CHAPTER 52: INHERITED SINS
John lay back in the bathtub, his mind heavy with a chaotic swirl of thoughts. The water had gone lukewarm, but he barely registered the chill.
Leaning his head against the smooth stone rim, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the faint, steady rhythm of his own breathing.
But every time he shut his eyelids, the servant's ruined face flashed into view. He forced the image away.
Guilt was a luxury he couldn't afford right now; he had far more urgent matters to resolve. The ticking time bomb of his physique required an immediate solution, and he needed to find it fast.
There was only one place in the palace that held the answers he wanted.
The library, he thought, opening his eyes to stare up at the gold-decorated ceiling. There has to be something in there.
He pushed himself up, water cascading off his shoulders, and dried himself quickly before pulling on a simple dark tunic and trousers.
Tightening his belt, he mapped out his plan: head straight to the imperial archives and spend the entire day buried in whatever records he could access.
Stepping out of his private quarters, John turned down the quiet stone corridor. Standing just past the outer archway was his mother, wrapped in a soft, embroidered shawl with her hands folded neatly in front of her, as if she had been waiting for him all along.
"How are you feeling, my boy?" she asked softly, her voice echoing gently in the empty hallway.
"I am doing fine, Mother," John replied, forcing a reassuring look onto his face.
Aleswith looked at him, completely unconvinced. Her gaze lingered on the heavy exhaustion written across his features, and after a long moment, she shook her head, a shadow of deep regret darkening her eyes.
"This was because of me," she murmured. "If only I had paid closer attention... this happened because I failed to—"
"Mother... stop," John interrupted gently, stepping forward. "None of what happened was your fault. It was mine."
Aleswith blinked, her lips parting slightly at his blunt self-blame. John turned his gaze toward the floor, falling silent as the haunting memory of the servant's bloody face surfaced once more.
"Mother... the servant?" John asked quietly. "His family... how are they?"
Aleswith froze, staring at him in utter shock. Her hands went still where she had been adjusting her shawl.
A servant had just attempted to assassinate him, an act of high treason. In the past, Ethan would have had an entire lineage executed or tortured for infractions infinitely smaller than drawing a blade.
Yet here he was, quietly asking after the well-being of a traitor's family.
Her shock slowly dissolved into a somber, heavy stillness. Her expression darkened as she recalled the official report that had reached her desk late last night.
"I asked for an investigation into the boy after the incident," Aleswith said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I wanted to understand what drove him to such madness." She looked down, her tone softening further.
"His mother... she committed suicide a while back. It happened shortly after she was fired from the household... when she saw what her son was going through trying to support them..."
John nodded slowly, the silence settling heavy in his chest.
So I didn't just kill him. I killed his mother, too.
For a fleeting second, a stray thought crossed his mind. A sudden urge to track down every single person this body had ever mistreated and offer a sincere apology, to somehow undo the tyrant's legacy he had inherited.
But he shook his head, burying the thought as quickly as it came. It was useless. Apologies wouldn't alter the past or bring back the dead, and he had far greater battles to survive if he wanted to keep living.
"I'm going to the library," John said, clearing his throat to shift the topic. "Could you assign a guard to accompany me?"
Aleswith studied his face, searching for any sign of what he was feeling. She hated the idea of letting him out of her sight, but seeing the distant, closed-off look in his eyes, she recognized that he simply needed space to process everything.
"Of course," she replied quietly. "I'll have someone meet you at the inner gates."
Offering her a faint smile, John turned and left his mother behind. He made his way down the echoing stone corridors toward the palace archives.
But as he turned the corner near the East Wing, a small figure stepped directly into his path.
It was his younger sister, Clara, and the third princess.
She stood with her chin raised, staring at him with absolute, unadulterated disgust.
John paused, weighing the option of simply brushing past her without a word, but before he could take a step around her, she spoke.
"I heard what you did," she said, her voice dripping with venom.
John stopped, looking into eyes that held nothing but revulsion.
"You really are a monster," she continued, her gaze burning with pure contempt. "Every single day you prove it. If you ever take the throne, this entire kingdom will be doomed..."
She shook her head in bitter disbelief. "...and yet Father still refuses to see it."
John couldn't even bring himself to disagree. If the original Ethan had inherited the crown, the realm truly would have burned.
His sister took a step closer. "Julian is an infinitely better choice than you... and you know it."
The comment stirred a momentary impulse in John to reply. Julian, the second prince, might not have shared Ethan's overt cruelty, but he was far from the noble savior their sister believed him to be.
Yet, feeling the sheer disgust radiating from her, John realized any response would fall on deaf ears.
He shook his head, shifted his gaze forward, and walked right past her, leaving her standing alone in the grand hallway.
He kept his stride steady, pretending her words meant nothing to him, but beneath the cold composure he forced himself to maintain, her bitter hatred still pricked at him just a little.
[John… all those things she is saying are not your fault,] Echo's voice echoed gently in his mind.
I know, Echo.
It's just... I feel it's a pity for anyone who is born with this physique.
[...]
John remained silent for a beat. His thoughts went toward the handful of familiar souls that were also undergoing their own trial.
I wonder how the others are doing.
[...I am sure they are fine.]
I sure hope so…
Finally, John reached a massive set of black iron gates. Intricate patterns of lightning were carved deep across their dark surface, faint wisps of residual aura emanating from the grooves.
"My Lord."
John turned toward the source of the voice. Standing near him in polished silver armor was a tall, imposing man.
John searched through his inherited memories; he recognized him as Sir Marcus, one of the elite personal knights sworn directly to his mother.
From what Ethan remembered, the man was very strong. Strong enough that he had no business acting as his bodyguard, but it seemed his mother wasn't taking chances.
The knight bowed his head in formal respect. John gave him a simple nod in return, and without a word, Sir Marcus stepped forward and pushed the grand doors open for John to enter.
The heavy iron doors swung open with a deep, echoing groan, revealing the vast expanse of the imperial archives.
The imperial archives were staggering in scale. A vast, multi-tiered sanctuary bathed in the soft, warm glow of floating magic crystals set into golden sconces.
Soaring vaulted ceilings were adorned with intricate frescoes depicting ancient legends, framed by gilded archways and polished marble pillars that stretched high into the gloom.
Striking silver-gold shelves, lined with crimson lightning-bolt decorations, rose in sweeping tiers reached by spiraling wrought-iron staircases.
Thousands of leather-bound tomes, illuminated manuscripts, and obsidian tablets sat meticulously arranged on velvet-lined ledgers, the faint scent of aged parchment, sweet incense, and expensive preservation oils heavy in the air.
Rich crimson carpets muffled his footsteps as he paced around the room.
Sir Marcus took up a position in one corner close enough to react in case of any danger but not too close that he would distract my reading.
He stood straight with his hand resting loosely on the pommel of his sword.
"I will keep watch here, My Lord. Call if you require anything."
"Thank you, Marcus."
The silence of the vast library enveloped him, offering a fleeting moment of sanctuary.
John stood before the towering rows, uncertain of where to begin. Recognizing that his answer lay in the esoteric mechanics of body modification and energy management, he directed his steps toward the section dedicated to physiques and energy control.
Reaching out, John pulled a heavy leather-bound tome from the shelf. He ran his fingers over the cracked, ancient binding, his expression settling into quiet resolve.
Alright, he thought, cracking the book open as a faint spark of energy flared in his eyes. Time to shred my brain, I guess.