands, it looked like a big needle – but to Tristan’s smalls hands, it was just the right size for a knife.

  It had a fairly simple design. A thin silver blade with a golden handle. And that’s pretty much it.

  Tristan’s heart raced.

  He blinked in disbelief. He couldn’t remember the last time someone got him a birthday present.

  In his previous life, he and his brother hadn’t exchanged gifts ever since they ran away from home – their financial situation had been always too tight. At some point, they had just agreed that presents weren’t necessary.

  Tristan reached for it, gripping the handle and swinging it a few times to test the weight.

  ‘A dagger. As a present. For a six-year-old.’ He thought in disbelief. ‘Gods, Rosalina…”

  He really, really liked her. But of course, he couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “Did you really just give me a dagger?” He asked, feigning disbelief. “Damn…Dad’s going to be pissed.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “Shit. You’re right!”

  She lunged to snatch the blade back, but Tristan was fast, expecting her reaction, hiding it behind his back.

  “It’s mine now.” He grinned. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell dad. There will be a price, of course.”

  She let out a deep sigh, already regretting her decision. “Figures…”

  Then, shaking her head, she motioned toward the door. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, let’s go. Flaghern is probably going crazy already.”

  ***

  Maester Jorah Flaghern was old.

  If Tristan had to guess, he’d say the man was well over seventy. And yet, he moved with ease, his steps fluid and healthy.

  Earth’s elders always had that stiff, slow movement about them. But not Flaghern.

  Tristan assumed it was because the man was a mage – one his father trusted enough to allow into his inner circle. Ifrit wouldn’t keep someone weak so close. No. Flaghern was one of his top officers.

  Today, for the lesson, Flaghern wore a light gray robe.

  ‘All he’s missing is a ridiculously large matching hat, and he’d literally be The Gray mage from that fantasy novel.’ Tristan mused. ‘He already has the beard and hair for it.’

  “Finally!” Flaghern exhaled dramatically as they stepped into the small classroom – a space Ifrit had specifically built for Tristan’s studies.

  The old mage’s gaze immediately snapped to Rosalina, his expression souring.

  “You should’ve been here ten minutes ago.”

  Rosalina rolled her eyes. “The Young Master was getting ready. We cannot rush him, don’t forget, Flaghern.”

  The old mage sighed, mirroring her annoyance. “Sure.”

  Then, he turned to Tristan, his gaze still carrying the same wariness it had since the day Tristan was reborn. “Are you ready, Young Master?”

  Tristan didn’t particularly like Flaghern. The feeling was mutual. And Trsitan didn’t mind for now.

  The old man respected power, that much was obvious. He didn’t really fear Tristan now, but one day he would. And when that day came, Tristan wanted control over him – not friendship.

  Still, he gave a curt nod. “I’m ready.”

  Flaghern returned the nod and gestured to the single chair in the front of the room, positioned close to the blackboard.

  Tristan took his seat, excited by the prospect of learning magic. Most people couldn’t – Rosalina, for example – but Flaghern already ensured Ifrit that Tristan was capable.

  Rosalina stayed close, leaning against the wall near the board – her sharp eye never leaving either of them.

  “You can leave if you want.” Flaghern said, visibly annoyed by her presence.

  She grinned at him. “I’d rather stay.”

  Flaghern let out a long-suffering sigh, but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to Tristan. “How do you feel your math and science studies are coming along, Young Master?”

  Tristan blinked. That was not the question he had expected.

  “I’ve already spoken with your tutors. I already know your progress is incredible.” Flaghern continued, watching him carefully. “But I need to hear your thoughts before we begin.”

  Tristan hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Back on Earth, before his parents’ deaths, he had been a diligent student, even a promising one. He had always had a passion for academics – but life had never given him the chance to truly pursue it.

  Now, in this new life, with every possible resource at his disposal, he didn’t even care how strange it must have seemed that a young child grasped these subjects so easily.

  So, he simply nodded, telling the truth. “I feel like I understand these subjects all too well.”

  Flaghern hummed, tapping his fingers on the desk. Then, after a moment, he smirked.

  “Then let’s see just how well with a quick test.”