Leveling up for the Rous family wasn't as hard anymore. Not since Charles had arrived.
Though he could only produce two complete drawings per day—limited not by time, but by the intense focus required—his creations were steadily becoming legend within the estate.
One wrong stroke, one line out of rhythm with the Gana flow, and the drawing would wither, a useless smudge of ink on parchment. But when he succeeded, the results were transformative.
The Rous family had taken notice. John, Lucy, even the more skeptical cousins—those who once scoffed at his presence—now gathered silently as Charles spread a fresh scroll across the table, his brush moving with solemn grace. Each line he drew shimmered faintly, the Gana folding into the ink, transforming the image from symbol to spell.
They studied his work for hours afterward. Copying. Tracing. Repeating.
For those attuned to the drawings, a successful replication would emit a warm resonance—a kind of inner pulse. When properly channeled, it deepened their understanding of form and function, the very foundation of higher-tier carnation. The glow of the parchment grew brighter with comprehension.
But no one—not even Diana—could make them glow as brightly as Charles could.
It was a bitter truth. Charles had no Gana. He could sketch the world into breathtaking stillness, breathe near-life onto parchment, but he could not carnate. Could not bring his art to motion. Could not birth what he created.
A symphony with no voice.
Still, the family whispered of revival. Of hope. Of a second coming. The drawings were being passed along like sacred relics.
And Charles—though silent about it—was beginning to feel the weight of what he couldn't be.
---
At school, things were very different.
Despite the praise he received at home, in the academy's stone corridors, Charles was still an outcast. Worse—he was a target.
His bullies had learned his patterns: when he arrived, what supplies he carried, what triggers left him flustered. They used him to carry their bags, punching bag in combat. The dirty work.
Charles endured it at first.
But the longer it went on, the more it festered.
There were moments—brief, cruel flashes—where he saw himself in their faces. Not in the literal sense, but in how they laughed at another's pain. In how they demanded obedience, not kindness.
Back in his own world, Charles had been... privileged. Cared for. And sometimes, cruel.
The realization hit harder than it should have, and with no warning. He remembered the tears he had caused—the people he ignored, the classmates he dismissed as weak. He remembered pushing others to the margins, simply because he could.
Now he lived at the margin himself.
And there was no escaping it.
He began to hate them. But more than that—he began to hate himself. The person he had been. The person he still might be, buried beneath the guilt.
And in the quiet corners of the academy halls, he began to wonder if he could ever change. Or if he was simply paying back a debt that could never be cleared.
---
Isaac stepped in once or twice.
Sometimes, when things got rough—when the pushing turned to shoving, when someone knocked over Charles's books just to see him bend down—Isaac would appear like a shadow behind the predator, his presence enough to scatter them.
"I didn't see you there," Charles muttered once, rubbing a sore shoulder after a near-fight.
"You weren't supposed to," Isaac had replied smoothly, before disappearing down the hall.
But those moments were rare.
More often than not, when Charles really needed someone—when his face was pressed against the locker or his sketches torn up—Isaac was nowhere to be found.
He was beginning to suspect that Isaac was choosing his moments. That the rescues weren't acts of kindness, but... strategy. Measured appearances meant to build trust.
And it worked. It almost worked.
Until Charles began to see the pattern. The gaps. The timing.
Trust was slowly curdling into confusion.
---
Then came the rumors.
Oscar.
The strongest student in the First Stream—the elite class of young carnates. The boy with crimson-cast Gana, said to summon beasts from thread alone. His presence alone made juniors scatter.
And yet, Oscar hadn't spoken a word to Charles.
More than that—he seemed to avoid him. Deliberately.
Every time Charles passed near, Oscar turned down a hall. Every time Charles approached a classroom, Oscar seemed to leave through another exit. There were no words. No looks. Just silence.
Charles might have ignored it—chalked it up to disinterest—but then he heard a name whispered on the edge of a conversation.
"…he and Robert used to be best friends."
He froze.
He didn't catch the full sentence—just that. Just the association.
Oscar and Robert. Best friends. Once.
Until what?
Until he disappeared?
Until he betrayed them?
Charles's heart pounded. He had no memory of Oscar—none from his world. But if Oscar was Robert's best friend, and Charles was now in Robert's life…
Either way, the silence was no longer neutral. It was loaded. Deliberate.
And Charles didn't know what to do with that.
---
One night, unable to sleep, Charles stared at his unfinished sketch—the form of a lion, eyes half-formed, mane drifting in imagined wind.
He dipped his brush again.
But the line broke. Uneven. Off-beat.
He crumpled the page and set it aside.
How could he draw life when he felt hollow?
How could he give vision to others when he barely understood his own?
And more importantly—what if Isaac was right to be watching him?
Because deep down, Charles wasn't sure who he was anymore.
Not Charles. Not Robert.
Just... lost.
---