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"Eason! Eason! Eason, you fucking bastard!"
My eyes fluttered open to the sight of my alcoholic dad shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Wait, Denim, did you finally die? Am I dead too? Is this the afterlife?" I asked groggily.
He glared at me, anger flashing in his eyes.
"Ask me a stupid question one more time, and I'll tear off your arm and scoop your eyes right out of your skull, you fucking idiot! Do you think we're in a play or a novel? You challenged your uncle, and now he's sent people to kill me because I saved your sorry ass. So much for giving birth to a disappointment."
His voice dripped with contempt as he sneered at me.
"Give me your arm," he ordered.
It was then that I realized I couldn't feel my arm at all. I tried moving it several times, but it didn't budge.
My dad, on the other hand, laughed at my fruitless efforts.
"Let me help," he said, his expression suddenly shifting to one of genuine concern.
I stared at him wide-eyed; that look was unfamiliar to me. I had rarely seen it in my short life. Still staring, I watched as he placed my injured arm on his lap. Closing his eyes, he stretched his palms over the pierced area, and his hands began to emit an incandescent green light.
I felt a foreign energy invade my body through the wound. It started mending the injury at a rate visible to the naked eye.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my heart as my arm began shaking uncontrollably. I could feel another foreign energy clashing with my dad's healing spell. The pain was unbearable, and I let out a scream, pulling my arm away from his lap.
"Eason," my dad said grimly, "Valerian inserted his Mana into your injury, making it impossible for me to completely heal it with the amount of Mana I have right now. I intend to teach you how to use a weapon tomorrow morning, so prepare to become a left-handed swordsman. Talk about being unlucky to the end."
With that, he stood and left, closing the door behind him.
You see, the reason he called me "unlucky" is that left-handed swordsmen are hated and discriminated against. People tend to think you're not taking them seriously when you use your left hand.
I sat up and flexed my arm a little. It still hurt, but not as much as before. I was almost certain I could hold a sword with it.
"Should I really trust that drunkard this much?" I wondered. My impression of him had certainly improved after seeing him use magic.
"Hey, idiot Eason! Get your ass downstairs for lunch!"
"I'm coming!" I yelled back, glancing out the window. That's when I realized we were no longer in Paraiso, the place we used to live. Instead, we were in a castle-like house perched on the edge of a cliff.
I ran down the stairs, my steps a flurry of movement.
"Denim, where the fuck are we? Wait... why does this place feel like a sanctuary? Wait—so your alcoholic ass owns a whole sanctuary, and you made me live in a shack for twelve years?"
I threw a punch at his face, but he easily deflected it since I'd used my injured right hand. The pain flared up instantly.
"Sit down. We have something to talk about," he said, his expression blank.
Reluctantly, I sat.
"You know the type of world we live in," he began. "It's either you get strong, or you get bullied to death. Your mother was the daughter of a duke and your uncle's love interest—though it was one-sided. He wanted her so much that he was ready to renounce his membership in our family and elope with her. But she, on the other hand, loved me with all her heart.
"It took a duel for us to decide who would have her. After the duel, he disappeared, plotting his revenge. Your sister was a genius in the field of magic.
"The night you were born, he invaded our house and killed your mom and your sister. He didn't know where you were because your mom used the last of her magic power to cast a concealment spell on you..."
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