They sent the butler to fetch me.
Of course they did.
How poetic.
Out of everyone—they chose him.
Once loyal. Once kind.
Then irrelevant.
No betrayal. Not openly.
He simply vanished halfway through the war in my last life.
No grave. No reason.
Just stopped existing in my story.
I thought he died.
Now I think he didn't.
He just chose survival over loyalty.
I understand.
But understanding isn't the same as caring.
---
I don't chase ghosts.
I don't hold space for absences.
If someone walked out, I let the door close.
No lingering thoughts.
No emotional tribute.
No space in my world for faded names.
Betrayal, loyalty, grief—
Same flavor. Same weight.
Useless.
Forgiveness?
That's a word for the weak.
I don't forgive.
I don't punish.
I just forget.
He isn't mine.
And I'm not looking to add anyone else to that category.
---
After some time we reached it, the chamber....
---
The ritual chamber was cold.
No bloodstains. No carvings. No symbolism.
Just a stone room designed to press a child into pain and call it potential.
I sat at the center like I belonged there.
Because I did.
In my last life, the ritual lasted three hours.
They called me a genius.
But they never saw the truth beneath it.
The curse dulled everything—growth, strength, speed.
I trained harder than anyone, past the point of injury, past the point of sleep.
Bleeding fingers. Shaking limbs. Days spent collapsed on staircases.
All for inches.
And still I died.
They called it tragedy.
I call it irrelevant.
No one's going to pat me on the back and say, "You suffered beautifully."
That part belongs to me now.
All of it.
The bleeding. The silence. The fire.
I don't want to be admired.
I don't want to be forgiven.
I just want to live the way I decide to.
And if the world burns while I walk through it—
Then it was built wrong to begin with.
---
The stones flared.
Magic surged like a storm beneath my skin.
It crawled through muscle and marrow, whispering promises only monsters understood.
This is the part where most children scream.
Some faint.
Some vomit.
Some beg.
Of course they do.
They're absorbing raw magic without a core.
It's like drinking lava while your throat is still learning how to exist.
In my last life, I lasted three hours.
Now?
I've absorbed ten hours' worth…
In five.
You're wondering why I didn't go longer.
Because I'm not here to impress them.
I'm here to survive them.
If I stayed ten, they'd panic.
The temple would call for cleansing.
Nobles would whisper. Priests would circle. They'd slice me open to see what crawled inside.
Been there before. No thanks.
Let them think I'm just another prodigy.
Record-breaking? Sure.
Unnatural? Not yet.
Better to be feared quietly than worshipped loudly.
People love miracles—until miracles break the rules.
Then they burn you for it.
So I gave them something they could understand:
A boy who didn't scream.
A boy who sat still for five hours.
Not the trembling under my skin.
Not the boiling blood.
Not the voice in the dark whispering—
> Ten. You took ten. You're not like them anymore.
---
When I stood, the lights above the chamber door had long since died.
That's the signal.
End of trial. Time to rest.
But I didn't stop.
I didn't move.
I just breathed.
Slow. Measured. Quiet.
Letting the energy settle like dust in still air.
Letting the newly formed core inside me take shape—
Sharp, dense, quiet.
Like a sleeping dragon wrapped around my ribs.
This was power.
And it was mine.
---
The door opened with a grind.
They expected unconsciousness. Maybe collapse. Maybe screams.
Instead, they found me sitting upright.
Unmoving.
Unbothered.
A physician stepped forward, cautious.
"Five hours… he didn't cry. No spasms. My Lord, he must be—"
A genius?
Let them say it.
Let them believe it.
They won't know the truth.
Not yet.
----
He stepped forward and picked me up.
They used to call him my father.
A title, like "lord" or "traitor."
Just sound and syllables.
No meaning beneath it.
He once called me disgusting.
It used to sting—
Back when I still understood pain as something personal.
Now?
It's just a file in a locked drawer.
Not forgotten. Just... unnecessary.
I didn't curse him.
Didn't scream.
Didn't search for some hidden apology in his eyes.
I didn't care enough to hate.
He looked at me with concern.
Concern.
That sweet mask people wear when they're afraid of consequences.
I've seen that look on enemies.
On kings.
On priests, mothers, brothers, guards.
It's not love.
It's strategy.
A signal—"Don't hurt me yet."
They'll wonder if I'll forgive him.
If I've mellowed.
If I've healed.
But I've stopped mistaking silence for healing.
And I've stopped mistaking memories for chains.
---
If he stands in my path again—
He dies.
No warnings.
No theatrics.
No redemption arc waiting in the wings.
Just cause and effect.
---
They'll call me cruel again.
Let them.
This world romanticizes suffering.
Turns it into poetry.
Wants you to be grateful for your pain.
They'll ask for sainthood from the same people they tried to strangle.
I'm not their saint.
I'm not anyone's anything.
---
Family?
A convenient arrangement.
Loyalty?
An unstable currency.
Kindness?
Sometimes genuine. Mostly bait.
I've watched the same hands offer bread and break bones.
Let others assign meaning to their ghosts.
I deal in reality.
---