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The trio reached the dilapidated house, looking around with open disgust.
"This cripple couldn't even get a proper house from the family. He really is worthless," chuckled Argon.
"It's a shame he was born to the family head and the lady. Both of them are absolute powerhouses, yet one rotten seed slipped in," Noah added mockingly.
"By the way… what's the cripple's name? I've never heard anyone call him anything," Cyril asked with mild amusement.
"It's said the family head was so furious that he refused to give him a name. He even forbade him from carrying our family name. Lady Anabella was disappointed too—she never once visited him after his birth, let alone name him," Argon explained.
"I heard it was the head's younger sister, Zelene Chronos, who gave him a name… though I have no idea what it is," Noah said with a shrug.
As they approached the house, the steady sound of a sword swinging echoed in the air.
There, in the yard, they saw a young boy—clearly younger than them—swinging a wooden sword with the desperation of someone whose life depended on it. When they looked closer, they noticed there was a faint rhythm to his movements. They weren't random; they resembled a coiling serpent tightening around its prey. And his predatory gaze only made the scene more chilling.
Even though there was little strength behind his strikes, the sight of that strange movement drew them in.
But Noah quickly broke the silence with laughter.
"Hahaha! The direct lineage of Chronos practicing sword techniques instead of using spatial arts? Truly unbelievable. As expected of the cripple of Chronos."
His voice echoed across the empty yard.
The boy paused mid-swing and slowly turned his gaze toward the trio.
The moment their eyes met, a chill crawled up their spines.
That was not the gaze of a child barely seven years old.
It was the gaze of loneliness.
Of determination.
And of unyielding defiance.
The same defiant eyes that the young lady of Chronos once showed Cyril—except hers were filled with pride and disgust.
How dare he look at me like that?
Rage surged through Cyril as he stepped forward. His figure blurred and vanished, reappearing in front of the boy like a predator.
He expected the boy to cower.
To tremble.
To show fear.
But the boy only stared back with the same calm, empty eyes.
It was baffling.
He was weak.
Talentless.
Not even in the Star Realm.
While Cyril was already a 3-Star—a feat few children his age could dream of.
Anger boiled over.
Without hesitation, Cyril slammed his fist into the boy's stomach.
The child tried to block with his wooden sword, but the force was overwhelming.
His small body flew backward like a ragdoll, smashing into his shack with a deafening crash.
Cyril stood there like a god passing judgment on a lowborn insect, his glare fixed on the shattered house.
As the dust settled, a figure stumbled out.
Blood covered him, a circular wound on his abdomen leaking aggressively.
And yet…
those eyes hadn't changed.
No fear.
No panic.
Still holding his broken wooden sword, he stared like a hunter seeking prey.
Then, to everyone's surprise, the boy charged.
His movements slithered like a coiling snake, striking again and again. Cyril effortlessly parried—like an adult toying with a child.
Once more, Cyril flickered behind him and struck his jaw, sending him flying.
They thought it was over.
But the boy rose again.
And again.
Until finally, his exhausted body failed him, and he collapsed to his knees—bloodied, shaking, but unbroken.
The trio watched him in silence.
There was no satisfaction in their expressions.
Only something solemn.
Despite the brutal beating…
he hadn't screamed.
Not even once.
As if he was used to such pain.
Still kneeling, clutching the fractured sword, he glared up at them.
Noah stepped forward casually.
Before anyone could react, he grabbed the boy's hand—the one still holding the sword—and crushed it.
A muffled groan escaped the child.
Noah's eyes lit up with excitement as he grabbed the other hand and crushed it too.
Another groan.
Another spark of twisted delight.
"See? That's how you do it," Noah said with a chuckle, walking toward Argon, who had been grinning the entire time.
"This bastard sure is a tough nut," Argon added.
"At least we found a new toy," Noah laughed, turning to Cyril—who stood frozen, lost in thought.
"What's wrong with you?" Noah asked.
"They're so similar…" Cyril muttered, ignoring the question as he cast one last glance at the fallen boy. Then he turned and left, followed by Noah and Argon.
Silence returned.
The boy curled on the ground, rolling slightly as pain surged through him.
Pain was nothing new.
People like them came to beat him often.
He fought back with everything he had, but in the end, he knew the truth:
he was weak.
He hated it—hated the helplessness—but he couldn't break into the Star Realm with his pitiful E-rank talent.
After some time, his Chronos bloodline began healing the wounds. Slowly, shakily, he stood up and limped to his demolished house, trying to fix what little he could.
He failed to notice the shadow that materialized where he had stood moments ago, watching him with silent, thoughtful eyes.
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