Dejected, Willock trudged to his room, the weight of despair heavy on his shoulders. Food lay untouched on his plate, the once-appealing aroma now a dull reminder of his appetite lost. The realization sank in deeper with every passing moment: magic was no longer his to wield, nor was the sword that had felt so foreign in his hands. He had become a shut-in, isolating himself from the world outside. Meals came and went, but he barely touched them, their flavors lost on his numb tongue.
What was life when his father didn't love him? The thought gnawed at him, a relentless ache that twisted in his gut. It felt as if his father harbored a deep-seated hatred for him, a sentiment echoed by the cold indifference of his other family members. Yet, amid the shadows of neglect, there was one flicker of light—his aunt Charlotte, whose love remained a steadfast anchor in the turbulent sea of his emotions.
But what was he to do? Willock felt like a ghost haunting his own existence. Days passed without a shower, the stale odor of his unkempt self a testament to his despair. He stood under the cold stream of the shower, water cascading over him like icy daggers, yet he felt nothing. It was as if he were made of stone, impervious to the world around him.
In the haze of his desolation, something glimmered in the corner of his eye—a dagger, its shiny surface catching the faint light filtering through the bathroom. He picked it up, the cool metal feeling foreign yet oddly familiar in his grip. A dark thought crept into his mind, whispering seductively. Without fully understanding why, he pressed the blade to his wrist, feeling a sharp sting as it cut through flesh. But in an instant, the wound healed, the mana within him working faster than he could blink.
A cry erupted from his throat, raw and desperate—a sound filled with anguish. "Why?" he screamed, the word echoing off the tiled walls. He knelt in the shower, water cascading down his broad shoulders and back, mingling with his tears. "Why?" he sniffed, his voice cracking. "I have all the mana in the world, but why can't I use it? I can't even die if I want to." The pain lingered, but there was no mark to show for it, only the hollow question reverberating in his mind: why was this happening to him?
After what felt like an eternity, he finally left the shower, the cold water still clinging to him like a shroud. He dressed in clothes that felt foreign against his skin, a reminder of the human he was trying to be. With a heavy heart, he made his way to the library, a place that had once offered him solace.
Few recognized his face, but the story of the dangerous prince who could end the world with a flick of his hand had spread like wildfire, leaving a trail of fear and disdain in its wake. Little did they know, he could hear their whispers as he passed, their judgmental glances piercing through him like arrows.
The imposing library never ceased to amaze him, its towering shelves filled with wisdom and secrets waiting to be unearthed. He entered, the familiar scent of parchment and ink wrapping around him like an embrace. As he made his way to the racks, he picked five books—two about mana and three about demons. He chose the books on mana carefully, not wanting to invite judgment from the other users who lingered nearby.
Finding a secluded corner, he settled down, feeling the weight of the world pressing upon him as he immersed himself in the texts. The first book began with a mention of his father, the apostle of the strongest dragon among the eight Transcendents. The description of his father's might left Willock in awe and fear. The text detailed how even if all the other seven tried to kill Suman, they would fail miserably. His father was not just a warrior; he was the strongest under the heavens, the ender of all, and the harbinger of death—the only reason their kingdom remained safe from the empire's grasp.
As he read on, Willock's eyes widened at the next name mentioned: his aunt Charlotte, charming and beloved, ranked ninth among the Transcendents. Surely, something was amiss, he thought, but as he delved deeper into her story, the title "Queen of Curses" took on a chilling significance. The book detailed her prowess, revealing that except for those Transcendents with remarkable regeneration, all others would perish within seconds if exposed to her poison.
A chuckle escaped him for the first time in days. In all the stories and manga he had consumed, poison masters and curse users were often depicted as vile, ugly bastards, yet here was his beautiful aunt, a curse user in her own right. It was an irony that brought a flicker of warmth to his heart, a reminder that appearances could be deceiving.
Yet, as he turned the pages, the awe of his aunt's power began to morph into something darker. The more he read about her, the more he understood the breadth of her abilities, and the chilling legacy she carried. She had once faced gods and emerged unscathed, her curses woven into the very fabric of existence, feared even by the mightiest beings. Her name was synonymous with dread; she was a queen who wielded death like a master artist, painting the world with shadows and despair.
Closing that book, he opened another with a clamorous title: *The History of the Primordials.* As he skimmed the beginning, the first sentence sent shivers down his spine: "So powerful was the queen that she went down with a god and erased him from the world not just a god but the strongest god of her time fell to her sword." The words resonated within him, igniting a spark of curiosity and wonder.
But as he read further, a stark realization settled over him like a suffocating fog. The queen's power was absolute, her legacy one of destruction and despair. She had not just faced gods; she had brought them to their knees. Willock felt small in the shadow of such greatness, a mere flicker against a roaring flame. The more he uncovered about her, the more hopeless he felt about his own fate.
What chance did he have in a world filled with beings of such unimaginable strength? He was a prince stripped of his magic, lost among titans, and as he closed the book, a deep sense of futility washed over him. The stories of power and glory were not meant for him. He was bound by an oath, shackled by expectations, and haunted by the legacy of those who walked before him.
Willock's heart sank further as he realized that the queen's legacy was a relentless reminder of his own inadequacy. In a world where gods fell to curses and the strongest were revered, he felt like a mere shadow, destined to be forgotten, a prince without a crown, lost in the annals of history.