"Veythor! Veythor! Hey, what happened? Wake up! Hey!" Shimi's voice, laced with a frantic urgency, echoed in the confined space.
But Veythor remained unresponsive, lost to the encroaching darkness. He was unconscious once more, a puppet slumped on the grimy floor.
Raika, despite the simmering resentment he harbored towards Veythor, knelt beside him. A flicker of genuine worry crossed his young face. He quickly checked for a pulse, his fingers pressing against Veythor's neck.
"He's alive," Raika stated, his voice a low murmur. "Just unconscious. Perhaps he hasn't been eating much. That's why he lost consciousness."
Shimi looked at Raika, her expressions etched with a profound sadness, her gaze fixed on Veythor's still form.
Raika felt a deep, uncomfortable pang of envy within him, a bitter taste in his mouth. The girl's concern for this newcomer, this stranger, gnawed at him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite articulate, a raw, unpleasant emotion that settled heavily in his chest.
Love and hate.... these were now meaningless words for Veythor. He cared nothing for them.
Throughout his past two lives, he had loved, he had hated, he had cried, he had laughed. He had felt all manner of emotions, but the most constant, the most intimate emotion he had known was pain— mental, physical, an unyielding companion.
Every time he was on the precipice of grasping happiness, fate, with its cruel, unerring precision, would kick him deeper into the abyss.
Yet, this did not mean he was emotionless. Even now, he felt. But he simply did not care. Veythor's eyes slowly opened, his vision still a blur. He found himself in a shabby hut, the air thick with tension.
A woman and a man were locked in a furious quarrel, their voices sharp, venomous. He could also discern a child, small and vulnerable, hands clamped over his ears, desperately trying to block out the cacophony of their parents' rage. The child's face was a mask of terror and despair.
This… this is my current body?
His eyes widened, a cold realization dawning. The man suddenly lashed out, a brutal slap echoing through the small space. The woman's head snapped back, her cheek turning a vivid red against her pale skin. She was a quiet beauty, even in her humiliation.
"You fucking slut! How dare you! How dare you cheat on me! I'll fucking kill you! This illegitimate child... he is not mine! You dared to sleep with a Royalty? Do you even know the consequences of this act, you bitch?!" The man's scream was raw, guttural, filled with a primal fury.
So, the owner of this body is an illegitimate child of a Royalty? Veythor's lips curled into a faint, cynical smirk. Interesting, he murmured inwardly. No one is seeing that I'm here, so it's most likely a memory of this body. I see.
The child, whose body now belonged to Veythor, finally looked up at the man, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Daddy!"
Just at that moment, as the boy uttered the word "Daddy," a powerful, backhanded slap landed on his small cheek. The force of it sent the child flying, a small, pathetic ragdoll, to the side of the hut.
"You fucking illegitimate bastard! Don't call me daddy! I'm not your father!" The man's voice was a roar, filled with disgust and contempt.
The boy, now a crumpled heap on the floor, began to cry. Silently. He dared not make a sound, his small body wracked with a grief too profound for noise.
The man, oblivious to the child's silent agony, suddenly erupted in laughter, a harsh, triumphant sound.
"Hahaha! I won't keep this child that is not mine! I won't take any risks!"
The woman stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief, trembling as she managed to ask, "Then what?"
The man's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "I know a good slave trader. I'll sell the boy to him."
The woman's eyes widened further, a silent scream trapped within her. She didn't object. She couldn't. She was powerless, a mere pawn in a game of brutal reality.
The boy, still on the ground, just looked at them, his gaze vacant, as if he had fallen into a profound coma, his spirit already broken.
Suddenly, before Veythor's eyes, these harrowing scenes began to fracture, breaking into countless fragments, as if they were pieces of a shattered glass puzzle. He was speechless, his facial expressions mirroring the boy's own vacant stare, a silent echo of shared despair.
Veythor's eyes fluttered open again, his breath heavy, ragged. The first sensation that assaulted him upon waking was a gnawing hunger, a primal ache in his gut.
And the first sight that greeted him was Bulz's face, that disgusting, triumphant grin plastered across it. It was the first thing he truly hated in this third, cursed life.
Fucking bastard, he murmured inwardly, a cold, venomous thought, a silent promise of future retribution
Bulz, a grotesque caricature of a man, was pleased to see Veythor stirring. He clapped his hands, a loud, jarring sound that echoed in the confined space, his movements playfully exaggerated.
Then, that disgusting grin, a permanent fixture on his face, stretched wider.
"Playtime is over, boy. Get ready. Customers are coming soon."
Raika and Shimi, silent witnesses to this crude display, stood beside Veythor. Their eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and silent fury, were fixed on Veythor, their gazes silently cursing Bulz, a shared hatred binding them in that moment of helplessness.