The dim light of a candle flickered in my cramped room as I sat cross-legged on the cold, uneven floor. Around me floated glowing runes, twisting and rearranging themselves into shapes that only made sense to me. This was my sanctuary—the one place where the weight of this wretched life seemed to lift.
"Second Heart," I murmured to myself, staring at the intricate construct of magic forming in the air before me.
It was my latest experiment, a spell designed to create a second, ethereal heart inside my body. Not a literal organ, but a metaphysical construct that would act as a reservoir of power, enhancing my physical abilities to a degree even the strongest warriors might envy. If it worked, my strength and endurance would skyrocket, allowing me to stand tall in a world that valued raw power above all else.
But "if it worked" was the key phrase.
The runes began to rotate faster, their glowing edges pulsating in rhythm with my breath. They drew mana from the endless well within me, an invisible tide that I controlled with painstaking precision. A faint hum filled the air, resonating deep within my chest as the spell began to take shape. I felt the pressure building, the mana coalescing into a tiny, radiant core that hovered just above my heart.
Almost there. Just a little more—
But my hand wavered for a moment, and I exhaled slowly to steady myself. Even in this quiet moment of progress, doubt lingered at the edge of my thoughts.
I hadn't outright rebelled against my family or their cruelty, despite knowing I could. The power inside me was limitless, far beyond anything this world could comprehend, and yet I remained silent, enduring their abuse day after day.
There were two reasons for this.
The first was my condition. Petal Skin. A rare and cruel affliction that made my body as fragile as porcelain. Even the slightest injury—a scrape, a bruise—could leave me bedridden for days, or worse. It wasn't just physical pain; my body simply couldn't endure the strain that even an average person could handle.
When I was younger, I'd tried to fight back, to stand tall against Damien or the servants who treated me like dirt. But every time I pushed myself, my condition reminded me of its presence with sharp, incapacitating pain. I was weaker than even a talentless child half my age, and I hated it.
The second reason was far more calculated. Power, no matter how overwhelming, was useless without purpose. I wasn't foolish enough to act without a plan, to throw myself into rebellion without understanding the consequences. No, I had to bide my time, to wait until my strength surpassed my limitations and my control over my spells became flawless.
The Second Heart was part of that plan. If I could create it, if I could stabilize it, it would override my body's weaknesses, giving me the resilience I lacked. It would be the first step toward freedom—freedom from this house, from Damien, from all of it.
The runes glowed brighter, their hum deepening as the construct began to solidify. I could feel it taking shape, the mana threading through my body in delicate streams, weaving itself into something tangible. My heart pounded in sync with the spell, each beat driving the process forward.
Come on. Just a little more—
A sharp knock at the door shattered my concentration.
I flinched, and the glowing core dissolved instantly, the runes spiraling away into harmless motes of light. The hum in the air vanished, leaving an oppressive silence in its place.
"Lloyd!" Damien's voice cut through the door, sharp and impatient.
I clenched my fists, the frustration coursing through me like a storm. Years of effort, hours of delicate work, undone in an instant by his intrusion
"What do you want?" I asked, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.
Damien leaned against the doorway, his smug grin already grating on my nerves. "Father says I need to practice my swordsmanship. And guess what? You're the lucky one who gets to help me."
I narrowed my eyes. "Help you? Or just be your punching bag again?"
His grin widened. "Oh, come on, brother. It's sparring. You'll toughen up."
I sighed, standing up and brushing the dust off my worn clothes. There was no point in arguing. Damien wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted, and the longer I resisted, the worse it would be.
The training yard was empty, the servants wisely making themselves scarce whenever Damien decided to "spar." The setting sun bathed the cracked stone in a warm, golden glow, a stark contrast to the cold tension in the air.
Damien drew his sword—a gleaming, rune-inscribed blade that seemed to hum with latent power. It was a gift from our father, a symbol of his "talent" as a Magic Swordsman.
I stood opposite him, unarmed and unarmored as usual.
"Ready?" he asked, already lunging forward before I could answer.
I barely dodged the swing, the blade whistling past my ear. The next strike came faster, and I had no choice but to throw myself to the ground to avoid it.
"You're too slow, Lloyd," Damien sneered, his movements fluid and precise. "How do you expect to survive out there in the real world if you can't even keep up with me?"
I gritted my teeth, the simmering anger in my chest threatening to boil over.
"I don't need to keep up with you," I muttered under my breath, my mind racing.
Damien swung again, this time grazing my arm. The sting of the blade slicing through skin was enough to push me over the edge.
"Enough!" I shouted, channeling my mana outward in a burst.
The spell I'd been perfecting for weeks—[Sleep]—activated instantly, a wave of shimmering energy expanding in all directions. It rippled across the training yard like an unseen tide, leaving everyone within a hundred-meter radius—servants, guards, even the birds perched in the trees—collapsed in an instant. Bodies hit the ground with soft thuds as the magic's irresistible pull dragged them into unconsciousness.
Everyone, that is, except Damien.
"What the—?" Damien spun in place, his sword raised defensively, his eyes darting around the now-silent training yard. His confusion quickly gave way to disbelief as realization dawned.
"You..." His gaze locked onto me, narrowing in anger and shock. "You did this?"
I didn't respond. Instead, I lifted my hand, channeling mana into my next spell.
"That's impossible!" Damien barked, his voice rising in pitch. "You're talentless! You don't have any mana! How are you—"
I didn't let him finish. My [Clone] spell activated, and an identical copy of me materialized beside him, sprinting forward with a faint shimmer of mana surrounding it.
Damien hesitated for a fraction of a second, his sword slicing through the air to strike the clone. The blade passed cleanly through, and the clone dissipated into nothingness. His momentary triumph turned to panic as I appeared behind him, using [Silent Step] to close the distance undetected.
"What the—" His words were cut off by my fist slamming into his jaw.
Damien stumbled back, his free hand clutching his face in stunned disbelief. His wide eyes were locked on me, his expression a mixture of fury and fear. "How are you doing this?!"
I didn't answer. A well-placed kick to his stomach sent him staggering, his breath leaving him in a pained gasp.
"You bastard!" he roared, swinging his sword wildly. "You're not supposed to—"
I darted out of range, then reappeared behind him with another step of silence. A sharp blow to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground.
Damien tried to push himself up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. "No... this can't be... You're nothing but a... talentless..." His voice trailed off as his body slumped forward, unconscious.
I stood over him, breathing hard, the anger still coursing through me. For years, I'd endured his taunts, his cruelty, his constant need to prove his superiority. And for what?
"I could destroy you," I whispered, the weight of the truth settling over me. "I could destroy all of you."
But I wouldn't. Not yet.
Kneeling down, I cast [Heal], a basic spell that closed the cuts and bruises I'd inflicted. Damien's chest rose and fell steadily, his face peaceful in unconsciousness.
"Enjoy your nap," I muttered, creating another [Clone] to take my place. The clone stood there, arms raised in surrender, ready to bear the brunt of Damien's wrath when he woke up.
As for me, I activated [Silent Step] again and made my way to the roof of the manor.
The view from the roof was breathtaking, the setting sun painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I leaned back against the tiles, letting the cool evening breeze wash over me.
This was my escape, my sanctuary. Up here, the world below seemed so small, so insignificant.
"Just a little longer," I murmured to myself, staring at the horizon. "A little longer, and I'll be free of this place."
Sixteen years of suffering had taught me patience. But even patience had its limits.
For now, though, I'd wait.