Say less, king. Here's the same scene, deeper, darker, and extended to around 8
"Who… who are you?"
No answer.
Just silence.
The kind that seeps into your spine and weighs down your breath.
Raizen stood there, still as a statue. His fingers twitched slightly. A shiver passed—but not from fear. He was just tired.
Tired of questions. Tired of voices.
Tired of a world that looked at him and saw nothing.
"…Tch."
He exhaled through his nose, turned around, and walked off. Whatever that voice was—memory, madness, or something else—it could wait. He had a schedule. And unlike the rest of this rotting house, he stuck to it.
The wooden door creaked open as he entered his room. Dust hung in the air. It was clean, but it never felt clean.
He tossed his coat onto the hanger like he was shedding skin. The training gear on his bed waited for him, folded, worn out from overuse.
Raizen sat on the edge of the bed for a second, rubbing the back of his neck.
That voice—it didn't feel new. More like something old clawing its way up from a forgotten grave in his head.
He muttered, "Guess we're doing this again…"
Then, silently, efficiently, he geared up.
The hallways outside stretched like veins through the estate, lined with ancient portraits and hollow-eyed statues. But the real decay wasn't in the stone.
It was in the people.
As Raizen jogged through, preparing to warm up before training, he saw them. The servants.
Some looked away, others stared too long.
There was pity in a few eyes. A little sorrow.
But pity was just another form of cruelty when you knew it wouldn't be followed by action.
The rest?
Contempt.
Disgust.
Like he was a worm wriggling into noble silk.
Tabitha, one of the head maids, met his eyes briefly and scoffed, turning away before she could catch herself.
That was common. Expected.
Raizen had learned long ago that expectations didn't apply to him the same way they did to the others.
Illegitimate. Untouched by Light. Unworthy.
He kept running.
"Don't these pathetic people have anything better to do than play petty games—"
CRASH.
His foot struck something hard. Too round. Too slick.
Thud.
He hit the marble. Hard.
Pain flared in his shoulder, but Raizen didn't cry out. He sat up slowly, his jaw clenched tight.
A vase. Ornate. Empty. Placed perfectly in the center of the hall.
Deliberate.
And then came the voice.
"Oh myyy~! I'm so sorry, young master. I didn't know you were so… clumsy."
Anna.
That smug look on her face wasn't even masked this time. A performance without an audience, because she didn't need one. Her satisfaction was enough.
Raizen stared at her for half a second.
Not long enough to challenge her.
Just long enough to remember her face.
He inhaled.
Held it.
Exhaled.
"…My fault."
His voice was flat.
His eyes—blank.
He stood up. Dusted himself off. Walked past her.
This wasn't the first time.
Wouldn't be the last.
He knew better than to fight battles where the wounds weren't visible.
~~~~~
If you want to know why Raizen Helios—firstborn son of the Marquess—was treated like dirt beneath noble boots… we'll need to dig deeper.
We need to dive into the Lore.
————————•
The Forgotten Bloodline
Raizen was born not of love, but of guilt.
His mother—a dancer from a distant province. Foreign. Poor. Forgotten.
She had fallen in love with Viridian Helios, then a young knight and heir to the Marquessate.
Viridian? He saw her as a convenience. A fleeting pleasure before duty called him away.
When word of the old Marquess's death arrived, Viridian left without a word. He never came back.
Three years passed.
One day, she returned—with Raizen in her arms, barely two, and her body falling apart from sickness. She didn't beg for herself. She begged for her son.
She died that night.
Viridian, perhaps out of guilt, took the child in.
But not as a father.
As an obligation.
In Renum, only nobles awaken to magic. Magic, they say, runs through purity. Through lineage.
The Helios bloodline?
Famous for their Light magic. Their discipline. Their power.
Raizen awakened to nothing.
He was illegitimate. A bastard child with no attribute, no noble mother, and no place.
So the house looked at him with cold disdain.
And the servants? They followed suit.
————–——•
By the time he reached the training ground, Raizen's body ached—not from the fall, but from the weight.
The weight of being.
A voice greeted him like a whip cracking through silence.
"Well, well, look who finally found his way here. Lost, bastard?"
Raizen didn't flinch.
He turned.
His eyes—calm, unreadable.
His silence?
It spoke volumes.
Because some ghosts don't scream.
They wait.