It had been four years since the deal with the King. Four years of grueling discipline that felt less like a "training regime" and more like some twisted joke written by a sadistic god. From the very beginning, I had this gnawing suspicion that my mother's gentle smile, the one she'd worn that day, wasn't quite what it seemed. And sure enough, I was right.
My life since then was a carefully crafted machine of exhaustion. Every morning, before the sun even thought about dragging itself above the horizon, I was up at six, forced into a jog that wound around the mansion grounds like some endless loop of punishment. By the time the rest of the house stirred, my lungs were already burning and my legs trembling, sweat soaking through my shirt.
Then came the "intellectual sharpening." Hours of puzzles, reading, analysis, and drills that tested every corner of my mind. Strategy games that punished hesitation, riddles that insulted me for failing to see their obvious trick, books that were denser than bricks and twice as unforgiving. It wasn't enough to be strong; no, they wanted me clever, cold, and calculating.
Afternoons were mana control. Two full hours of sitting perfectly still, threading energy through my body as though it were glass that might shatter with one careless slip. I can't even count the number of times I fainted, or worse—nearly exploded from losing balance. Dinner never tasted right when your entire body was humming like an unstable bomb.
And then—just when you thought the day would end—I was thrown into weapon drills until my arms went numb, until blisters turned to calluses and bruises became part of my skin tone. Only then was I "allowed" to sleep. Rinse and repeat. For four years.
I'd like to say I endured it nobly, but I didn't. I broke down more times than I can remember. I screamed into pillows, cried until I was empty, cursed my parents, cursed the King, cursed myself. If I didn't know better, I would've thought my parents hated me.
But life wasn't all discipline and despair. Two years ago, everything shifted. Our family grew. Twins, no less—one boy, Toby, and a girl, Ren. My parents practically glowed with pride, like they had just pulled off a miracle, which, in a way, they had. And then, to top it off, not long after, Mother was pregnant again.
I remember the day they told me as vividly as if it were carved into my skull.
[Flashback – 8 months ago]
Dragging myself into the dining room after my morning run, I found my parents locked in an embrace. It wasn't unusual—they were affectionate enough—but this time there was something… giddy about them.
"Did something happen?" I asked flatly, trying not to sound too invested.
"Ooh, good morning, Stacy. Yes, something great has happened," Father said with that insufferable grin of his.
"UMU UMU. Something outstanding," Mother echoed, nodding furiously.
I raised an eyebrow, walked past them, and sat at the table. "Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to stand there like lovesick fools? I'm starving."
"Brat, don't just ignore us," Mother scolded.
"Mother, you of all people know I hate waiting for answers," I said, staring impatiently at the steaming plate set in front of me.
"That's true," she admitted, then puffed out her chest proudly. "Very well. I'll tell you. Your mother is once again pregnant."
I froze. "…Again? How many children do you want?"
"In unison," they replied: "Eight."
I nearly spat my drink across the room. "What!? Why so many!?"
"Because we want a big family," Father said simply, pulling Mother closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I tilted my head, squinting at them. "Is that so…" My stomach twisted as my mind wandered to the King's deal.
Mother must have noticed my shift because she quickly hugged me and whispered, "That includes you as well, Stacy."
And, damn it, despite myself, that made me smile.
[Flashback end]
The memory was warm in a way that training could never be. My parents really did care about me, no matter how twisted things felt sometimes.
"Grrrrowl!"
My stomach interrupted my nostalgia with a deafening complaint. I sighed. Time for breakfast.
Slowing my jog to a walk, I made my way up the marble stairs of the mansion, the morning sun glinting across its polished stone. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and roses from the garden Mother insisted on tending. Waiting at the entrance was our butler, as prim and proper as ever, his expression stiff.
"Good morning, Miss," he greeted with a bow.
"Do you need anything from me?" I asked casually, brushing past him toward the door.
His voice caught me mid-step. "War has started once again."
I froze. Slowly, I turned. His face wasn't just stiff—it was etched with worry.
"That isn't all, is it?" I asked, my stomach sinking.
He hesitated. "…No. Someone is here to collect you."
My head snapped up, eyes wide. "That can't be! Why me!? Shouldn't my father go instead!?" I shouted, panic rising. Without waiting for an answer, I sprinted inside.
The drawing-room door slammed open under my hand. Inside stood my parents, tense, protective, and opposite them, seated casually on the couch, was a man I had never seen before.
"Well, well," the stranger said smoothly. "Look who came running to me on her own."
Even sitting, he was towering, easily past two meters, his golden hair gleaming under the chandelier, his eyes glowing faintly like embers trapped in gold. The black suit he wore fit him like armor, radiating importance and menace both.
My eyes darted to my father, who stood firmly between Mother and the man, his posture screaming readiness. My mother's glare could've cut glass.
"What are you doing here!?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice the air.
Before I could ask what was going on, the man's voice thundered. "It is insulting to ignore people, Stacy."
I swallowed hard, bowing quickly. "I—I am sorry. My name is Stacy Acura."
I looked up, hoping the apology was enough, only to find those golden eyes locked on me, cold and unreadable. My throat went dry. Turning desperately to my parents, I asked, "Mother, who is he?"
"You!?" the man roared, his fury filling the room. "How dare you not recognize me!?"
I barely had time to flinch before a massive hand gripped my head, lifting me effortlessly from the floor. My feet kicked helplessly in the air.
"This is what you get for disrespecting me!"
Then—impact. The wall cracked as he hurled me into it like I weighed nothing. Darkness swallowed me whole.
[Five years later]
Knock. Knock.
"Stacy, it's your turn," a voice called outside my door.
I pushed myself off the bed, sliding the veil over my face, and stepped into the corridor.
It had been five years since that man dragged me away. Five years since I last saw my parents. Five years of silence from them, and, to my surprise, relief for me. No letters, no search parties, nothing. For the first time, I wasn't haunted by them. Instead, I was… used. Molded. And, against all odds, I found someone else to love.
The King.
He had been kind to me that first day—so gentle, so warm. Even now, the memory made my cheeks burn.
I stopped before a plain wooden door. With a deep breath, I cleared my thoughts and steadied myself. Whatever lay beyond, I had a role to play.
"Hello," I said, pushing the door open. "How can I help you today?"
"Took you long enough," a man snapped from the chair inside. "I need help with my sleeping problem."
His tone dripped impatience, but his voice—it tugged at something deep inside me. Familiar.
"Oh? And what caused this problem?" I asked smoothly, stepping closer. Easy case, I thought. Probably stress, nightmares. I'd seen it all—torture survivors, thieves, soldiers broken by war, victims of things far worse. Compared to them, insomnia was a blessing.
"Can you just do it already? I don't have time to waste." He looked up at me, irritation plain on his face.
"Be patient," I shot back, annoyance flickering. "You came here for my help. Wait your turn."
I placed my hand on his head, letting mana thread outward. Memories spilled into me, flashes of a life not my own. Normally, I skimmed just enough to find the problem. But this man's voice, his golden hair—it pulled at me, demanded answers.
And then I saw it.
Him.
The man who had taken me away. The man who shattered everything.
My breath caught. My parents hadn't hated me. They hadn't abused me. No—he had stolen me. Stolen the truth.
And then, buried deeper, I found it: the King's order to have my memories rewritten. My entire life since then had been a lie.
I pulled my hand away, smiling sweetly as if nothing was wrong. "It's done," I said, stepping back.
He nodded dismissively, none the wiser.
I left the room quickly, but the second my door shut behind me, the facade crumbled. Tears burned my cheeks as I slid down the wall, shaking.
Inside my head, his memories replayed—training, battles, victories. He was strong. Stronger than Father. Too strong for me to kill, at least not yet. But I could learn from him. I would learn. And when the time came, he would pay.
Because the truth, no matter how deeply buried, had a way of clawing its way back up.
And now I remembered everything.