It hurts...

What's happening to me?

Michael clutched his stomach, his face twisted in agony. His body felt weak and battered—like he'd been chewed up and spat out. The pain was sharp, unrelenting.

He opened his eyes, straining to see, but the room was cloaked in darkness. He felt alone, afraid. His memory sluggish and fragmented.

"H-Help…" he tried to call out, but only a feeble, unfamiliar voice escaped his lips.

The door creaked open, spilling warm light into the room. A figure stood in the doorway, their silhouette framed in gold. A wave of unease washed over him—then came a voice, soft and nurturing.

"Honey, did you have a bad dream?"

"Mom?"

His heart soared.

"It's okay. Mommy's here now," the woman said, stepping into the room. She knelt beside him and pulled him into a warm embrace.

The sharp pain dulled as her arms wrapped around him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, though he didn't understand why. His thoughts remained cloudy, his mind slow to catch up.

"I was so scared…" he whispered. "I thought you left me."

A gentle chuckle escaped her lips. "I would never leave you, sweetie. Not really," she murmured, stroking his back with tender fingers.

Her touch soothed the ache, melting it into something tolerable. A deep, almost primal itch surfaced beneath his skin, unsettling him—but her hug only tightened.

"You need to grow up big and strong, okay?" she said, though a trace of worry tinged her words.

"Like Dad?" Michael asked.

She smiled faintly. "Even stronger than Dad."

A groan slipped from his throat as a dull throb pulsed in his head. Memories clawed their way back—hands holding him down, fists pounding into his face and body. Pain. Powerlessness. Humiliation.

His mother held him tighter.

"You are special, Michael," she whispered, voice soft as a breath. "I knew it from the moment you were born. Your destiny... it's unlike anything the world has ever seen."

"Mom…" He clung to her as if she were the only thing tethering him to reality. Some part of him feared that if he let go, she'd disappear.

"I only have a white ring," he murmured—but even as he said it, it didn't feel true.

Alice eased back, her hands still resting gently on his shoulders. She held him at arm's length, her posture firm yet loving.

"You're not that weak boy anymore, Michael," she said with conviction.

He squinted, trying to make out her face, but the hallway light was behind her, casting her features in shadow. Even so, he longed—achingly—to see her face just once more.

"Trust your soul… Let it guide you."

Her voice faded, even though she hadn't moved.

Then, with a sigh, her shoulders sagged. "We're out of time," she said softly, sorrow dripping from each word.

Before he could reply, she surged forward and wrapped him in one last embrace.

But this one felt different.

It was desperate.

The pain had nearly vanished—so why did his heart feel like it was breaking?

"My big strong boy…"

"I love you."

The voice faded, those last three words lingering in his mind as his mother's body dissolved into nothingness in his arms.

"Urgh…"

Michael let out a groan, cradling his head with both hands. His thoughts swirled violently, recent memories crashing through his mind like a storm, threatening to split his skull in two.

The world around him shimmered—cracking like glass—until the illusion collapsed completely. Darkness flooded in.

He gasped, sitting upright with a start, clutching his chest as if to anchor himself.

His head whipped side to side, trembling eyes scanning the room in panic.

Bookshelves. A large wooden desk. Two seated figures.

He recognized it now. The headmaster's office.

"You're safe now, Michael," came a deep, fatigued voice from behind the desk.

It was the headmaster.

Michael's brow furrowed as he tried to recall how he'd gotten here. His memories were foggy, incomplete. A strange itch in his eyes prompted him to rub them—his fingers coming away wet.

Tears.

"What happened?" he asked groggily.

"…You were in an altercation," Professor Stark replied, his voice low. After a brief pause, his gaze shifted to the headmaster, wordlessly deferring to him.

"The two Bishop boys and Peter Winston ambushed you on the second floor," the headmaster explained. "By the time we arrived, the fight was already over."

Michael's breath hitched. Images began surfacing—the girl who had lured him in, the darkened room, and the brutal, desperate struggle.

My injuries? His hands roamed over his body, but to his surprise, everything felt intact.

Apart from the pounding in his skull and the dull ache in his chest, he was perfectly healed.

"You used a healing elixir on me?" he asked, catching on quickly.

Professor Stark looked as though he was about to respond, but the headmaster raised a hand gently, interrupting.

"Yes. Your body has been restored," he said. "But you still need time to recover. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but your mana reserves are nearly depleted."

Ah… so that's why I have a headache, he thought, massaging his temples with a tired sigh.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Michael murmured, genuinely grateful.

But the bearded man shook his head, his expression grim. "No need to thank us. It was our negligence that allowed this to happen. I didn't believe the Bishop family would be so brazen as to attempt murder within castle walls."

"Murder!?" Michael echoed in disbelief.

"Surely that's not the case, Headmaster…"

Yet the stern look on Bartholomew's face left little room for doubt.

"You were in a bad way when I found you," Professor Stark said gently. "Your ribs had punctured your lung. You were bleeding internally. If we hadn't arrived when we did…"

He didn't finish.

He didn't need to.

The implication hung in the air like a noose.

Michael shivered. He hadn't realized how close he'd come to death. Never in his wildest thoughts would he have imagined something like this happening—especially not within the supposedly safe walls of Arcadia Academy.

But denial wouldn't change the truth.

And that truth was bitter.

He was weak—far too weak.

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