The air in the room was not cold, but heavy.
There was the scent of old wood—damp, slightly decayed. From beneath the bed came the faint tang of iron, as if someone had clutched chains there for far too long. The curtains were thick fabric, their edges worn thin. When the breeze stirred them, the cloth would slide softly, then stop.
That was how day and night were told apart.
Some breaths required more effort than others. Some days the bones felt as though stones had been laid across them. Some days he simply felt that the body was his— but the control belonged to someone else.
The man could not walk.
His legs lay straight and useless. There was no strength in his lower back. Only the neck and shoulders could move a little. If he tried harder, his breath would break.
That was why no one looked at him.
In this palace, people only noticed things that could move, fight, or be useful. Something lying motionless on the floor was no more important than furniture.
Powerlessness is the best camouflage.
The maid came every day.
At the same hour. From the same corridor, the same rhythm of footsteps. The same pace—neither hurried nor slow.
There was no hesitation in her walk. Her shoulders were slightly rounded, yet her spine stayed straight, as if she had grown used to carrying a daily burden. Her hands did not tremble. Either she felt no fear, or she had learned to live with it.
No excess respect. No excess hatred. Only routine.
On the first day, he kept his eyes closed. The second day, the same. On the third, when she came to the bedside and began straightening the curtain— he opened his eyes.
That was all.
He said nothing. No cough. No movement. Just the opening of eyes.
Her hands paused for a fraction of a second. Her grip on the fabric loosened. Then she finished straightening the curtain, picked up the glass, and left the room without looking back.
He noted: Presence without demand makes people notice.And being noticed is the first step toward attachment.
A few days later, when she returned, he asked very softly— "You come here every day?"
His voice was weak, but the words were clear. No command. No expectation.
"Yes," she said.
"Don't you ever get bored?"
She paused. One second. Two.
"I'm used to it."
Her tone was flat, as though the meaning of the sentence had already ended long ago.
He drew a mental line: Habit = repetition without choice.Without choice = the first crack.
The next day he asked no question. He only said— "Do you know when people grow most tired?"
She said nothing. Continued straightening the curtain.
"When they feel their existence—or absence—makes no difference to anyone."
This time her hands stopped.
She turned slowly. Eye contact. Brief. But without hesitation.
For him, that was enough. The hook was set.
That night he asked— "What's your name?"
She stood by the bed. There was space to sit, but she did not take it.
"What will you do with a name?" she asked.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
"I'm teaching myself to remember someone."
She did not answer at once. Three breaths. Then— "Alexa."
He did not repeat the name. Repeating a name is a claim. Claiming too early would be wasteful.
A few days later, more noise came from outside.
The pattern of boots had changed. Heavier steps. The clink of metal. Orders no longer spoken softly.
He said quietly— "Everyone in this palace is doing their assigned work."
Alexa set down the glass and said nothing.
"But work and life… are different things."
The corner of the curtain crumpled slightly in her hand.
"Which one are you living?"
Silence.
This time the silence was not empty. It was turning into pressure.
She spoke, just a little.
"I stayed here."
Then she stopped.
"…my brother—"
The sentence did not finish.
He said nothing either.
Half a truth had been offered. The rest would walk to him on its own.
The next pieces came without structure.
Sometimes only a single line. Sometimes stopping mid-thought. Sometimes days of nothing at all.
And then, one evening— "I was about nine," Alexa said.
The room was the same. The curtain the same. The same smell in the air.
"My brother was seven."
The academy gate rose before her eyes.
Carved stone. Symbols etched above. Inside: the training grounds where the clash of metal, the smell of earth, and discipline all mixed together.
That day their father had come with them.
Carlos Gen.
His footsteps did not weigh upon the ground. His feet made contact, yet no tremor followed. Teachers straightened instinctively. Students corrected their posture without thinking.
"Dad was a Continent Peak," Alexa said.
In this world, power was measured on the scale of continents.
'Continent Heroic: a threat capable of razing cities or shattering armies.'
"Continent State Dragon: a single being who could destabilize an entire region."
'''Continent Beast: a walking national catastrophe.'''
""Continent Warden: the enforcer of a continent's laws and order.""
"""Continent Peak: one who could upset the balance of an entire continent."""
Carlos had been one of the fourteen.
In the Alok's(mc) mind, the hierarchy aligned. Top-tier warrior. High-risk missions. Low survival rate.
"At the gate," Alexa continued, "Dad stopped."
He said— I'm going on a big mission.
Tone perfectly ordinary.
Then— I don't know when I'll see you again.
Her mind had frozen in that moment.
"I ran to him," she said. "Grabbed his hand."
Her fingers had been small. Grip weak. But intent absolute.
"When?" she had asked.
Carlos looked down.
There was sorrow in his eyes. Controlled. Pressed down.
And then— he vanished.
So fast the air arrived late.
She stood there. Hand still outstretched. Tears falling. No sound from her throat.
Her brother came to her. Said nothing. Only took her hand.
The gate closed.
"A few months later," Alexa said, "Mom left us at the academy."
The morning had been ordinary. Breakfast made. Conversation.
At the gate, Mom said— Come home in a month.
Alexa said yes. Her brother too.
Mom smiled. And left.
It was lunchtime.
Clatter of metal plates. Noise of people.
Alexa was eating when her brother came running.
Face white. Breath ragged.
"Sister," he said, "hold my hand."
She stood.
"Run."
"Wh—"
"Now."
Behind them were teachers. And with them, some from Heroics.
Their posture was not relaxed. Meaning clear.
"Wh—" she tried again.
"I have an inheritance," her brother said while running.
"What kind?"
"I have an Inheritance: Copy Body," her brother said as they ran.
An Inheritance was not a skill. It was a system-granted right, etched directly into the structure of the body itself.
"They want to turn me into a project," her brother said.
Her throat went dry.
"They killed Mom."
In that moment the world's sound shut off.
Only feet running. Tears falling. Nothing from her mouth.
Her brother stopped.
He placed iren coins in her hand. Cold. Heavy.
Then a locket.
"Use this," he said. "It will take you far."
"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll be fine."
His voice steady. As if rehearsed long ago.
"I've planned everything."
Then, softly— "I sold myself."
The Heroics were closing in.
He pushed her back.
The locket activated.
And everything ended.
The man's mind filed the final label: Voluntary sacrifice.Guilt-based loyalty.Lifetime binding resource.
Silence filled the room.
Alexa had finished speaking.
Her throat was thick, but no tears came.
Some stories do not come out through crying. They only come out through telling.
The man said nothing.
There was no need.
What had already been taken could not be returned.
But what remained— could be placed in the right hands.