Zairen stared into the cracked mirror.
The reflection wasn't him.
It was someone else.
Someone hollow. Pale. With eyes like twin graves that had seen Hell—and stayed to rot inside it.
Each fracture in the glass whispered a different scream from his past.
A child's wail. A mother's last breath. Steel through flesh.
He turned away.
The floor creaked under his bare feet as he stepped toward the broken window. He pushed it open, the hinges groaning like dying lungs.
Night.
Dark. Endless. Cold.
The breeze kissed his skin, soft and strangely kind.
Like a mother's hand stroking the brow of a dying child.
He inhaled.
And for one moment, just one—
The wind felt like peace.
Then—
His stomach growled.
Loud. Ugly. Desperate.
"…I think I need food," he muttered, voice dry as bone, worn as rusted steel.
His eyes scanned the ruined room. Dust. Rot. Silence.
Then he saw it.
An old tray, covered by a tarnished silver lid, waiting atop a cracked table like a forgotten offering.
He opened it.
And the stench struck him—
Hard. Vile. Unforgiving.
Mold-blackened bread.
Soup turned to swamp water, thick and green, with floating remains of vegetables drowned long ago.
Meat—gray, slick, crawling with tiny white maggots. A living disease.
It reeked of death.
Zairen didn't grimace. He smiled.
A slow, twisted thing.
The kind only the broken learn to wear.
"Ahhh… it's good to be back."
And then—
He ate it.
Every last bite.
His teeth tore through decay.
Mold crust crunched under his tongue.
Sour meat slipped down his throat like sin.
He chewed the rot. Swallowed the sickness.
Not a flinch. Not a sound.
Only silence.
When it was over, he collapsed backward onto the bed.
A tired thud. Like a corpse returning to the dirt.
The ceiling above him blurred, and memories came—
Vivid. Vicious. Unforgiving.
He saw himself once, small and innocent, laughing in the sunlit garden.
His mother's voice singing,
"Zairen! Zairen!"
His father reading under the peach tree.
His sister chasing butterflies.
He remembered sneaking into the forest, dirty and proud.
His mother always found him.
And instead of scolding, she'd kneel, hold him tight, whisper:
"Zairen… you stupid little boy…"
She'd wipe the dirt from his cheeks with her dress, lift him into her arms, and carry him home.
Home, where food was warm.
Where hands were soft.
Where love lived.
And then came that day.
He begged to go to the Royal Carnival—the one with floating lanterns, fire dancers, and clouds made of sugar.
But they said no. They were waiting for his sister's return from the Holy Kingdom.
Still, he pleaded.
And his mother, too kind for her own heart, finally smiled and whispered:
"Only for a little while."
That night…
That quiet, starless night…
Everything ended.
Their carriage passed the old forest trail.
Then—
Screams. Steel. Fire.
Bandits? No.
Traitors.
The guards turned first. Blades flashing red under moonlight.
But worse came after.
Figures in black.
Masked. Silent. Inhuman.
They moved like death given shape.
His father fought like a demon—blades spinning, blood painting the dirt.
But even demons bleed.
Two broke through.
They grabbed Zairen. Grabbed his mother.
"Drop your sword," one hissed.
"Or they die."
His father—bloodied, shaking—froze.
Fear in his eyes for the first time.
"Please," he whispered. "Let them go. I surrender."
One of them gave a slow, mocking nod.
"Of course."
Then turned.
And slit her throat.
—Schhk—
A wet rip. A gasp.
Blood sprayed across Zairen's face, hot and blinding.
She dropped like a ruined doll.
Head still barely clinging.
Her eyes wide open.
Lips curled in a smile—
Forgiving. Even then.
Zairen didn't scream.
He didn't move.
Only breath.
Only her blood soaking his knees.
His father roared—an animal sound—and broke free.
He snapped a masked man's neck with his bare hands and grabbed Zairen by the shoulders.
"RUN, Zairen! RUN!"
But Zairen couldn't.
He just stared at her broken body.
"RUN, DAMN IT!"
Tears spilled.
His legs finally moved.
And he ran.
Through branches that clawed his skin.
Through roots that tripped him.
Until his feet bled and the sky wept.
He found a cave.
And there, he lay.
A child soaked in blood, clutching the last warmth of a mother's shawl.
Days passed.
They found him.
"Rescued," they called it.
But what was left to save?
At the estate, his sister sobbed.
But not for him.
"Because of you… Father died!"
Blame.
Rage.
Hate.
He was five.
Just five.
And still, they cursed him.
His aunt and uncle came—smiles like lies.
They wanted the estate. The titles. The power.
They needed his sister.
And they discarded him.
A shadow in his own home.
Unseen. Unfed. Forgotten.
Now, lying on the rotting bed in this cold ruin, Zairen chuckled.
Low. Bitter. Dry.
He thought of his sister—now noble, now beloved by all.
"What a fragile little puppet…" he whispered.
"So easy to control. Easier to break."
He smirked, voice like ash.
"Now my mood is ruined."
He turned on his side. Eyes empty. Heavy.
"Let's stop thinking about the past…"
"Tomorrow's a new day."
"A new beginning."
And with that—
He slept.
Not like a man.
Not like a monster.
But like something in between.
Something carved from sorrow.
Wrapped in rot.
Something that still remembered:
The blood.
And the smile… on a dying mother's face.