Epigraph: Note from the Author:
Due to incomplete information, this part shall be told through speculation, mortal perspectives, and my own encounters, which, needless to say, is edited and refined by my accumulated knowledge of the Soul Realm.
Being broken isn't a prerequisite to tap into Sani—not really—because beauty has always been subjective; a concept defined only through the eyes of its beholder; and only a few realize that the same truth applies to every concept that has ever existed—or is yet in the process of being woven.
The way we look, the words we speak, even the way we approach life itself, are guided by unseen rules. And those who break them are branded as misfits.
Sanity is thrilling; your skin color, your social circle, the land your parents came from, or the crimes of your ancestors dictate the shape of your world.
Insanity, however, is much calmer. Here, social constructs no longer dictate your next move, and fate bends to your whimsical imagination.
You dress to impress—but in a blind world, only your words define your worth.
You practice speech ten times a day—but in a deaf world, only your thoughts hold any sway.
You train your mind to restrain your impulses—but in an open-minded world, only a pure heart survives.
Heaven strips you of evil thoughts—but in a cynical world, only doubt permeates.
Being in the 'right place at the right time' makes you 'sane,' and sane individuals are among those who follow, maintain, and uplift society, one brick at a time.
Being in the 'right place at the wrong time' makes you 'Insane.' These are the visionaries who spin the wheel of evolution ten times faster, uniting minds in struggle and calling forth progress. Call such a soul a visionary or a tyrant.
Being in the 'wrong place at the right time' makes you 'lucky.' These are the ones who break the wheel entirely, forging new realities or rewriting existing ones.
And to be at the 'wrong place at the wrong time' yet still achieve your desires makes you 'broken.' These are those who smile in the face of authority and question the very sanity of the universe itself. Their presence challenges our current reality; their actions can rewrite history; their whims can shape the future… whether through science or magic reduced to conceivable gears.
Some are nothing, nowhere, but that's a concept I have yet to wrap my head around—so let's steer clear of them for now. "Just trust me when I say this, despite any proof, not even one for a Broken-Soul to check upon: these individuals are better left alone."
A sane person follows rules, yet gets nowhere, and in their despair, they try something insane. Initial success leads to greater risks at the cost of their sanity, and before they realize it, they grow beyond repair. Beyond redemption. A single thought drives such souls, their entire essence dedicated to that one desire stuck in a never-ending loop. Their appearance loses meaning; their words become deliberate tools of intent; their thoughts grow powerful enough to reshape the universe to their desires.
All it takes is dedication for anyone to become broken, and the universe shall grant you your wish. Even if the time is wrong or the place is sealed behind black holes.
Such is the story of 'the little girl with curls'. Her wish to remain anonymous left gaps in the memory of the Soul King himself. A law woven by fate, ensuring that none who crossed her path could spin her tale.
My glimpse of her existence is thanks only to Klaire's unique bond with the child. It might be a whimsical assumption of a writer, but I suspect one to be the mother of the other.
Her connection to 'you-know-who' makes Klaire as enigmatic as Solgrave.
Perhaps even more so.
So I shall draw you closer to the truth through the Terrors.
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The Terror Family
Great-great-grandfather Timothy changed his family name from Timothy to Terror, believing it would ensure his descendants were at least feared by their name alone.
Who's ever been scared of a surname like Timothy?
Certainly not a boy named Leo Jagger—no, sir!
Poor Great-Grandpa Terror never realized that one can't force values or courage onto their children. However, it's remarkably easy to instill the opposite without even trying. His son, Grandpa Lion Terror, acted like a hoodlum in his father's presence but was soon molded by society into a soft kitty. His son, Mr. Terror the Second, fared worse, transforming the plushy cat into a timid mouse.
Unable to live up to his father's ideals, Junior forced the name onto his own son: Mr. Terror the Third, a frazzled, middle-aged man still trying (and failing spectacularly) to embody the fearsome image of his ancestors,
Terror the Third keeps his hair slicked back, but stress-induced sweating makes it flop over his forehead within minutes—his thin mustache twitches whenever he's nervous, which is always, even when he is asleep.
He dresses formally, in a suit and tie, but always looks slightly disheveled: shirt half-untucked, tie loosened, and the scent of anxiety clinging to him like an expensive cologne made of Sani. He's tall but hunched, as though years of avoiding ghosts and social embarrassment have weighed him down, not to mention the weight of his cursed surname, which he carries like a sack of bricks on his back.
His wary eyes dart at every flicker of movement. He tries to maintain some authority over his family, but his fear and lack of spine often reduce him to a background character in his own home.
He doesn't have a story for you to worry about. And trust me, he's thrilled by that fact.
In truth, Mr. Terror favors the building's backdrop for the theater. Never to be seen, or required to be heard from.
He's the kind of man who yelps at his own reflection and apologizes to inanimate objects when he bumps into them; yet he still clings to the delusion that one day, he'll restore honor to the Terror name.
While he continued the family's downward spiral—from soft, to timid, to terrified—his son rejected the title 'Terror the Fourth' and called himself 'Terror Junior' instead. Quite aware of his true self.
His defiance sparked the tiniest ember of hope in his father's heart.
Little did they know that a spark of rebellion, especially the one that dies at the reflection of water, wasn't enough to burn away generations of cursed cowardice.
A little about Junior might give you a clear picture of what's in store.
Junior has the soul of a startled kitten. At four, he had perfected the art of jumping at shadows, running from nothing, and screaming before checking what was wrong.
He dressed like a wannabe gangster, wearing gold chains and leather jackets, but his constant screaming ruined any tough image he tried to project. His curly brown hair is styled into an undercut, though he sweats so much from fear that it flattens within minutes—something he shares with his dear old dad.
His wide, expressive eyes always seemed on the verge of tears, kept at bay because crying would ruin the eyeliner around them (which has already spooked him one too many times).
When it was safe to do so, Junior talked big and acted tough. Yet at a hint of the supernatural, he'd crumble into chaos.
He's unintentionally hilarious, constantly stumbling into humiliating situations that somehow get worse when he tries to fix them.
His flailing was legendary, dramatic enough to make even ghosts hesitate. Despite his cowardice, he possesses a remarkable survival instinct, although his strategies often involve fleeing rather than fighting.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to turn in their favor…
Until the supernatural intervened.
"Junior," Dad rasped.
"Ghost!" Junior screamed, leaping out of bed and sprinting into the street.
All was fine and dandy until a piece of furniture snagged his clothes and stripped him naked before he could reach the door. Add their one-bedroom apartment, a nude boy named 'Terror' interviewing about ghosts, and Junior lost all credibility as a budding hoodlum forever.
They hopped from city to city, town to town, village to village, but gossip always reached ahead of them. Not that they ever stayed long enough to outpace their reputation; their general nature and bad luck exposed them soon enough.
They never feared ridicule—no, sir.
In fact, they encouraged it so much that people stopped bothering them; a sense of pity turned every gangster they faced into saints.
All they wanted was someone to have a constant eye on them, but little did they know that asking to be bullied was so off-putting.
Out of options and desperate for company, Mr. Terror suggested a second child. This was nearly impossible, for no Terror had ever had a second child. Either because of a curse, haunting spirits, fear of bringing another soul into their doomed bloodline, or, more likely, a fear-induced heart attack before the attempt could succeed—only the Soul King knows for sure!
Yet, by some miracle or cosmic joke, the heavens blessed them with a baby girl. And as her father wished, she wasn't timid like the rest. She was just…
Indifferent!?
Metelda Terror is the first of her bloodline not to live in constant fear, but that doesn't mean she's fearless; she doesn't care enough to be afraid.
At sixteen, she carries herself with an unshakable calm that borders on eerie. Her short, jet-black hair was perpetually messy, not from laziness but because fixing it seemed like too much effort. Her sharp, calculating eyes gave the impression she'd already predicted every outcome before it happened. Dressed in oversized hoodies and baggy jeans, she prioritized comfort over style, moving with slow, deliberate grace, as if the world itself had to wait for her to be ready.
Her voice is monotone, her expressions minimal, and her dry wit could slice through ego like a hot knife through butter.
When she acted, it was usually to shut someone up or to solve a problem in the most energy-efficient way possible.
The family's constant hysteria rolled off her like water off a duck's back. And when something supernatural did happen, she didn't panic; her eyelids moved just enough to convey her mild inconvenience.
For instance, a jump scare made her stop, circle the scarer, and continue on her way.
A robber with a knife? She calmly called the cops while her family groveled at his feet, like dogs trying to convince their master for one extra treat.
A robber with a gun? Then, sure, she complied.
When a few perverts tried to take advantage of her, she had already learned from the last incident and got herself a Glock, naming it after her surname: Terror.
Her father considered it a sign that their legacy was finally turning around and promptly dumped all family responsibilities onto her shoulders, which she shrugged off with practiced ease.
And that, in a nutshell, is what it means to be a Terror.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Forty-Four. ———<>||<>———