The training ground stretched empty before me in the half-light of dawn. I preferred it this way—the world caught between darkness and day, that strange blue-gray hour where everything felt suspended in time.
Standing at the arena's center, spear gripped firm, I faced my sparring partner. B-rank guild member, older than me by a good decade, and currently watching me with the kind of careful wariness you give something dangerous.
Good. That wariness was earned through blood and sweat.
"Ready, Young Master?" His blade—thin and curved, almost like those katanas from the eastern continent—held steady in a practiced stance.
I didn't bother answering. Just launched.
"Raging Fire Spear Art, Second Form: Whirlwind Dive!"
The spear became an extension of my will, flames spiraling around the shaft as I drove forward with rotational force. Heat washed over him, his eyes going wide as he barely managed to deflect the strike.
No time for recovery. I pressed the advantage, strike after strike, each one calculated to push him back, to test his limits. Months of obsessive training had transformed my movements from clumsy desperation into fluid death. The spear wasn't just a weapon anymore—it was part of me.
He tried a counter, blade flashing toward my exposed guard, but I'd already seen it. Reader's Eye activated without conscious thought, showing me the trajectory before the strike completed. I pivoted, let his attack slide past harmless, and drove my spear straight toward his center mass.
"I surrender, Young Master!" He stepped back quick, hands raised. "That last technique... if it connected, I'd be looking at serious burns."
I lowered the spear, breathing hard but satisfied. He wasn't wrong—the flames coating my weapon were intense enough to scar.
"Thank you for the practice." I kept my voice formal as he bowed and left to tend the minor burns he'd accumulated.
The moment he disappeared from view, that familiar chime rang in my head:
[Ding!] [Spear Mastery +7] [Spear Mastery Upgrading...] [Mastery of Spear: Master Level Achieved]
[Ding!] [Task: Become Famous Throughout the World - COMPLETED] [Rewarding Host with Skill: Aura Breathing]
The new skill flooded into me like ice water through my veins. Pathways opened in my body that I'd never felt before—channels for aura to circulate, to strengthen, to compound. Combined with my Dual Energy User talent, this was gonna accelerate everything.
"Status," I muttered under my breath.
[Status Host Name: Riyan Cris Descartes Charm: SS+ Strength: B+ Speed: B+ Endurance: A- Mana: B- Aura: C+ Current Rank: B- Age: 18 years Race: Half Asura and Human Inventory: None Weapon Mastery: Spear (Master) Skills: Raging Fire Spear Art (★★★★) Lara Spear Art (★★) Aura Breathing (★) Identity: A Brainless Dog Licking Villain of the Novel "Saint's Odyssey" Remark: A Narcissist Villain Who Actually Earned It]
I couldn't help the smirk. System had a sense of humor at least.
B-rank at twenty. Exceptional, though not unprecedented—true genius-level talents could hit A-rank by this age. But more importantly, Master level weapon mastery put me ahead of most Academy applicants by a significant margin.
"Yan!"
Livia's voice cut through my thoughts. She was jogging across the training ground, bow slung over her back, expression bright with that irritating morning energy some people had.
Out of habit, I checked her status:
[Status Name: Livia Descartes Charm: A+ Strength: C- Speed: C+ Endurance: D+ Aura: C+ Current Rank: C+ Weapon Mastery: Bow (Expert) Skills: Aura Arrows (★★★★) Essence Arrows (★★) Age: 18 years Traits: Brother Complex, Yandere, Ruthless Race: Half Asura and Human Relation With Host: Twin Sister Obsession: Riyan Descartes Favorability: Deep Obsession Identity: Villain in the Novel "Saint's Odyssey" Remark: Sees Host as Her Idol]
C+ rank was respectable for an archer. They relied on precision and technique over raw power anyway. Livia had been training just as obsessively as me, refusing to fall behind.
"Ready for our session?" She was already reaching for her bow when a voice cut through the morning air like a knife.
"Oi, coward. Still hiding behind your sister's skirt?"
I turned. Syra stood at the training ground's edge, expression carrying that familiar mix of hostility and raw contempt. Practical training clothes, greenish-white hair pulled back messily, eyes locked on me with intensity that made Livia tense beside me.
Three years. Three years of ignoring these provocations. The original Riyan had endured her resentment in silence—guilt, maybe. Misplaced affection, possibly. But I wasn't him. And with two months until the Academy entrance exam, I needed this situation resolved.
Time for what I'd been calling the "Over-Guilt Strategy."
"Sister," I said, voice carrying just enough edge to make her blink. "Mind explaining why you always pull this crap?"
"What?" Genuine surprise flashed across her face that I'd actually responded.
"This whole hostile routine. Gets boring after three years, doesn't it?" I let my voice rise slightly, making sure the nearby servants could hear. This needed witnesses.
"Boring?" Her surprise twisted into something sharper, more vicious. "You wanna know what's boring, Riyan? Watching you strut around here like you deserve any of this!"
The accusation hung between us. Her voice had risen, and I could sense servants and guild members stopping their work, attention drawn by the commotion. Livia clutched my arm, body going rigid.
Perfect.
But Syra wasn't done, and her words came fast and brutal:
"You think I'm just being a bitch for fun? Let me spell it out for you since your pretty head seems empty!" She laughed, harsh and broken. "Father's dead because of YOU. Because when it actually mattered, when the whole damn city needed every able body—you froze like a scared little princess!"
I felt Livia's grip tighten, but I forced myself to stay silent. Let her talk. Let her dig deeper.
"Eleven years ago. The Great Monster Outbreak. You remember that clusterfuck, right?" Her fists clenched, trembling. "Course you do—hard to forget when an SS-rank monster and its army decided to throw a party in our backyard! Multiple S-ranks, dozens of A-ranks, and more lower-tier monsters than anyone could count!"
Her voice cracked but the fury burned through it. "The whole city was mobilized. Every hunter, every guild member, everyone who could hold a weapon was out there fighting. Father was leading the Descartes contingent, coordinating the defense of the eastern district. And where were you? Where was the precious young master?"
The servants were whispering now. I could feel their eyes on me.
"You were supposed to evacuate with the other children and non-combatants. Simple instructions—get to the shelters, stay safe, let the adults handle it." Syra's eyes were burning with unshed tears. "But Father made one mistake. One fatal fucking mistake. He told you to make sure I got to the shelter safely since I was being stubborn about leaving."
She wiped her face roughly, smearing dirt across her cheek. "I was thirteen, thought I was hot shit because I could use basic aura techniques. Wanted to fight. Father told you—his reliable, responsible son—to drag me to safety if you had to. And you know what happened?"
Her laugh was bitter, broken. "We were heading to the shelter when an A-rank broke through the defense line. Came crashing through buildings, all claws and fury. I grabbed your hand to run, but you—you just stood there! Stood there like a damn statue while this thing was tearing through everything in its path!"
The training ground had gone dead silent. Even Livia seemed frozen.
"I screamed at you to move. Pulled on your arm. Slapped you across the face. Nothing worked!" Syra's voice climbed higher. "You just stared at that monster with empty eyes, completely shut down. And I had two choices—drag your paralyzed ass and probably get us both killed, or run and get help."
Her voice dropped to something venomous. "So I ran. Found the nearest hunter squad and told them there was a kid frozen in fear in the monster's path. And you know who came? Father. He was in the middle of coordinating the defense against an S-rank threat, but the moment he heard his son was in danger, he abandoned his position and came running."
I could see tears forming now, rage and grief mixing into something raw.
"Father found you still standing there like a broken doll. Had to literally throw you over his shoulder while fighting off that A-rank beast. And because he left his position, because he had to waste time saving someone too scared to save himself—the eastern defense line collapsed. The S-rank broke through. Killed seventeen hunters before they could reestablish formation."
Syra's hands were shaking. "Father got you to safety, then went back to fight. Tried to fix the mess your cowardice created. And he did—he helped bring down that S-rank. But he was exhausted, injured from fighting the A-rank that should never have gotten near you. When the SS-rank made its final push, Father was on the front line. And he wasn't fast enough to dodge."
Her voice broke completely. "They said he might've survived if he'd been at full strength. If he hadn't already been wounded. If he hadn't wasted his energy on a rescue mission that shouldn't have been necessary!"
She was crying openly now. "Father doted on me! He praised me, trained me personally, always made time for me even when he was busy running the guild! I was his pride! And he died because he had to save YOU—someone who couldn't even force their legs to run when their life depended on it!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
"And now look at you!" Syra gestured wildly at me. "Prancing around with that spear, playing warrior, acting like some prodigy. Where was this courage when Father needed it? Where was all this skill when the city was burning? You were useless then, and slapping fancy techniques on top of cowardice doesn't change what you are—a coward who got better people killed!"
Every word was designed to cut, and I could feel the weight of the servants' stares. Some looked sympathetic to her. Others seemed uncertain. All were judging.
This was the moment. Either I broke here, or I turned this around.
Time to weaponize guilt.
I let genuine pain bleed into my expression—easy enough when channeling the original Riyan's self-loathing. "So it's my fault Father died? That's your final verdict?"
"YES!" The word came out like a sob. "Yes, it's your fault he's dead!"
"Fascinating conclusion." I kept my voice quiet, conversational even. Like we were discussing the weather. "Tell me something, Syra—how old were you during the Outbreak?"
"What does that—"
"Humor me. How old?"
"Thirteen! What does that have to do with—"
"Right. Thirteen." I tilted my head, let a small smile touch my lips—the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "Old enough to understand evacuation orders. Old enough to know that when your father tells you to get to safety, you do it. And yet you were 'being stubborn,' as you put it. Wanted to fight despite having no real combat experience."
Her mouth opened but I kept going.
"Now, I was nine years old. Nine. Let me paint you a picture of what nine-year-old me experienced that day." I started pacing slowly, like a professor giving a lecture. The servants were fully invested now, not even pretending to work.
"The sky was literally raining blood from flying monsters. Buildings were collapsing. People were screaming. I could hear bones breaking, flesh tearing. The air smelled like burning meat and sulfur. And in the middle of this apocalyptic nightmare, I—a nine-year-old child who'd never seen real violence before—was supposed to stay calm and rational?"
I paused, letting that sink in.
"You were thirteen and still needed to be convinced to evacuate. Still thought you could fight despite Father telling you otherwise. But somehow, nine-year-old me should've had better emotional regulation during a literal SS-rank monster outbreak?"
"That's not the same—"
"You're absolutely right, it's not the same." I cut her off smoothly. "Because you were old enough to know better and still made poor decisions. I was a literal child experiencing traumatic shock. There's actually a medical term for what happened to me—acute stress response. The freeze part of fight, flight, or freeze. It's an involuntary biological reaction to overwhelming threat."
I stopped pacing, facing her directly. "But sure, let's blame the nine-year-old for having a normal trauma response instead of the thirteen-year-old who created the situation by refusing evacuation orders in the first place."
Syra's face went pale.
"And let's talk about Father's decisions, shall we?" My voice took on warmth, just a touch. Enough to make it hurt more. "Father was an S-rank hunter. One of the strongest in the city. He made strategic decisions that day, including the decision to come get me personally instead of sending a lower-ranked hunter."
I took a step closer. "You know why he made that choice? Because he loved me. Not because I deserved it. Not because I earned it. But because when faced with the possibility of losing his son, he couldn't delegate that risk to anyone else. That was HIS choice as a father."
Tears were streaming down Syra's face now.
"And yes, the eastern line collapsed. Seventeen hunters died. Father got wounded." My voice went soft, almost gentle. "But you know what would've happened if he hadn't made that choice? I'd be dead. Torn apart by an A-rank monster. And Father would've spent the rest of his life—however long that was—knowing he let his nine-year-old son die because maintaining a defensive line was more strategically sound."
"Stop—" She was sobbing openly now.
"Could he have lived with that, Syra? Could he have kept fighting, kept leading, knowing he'd sacrificed his own child for the greater good?" I pressed the advantage, keeping my voice warm even as I drove the knife deeper. "Or would that knowledge have broken him worse than any physical wound?"
"I said STOP!"
"But here's the thing, sister—I don't hate you for this." I smiled, and this time it reached my eyes. Sad, understanding, forgiving. "I get it. You feel guilty. Guilty that your stubbornness put Father in that position in the first place. Guilty that you ran when I froze. Guilty that you survived when he didn't. So you projected all that guilt onto me because it was easier than admitting your own role in how things played out."
Her breathing was ragged, tears flowing freely.
"You were thirteen and wanted to prove yourself so badly that you ignored direct orders from your father during a crisis situation. That choice created a cascade of events that contributed to his death just as much as my freeze response did." I let that statement hang in the air. "But you were also just a kid trying to be brave. Just like I was just a kid who got overwhelmed. Neither of us killed Father. The SS-rank monster killed Father. The Outbreak killed Father. Circumstance and bad luck and impossible choices killed Father."
I reached out, slow and deliberate, and put my hand on her shoulder. "And I forgive you for blaming me, because I understand you were trying to make sense of something senseless. But it's time to forgive yourself too, Syra. And maybe, just maybe, forgive the scared nine-year-old who didn't ask for any of this."
[Ding!] [Syra is feeling intense guilt toward Host] [Syra's Favorability increasing...] [Syra's Favorability increasing...] [Syra's Favorability increasing...] [Current Favorability: Family Love]
I blinked at that notification. From Hostile to Love in one conversation?
"System, explain this favorability jump," I demanded mentally.
[Ding!] [Previous Riyan was the primary reason Syra was adopted into the Descartes Family. The name "Syra" was given by Riyan after learning she had no name. During childhood, Syra developed deep family feelings for Riyan, viewing him as her savior and the first person to show her genuine kindness. These feelings transformed into hatred after Cris Descartes's death, as she blamed Riyan to cope with her own guilt—she knows her refusal to evacuate was the root cause but couldn't accept it. She considered Cris a father figure and idol who saved her from the slums. However, the famial feelings never truly disappeared—it was merely buried under layers of resentment and self-loathing. By forcing her to confront her own culpability while simultaneously offering complete forgiveness, you've shattered her defensive mechanism and allowed the original feelings to resurface.]
I stared at Syra's crying face, processing this new information. The original Riyan had named her. Had been the catalyst for her adoption. Had been, essentially, her savior.
And she'd been in love with him the entire time, even while hating him. All while knowing, deep down, that her own stubbornness had set everything in motion.
This was way more complicated than I'd anticipated.
"I'm sorry," Syra choked out between sobs, grabbing my shirt with both hands. "I'm so sorry, Riyan. You're right. You're right about everything. I was being stubborn, I wouldn't listen, and Father had to—I got him killed. I got him killed and I blamed you because I couldn't—I couldn't—"
"Hey." I pulled her into an awkward hug, because leaving her hanging would've been too cruel even for me. "We both contributed to a shitty situation. We were both kids. And Father made his choices knowing the risks. He wouldn't want us tearing each other apart over this."
She clung to me like I was the only solid thing in a collapsing world, nodding frantically through her tears.
Livia's expression beside me was unreadable—relief mixed with something calculated and definitely dark. Her grip on my other arm tightened possessively, and I caught the way her eyes narrowed as she watched Syra cling to me.
"Brother handled that masterfully," Livia murmured, voice sweet but with an edge sharp enough to cut. "Though perhaps Sister Syra needs some privacy to compose herself. The entire estate will be gossiping about this scene by dinner."
Always the politician, my twin. Even in moments like this, she was thinking three moves ahead, already calculating how to spin this for maximum advantage.
Syra pulled back slightly, wiping her face with her sleeve, looking younger and more vulnerable than I'd seen her in years. Her eyes were red and puffy, her usual fierce expression completely shattered. "I... I need to go. I can't—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Riyan."
She turned and practically fled across the training ground, stumbling slightly as she ran.
The servants slowly returned to their work, but I could feel the weight of their whispers. By evening, this whole scene would be dissected and analyzed throughout the estate. The young master confronting his sister about years of unjust blame, revealing the truth about the Outbreak, offering forgiveness despite being the victim—it was basically a ready-made redemption narrative.
Which was fine. That had been part of the plan anyway.
"That was quite the performance," Livia said quietly, her voice carrying notes of genuine approval mixed with something else. "Strategic, emotionally manipulative, perfectly calibrated. You've been planning this for a while, haven't you, Yan?"
I glanced at her. "Is that disapproval I'm hearing?"
"Hardly." She smiled, and it was sharp enough to be a weapon. "I'm impressed. You turned her own guilt against her, made her confront truths she's been running from for eleven years, and positioned yourself as the magnanimous forgiver. Textbook psychological warfare dressed up as emotional honesty."
"You make it sound so cold."
"Isn't it?" Livia's smile didn't waver. "Not that I'm complaining. Watching her attack you these past three years has been intensely irritating. I'm just acknowledging the artistry of how you resolved it."
The possessiveness in her tone was unmistakable. My twin sister, ladies and gentlemen—equal parts political savant and obsessive protector.
"Though now we have a new variable to manage," Livia continued, her analytical mind already working through implications. "Syra's feelings aren't going to just disappear. Given her intense, all-or-nothing personality, this could actually get more complicated than her previous hostility. Obsessive guilt can be just as problematic as obsessive hatred."
"Everything's already complicated."
"Fair point." Livia's smile softened slightly, becoming something more genuine. "Still, I'm glad you finally dealt with it. And I'm glad you reminded everyone of the actual facts of the Outbreak. The servants needed to hear that you were nine, not some coward who chose fear over action."
She paused, then added with careful deliberation, "Also, pointing out Syra's own role in the situation was... necessary. She's carried that guilt for eleven years and projected it all onto you. Maybe now she can actually process it properly."
I looked at my twin, noting the way she'd already shifted into damage control mode, planning how to manage the fallout, how to leverage this confrontation for our benefit.
"You're already thinking about how to use this, aren't you?"
"Of course." Livia's expression turned almost fond. "Someone has to handle the political aftermath while you're being all warm and forgiving. That's what I'm here for, Yan. You handle the direct confrontations, I handle the ripple effects."
She had a point. Between my strategic emotional manipulation and her political maneuvering, we made a pretty effective team.
I'd accomplished what I needed: Syra's hostility was gone, replaced with guilt and revived affection. The household had witnessed the truth about the Outbreak and my 'innocence' in Father's death. I'd positioned myself as understanding and forgiving while simultaneously destroying Syra's moral high ground.
But I'd also just added another complication to an already complex web of relationships.
One problem solved. Several new ones created.
Story of my life—both of them.