The icy water in the tub did its job, dampening the heat simmering beneath my skin. I had to keep my emotions in check; I refused to end up like my father.
I knew she was the one at fault. I was the one wronged, wounded, and humiliated. But relationships don't always operate on pure justice. Sometimes, they survive through endurance—the strength to overlook what can be forgiven.
I knew she had assaulted me. By any definition, it was an attack, and I doubted the Abyss even had laws for such a thing. Then again, does the Abyss even have laws?
A trace of this will always remain in my heart, but I told myself to stay strong. I sat there, licking my wounds in that bath, offering myself the comfort no one else would. While the physical gashes closed within minutes, the wound to my dignity remained wide open.
If I were to move past this now and treat her calmly, wouldn't I look desperate? Like a man chasing after her with no pride left to his name? That is exactly how I would appear in her eyes. And if she were truly malicious, she would mistake my patience for weakness.
There was no clean solution but distance. If she pushed any further, our paths would have to part. I couldn't lie to myself; this was a fracture that couldn't be mended.
The old cliché—"don't care what people think"—is a lie. The opinions of others matter, no matter how many claim otherwise. They matter, though they shouldn't be taken as the absolute truth. People can be wrong, driven by nothing but raw emotion.
But you can't rule out the possibility that you might be the one in the wrong either. In most cases, public opinion reflects a genuine concern. Either someone is targeting you, spreading rumours to tarnish your name—or you are simply a piece of trash.
Don't play the victim. Don't spout nonsense about the whole world being against you. Stop it; you sound like a spoiled child.
If it's the first case, then I must fight for my reputation. It is vital. If I didn't care, I wouldn't even be a rational creature. What separates me from beasts? Reason, thought, and emotion—those are the boundaries. Only beasts are indifferent to their reputation.
My reputation belongs to me, but it is also the lens through which the world perceives me. Everyone I deal with will judge me based on it. It affects my people too; I am not the only one who suffers from a tainted name.
If I am shunned, I am the one who pays the price. And if I say, "I will just become stronger and crush anyone who speaks of me," then I have merely become a tyrant—a megalomaniac enslaved by the very opinions I claim to despise.
I refused to accept the role of the weakling. If I could, I would make the truth clear. Yet, despite my convictions, a part of me wanted to burn those principles to the ground. They were noble, but they were bitter. It felt as though they were designed to sting.
As my father once said, that path is only for the strong. Who could truly bear it? The cold water had calmed my body, but the bitterness of my restraint burned within me.
I left the bathroom, the frustration still simmering. I headed straight for the training hall, needing to release this rage somewhere. My eyes fell on a red dumbbell.
It was crafted from a special white metal, a rarity among our kind. It served a dual purpose: physical conditioning and the refinement of magical control. The moment you infused it with mana, it became incredibly difficult to handle, forcing you to focus with intense precision.
Today, I would push both to the limit. I tried to lift it.
"Agggh!"
The veins in my head began to bulge. It was so heavy that the pressure of my blood felt as if it were about to burst through my skin. I didn't care. I pushed upward with blind, reckless persistence.
Then, a sudden collapse. I felt as if my very soul had been hollowed out.
"No... damn it... this blood—"
I hit the floor with a violent thud.
***
Quiet, steady footsteps echoed in the hallway leading to the training room. They were unhurried, moving with the familiarity of someone walking through their own home.
The door opened with a heavy, silent creak. A strange figure stepped into the room—a body wrapped in light-blue bandages, its face hidden behind a bizarre mask.
The mask was made of pale, aged copper that carried a dull lustre, as if it held the weight of something ancient—like metal taken from forgotten gates.
**The Silent Construct.**
It had no human features; just a solid, square piece of polished metal, giving the wearer an impenetrable face—like a guardian protecting an eternal secret.
A narrow keyhole sat at the bottom, like a mouth sealed forever. A steel handle protruded from the forehead, curving around the head like a crown of cold iron. It looked like a massive, pale lock. It seemed impossible for such a thing to even fit on a human head.
The figure moved to the centre of the room and stood over the collapsed body. A beam of light shot from its hand, entering Theo's body. Even in his stupor, Theo's body shuddered in resistance.
"Calm down, boy. I'm only trying to examine you. Even unconscious, your body still fights."
"You almost killed yourself, little one. Do you not even understand the burden of your own blood?"
"It seems Sera's insanity has finally begun to affect you. Your senses are sharp; somehow, you discovered that isolation benefits you, despite your nature. Curse those instincts."
"Anger has finally bested you today."
The figure paused, then let out a low, muffled chuckle.
"So… my plan is finally bearing fruit. Twenty-two years... that is how long I have waited for you, Theo."
"Yes... get angry, Theo. Awaken what lies within your blood. It is the last power remaining in my arsenal."
The figure leaned down, brushing Theo's face as it breathed heavily.
"My little Theo... mature quickly. You cannot imagine how eager I am to taste you."
He laughed softly. "I hope you liked my gift..."
A green light emanated from his hand, clinging to Theo's head. Moments later, the figure retraced its steps and vanished into the darkness.