"Not sure, but it doesn't matter," Kyle replied, his tone shifting to worry. "We need to find a place to stay tonight, and I need to get you looked at. You're running a fever."
I quickened my pace, putting distance between myself and the protagonist's problems. Emily's illness would lead to Kyle seeking medical help, which would put him in contact with academy-connected healers, which would eventually result in his early admission.
As I walked back to the mansion, I couldn't help but ponder my interaction with Kyle. Was it really wise to just leave him and his sister?
I truly believed it was. My encounter with him had proven that I'd already changed my fate, already altered the timeline. The previous death flag hanging over my head was no longer there, which meant I didn't need to worry about the protagonist coming for my life.
For a brief moment, I felt at peace. Ever since I woke up in this world, I'd felt tense about everything. Despite this peace, I pondered my purpose.
Why did I awaken in this world? Why were my memories intact? And why did I have the system?
Unfortunately, those questions only added to my anxiety about this world, making my brief moment of peace shatter once again.
"Only time will tell," I muttered to myself, before drinking my daily portion of blood to quench the burning thirst that Kyle's presence had intensified tenfold.
..
The next day arrived. I started my morning routine by quenching my thirst with the blood stored in my pendant. As I felt the dwindling supply, I decided I'd need to go hunting again today to replenish it.
The blood should have lasted me about a week. However, Kyle's appearance yesterday had made me lose control completely. The overwhelming scent of his supreme bloodline had triggered such intense cravings that I'd consumed far more than usual just to suppress the urge to attack him.
Once again, I skipped breakfast, citing my bloodline's effect on my appetite.
My father was free today, so he decided to continue my training. We worked through the sword techniques he'd taught me, focusing on control rather than raw power.
After we finished, he praised my improved control and memorization of the techniques.
"You're learning faster than I expected, Adrian. Your muscle memory is developing well," he said, genuine pride in his voice.
I accepted the compliment, thanking him for taking the time to train me personally. The praise felt good, even though I knew my vampire physiology was giving me unfair advantages in physical learning.
After training ended, I decided to rest briefly before attempting something I'd been considering since yesterday.
I was going to visit the orphanage.
Without delay, I made my way toward the outskirts of the city, where the forgotten corners of Luminara existed. The city life faded as I moved from the prosperous central districts to the neglected periphery.
The area reminded me of the slums of Rocinha in Rio de Janeiro from my previous life. Ramshackle buildings leaned against each other for support, their walls stained with age and neglect.
Narrow alleyways reeked of trash smell. Children with hollow cheeks and torn clothing darted between shadows, while adults huddled in doorways with vacant expressions.
The living conditions were appalling. Cracked streets, broken streetlights, and the general air of abandonment made it clear that the city's prosperity didn't extend to everyone.
Yet somewhere in this forgotten district stood an orphanage that would play a crucial role in the story's development.
I found the building easily enough. It was larger than the surrounding structures but in equally poor condition. Faded paint peeled from wooden walls, and several roof tiles had fallen into the overgrown garden. A weathered sign hung crooked by the entrance: "Saint Helena's Home for Children."
The iron gate creaked as I pushed it open and stepped into the courtyard.
Despite the rundown surroundings, the space had been maintained as well as possible. Someone had attempted to create a playground with whatever materials they could scavenge. A makeshift seesaw constructed from a plank and a rock sat beside a small sandbox filled with dirt rather than sand.
Children's laughter filled the air.
A group of kids, probably ranging from five to twelve years old, were playing together near the entrance. Their clothes were patched and faded, clearly hand-me-downs that had seen better days, but they'd been washed and mended.
The children themselves looked thin but not starving, suggesting the orphanage staff were doing their best with limited resources.
"Tag, you're it!" a girl with pigtails called out, giggling as she dodged between her friends.
The children seemed genuinely happy despite their circumstances. They created their own games, shared whatever toys they had, and found joy in simple pleasures that wealthy children might take for granted.
But those playing children weren't what caught my attention.
In the corner of the garden, away from the laughter and games, stood a single boy on a rundown swing. The swing's chains were rusted and one of the wooden seats had a crack running through its center, but it still functioned.
The boy looked to be around eight or nine years old, though malnutrition might have made him appear younger than his actual age.
His clothes were different from the other children, not just worn, but torn in places. Mud stains covered his shirt and pants, as if he'd been pushed down or forced to sit on the ground.
What struck me most was his hair. It was an unusual silver-white color, almost ethereal in the afternoon sunlight just like mine. But rather than making him appear special, it seemed to mark him as different in a way that made others uncomfortable.
The boy sat motionless on the swing, his small hands gripping the chains as he stared at the ground. Even from across the garden, I could see the sadness radiating from his hunched shoulders and downcast expression.