The road from the house to the cemetery wasn't long, yet Arin's steps felt heavy, as though the earth itself clung to his feet.
The village was the same as always: the scent of fresh bread wafting from old Vilma's bakery, children shouting as they chased a ragged cloth ball, the sweat-streaked faces of farmers covered in dust.
But to him… everything seemed coated in a thin layer of falsehood. Even laughter sounded grating.
Inside him, a man in his thirties weighed everything with a cold mind, while a twelve-year-old boy stumbled through questions he had never known before.
This contradiction wasn't just confusion—it was a headache, a clash between two minds that refused to blend. Controlling this mixture wasn't a matter of time; it was a matter of survival.
When they reached the cemetery, his mother stood before a simple gray stone engraved with his father's name.
Arin stood beside her. The carved letters mattered less to him than the memory they stirred: a firm yet gentle voice, the care of a man who had taught him to read, to ride a horse… But those old memories clashed with newer ones.
A warm voice, a glowing sphere that surrounded his body as he staggered between life and death—the System.
And another memory… from Min-Su's mind: Half-dragon.
He was sharp enough to connect the dots. His features matched neither his father nor his mother. He had never paid it much attention before.
But now, deep down, he knew.
For the first time, he found himself unable to speak in front of her… the woman he had always thought of as his mother.
She turned to him, noticing his hesitation.
— "Do you need something, my son? Are you in pain?"
He shook his head. He wanted silence. But the words betrayed him.
— "Are you and Father… truly my parents?"
Silence. Then she bent toward him and embraced him tightly.
— "Yes, I am your mother. Why would you ask that?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed, unblinking.
Seeing his silence, her tears broke free.
— "Arin, you are my son no matter what… Even if I'm not your biological mother, I am still your mother."
She gripped his shoulders, her voice rising with each word.
— "You are my son! Do you understand? My son!"
But her voice never touched his heart. All he saw in that moment was betrayal creeping in.
He tore himself from her arms and shouted:
— "You're not my mother… and you will never be my mother!"
She froze, then broke into desperate sobs.
As for him, he turned and ran toward the village, never looking back.
At the house—or rather, his adoptive parents' house—he went straight to his room.
It looked the same: an old wooden bed, a small window, cracked walls.
Yet it all felt unfamiliar. Cold. As though it no longer belonged to him.
He sat on the bed, and the harsh mask he had worn moments ago crumbled away.
He cried. Loudly, without trying to suppress it.
Years he had lived believing they were his family. Years filled with genuine love.
And now? Nothing.
If they weren't his parents… then where were his real ones? Why had they abandoned him? Was he thrown away on purpose?
Each question ignited another, and every possible answer was worse than the last.
His sobs grew into sharp, chest-ripping wails.
Until at last his strength gave out, and he fell into a heavy sleep.
A sleep without rest.
For the wounds from yesterday's battle had not yet healed, and now today's questions tore them open again.
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