Varik Verilion lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his quarters.
A crack split the stone above him—one line branching into three near the pillar. He counted them every night. He had done so for years.
They never changed.
Neither did he.
A pill rested on the table beside his bed. White. Smooth. Anonymous.
He did not hesitate.
Hesitation belonged to people who still believed outcomes mattered.
He swallowed.
The soul-numbing pill dissolved slowly, bitterness spreading across his tongue, sinking deep before his mind could resist. Not strong enough to intoxicate. Just enough to quiet.
Efficient.
He rose, pulled on his robe, and stepped into the corridor. His movements were steady, measured—practiced to the point of deception.
Anyone watching would have mistaken it for calm.
He had learned long ago how to look functional.
"Young master."
The voice came from behind him—old, cautious, burdened with restraint. Steven stood at the far end of the corridor, lantern raised. The flickering light carved deeper lines into his face, turning concern into something heavier.
"You're out late," the old man said. "Where are you going?"
"The lake."
Steven frowned. "Alone?"
Varik adjusted his sleeve. "I want to see it."
"The night is heavy," Steven warned. "It isn't safe."
Varik stopped.
Then he turned.
"Do you really think," he asked quietly, "that anyone would bother harming me?"
Steven opened his mouth—then closed it.
Hierarchy demanded caution.
Experience demanded honesty.
"You are still a member of the main family," he said at last. "Even now."
Varik smiled.
The expression reached his lips. Nowhere else.
"There are two kinds of people the world leaves alone," he said.
"The strongest—and the weakest."
Steven shook his head. "The weak are harmed the most."
"No," Varik replied. "The weakest are ignored."
He stepped past him.
"Don't follow me."
Steven bowed. "Understood."
The lantern light receded. Varik didn't look back.
Steven remained where he was long after the footsteps vanished.
He told himself it wasn't his place.
That he was a servant, not family.
Neither thought held.
In five years, he had watched the boy shrink—not in body, but inwardly. Letters returned unopened. Hope learning to die quietly.
Fifteen years old.
Dormant.
No resonance. No authority. Rejected by the academy. Abandoned by his mother.
Steven had lived over a century. He had seen sects rot from the inside, prodigies burn out before forty, geniuses decay into tyrants. He understood how this world worked.
Which was exactly why this unsettled him.
Soul-numbing pills.
Once you started, you didn't stop.
"It was inevitable," he muttered. "That's what this world calls mercy."
Varik's marriage annulment had been public. Efficient. Surgical.
You have nothing left to offer.
Steven exhaled.
"No one harms the weakest," he said to the empty corridor.
"Because there is nothing to take."
He did not follow.
The lake lay still.
A sheet of black glass reflecting a sky that had never cared about human timing.
Varik sat at its edge, knees drawn up, fingers pressing into damp soil.
"So you knew," he murmured.
"Of course you did."
The laugh that escaped him collapsed before it could become real.
Pitiful.
That was the word, wasn't it?
He stared at his reflection—pale, hollow-eyed. A face people looked past without guilt.
"What choice did I have?" he asked the water.
He had trained. Endured. Bent. Swallowed pride until humiliation became routine. Chased approval like oxygen—mother, father, elders.
Five years.
Not a single letter answered.
"I thought effort was enough," he said quietly. "How stupid."
His fingers clenched.
Love wasn't given.
It was exchanged.
Parents protected children who justified the investment. Sects protected cultivators who strengthened the sect. Kings protected nations that kept them kings.
Trade. Always trade.
"And I had nothing to trade."
The realization didn't hurt anymore. It had already finished its work.
Death would end the accounting.
But beneath the numbness, something shifted.
Not rage—at first.
Pressure.
A thing denied expression for so long it had become dense.
Heavy.
He stood.
"If you were talentless like me," he said to the silent world, voice shaking,
"would you dare say the things you said?"
His breath quickened.
"All of you—arrogant because you were lucky. Cruel because it cost nothing."
"I exist," he said. "I'm alive. I'm still here."
The words surprised him.
"I don't want to end," he admitted hoarsely.
"I want to move. I want to walk. I want to dominate."
Silence.
"No one is coming," he whispered. "Not in this life."
His hands trembled—not weakness.
Exhaustion.
"I hate that I need you," he said. "Resources. Protection. People."
His chest tightened.
"I begged my mother in those letters."
"I begged my father to let me stay."
The memory burned.
"They kept me only because discarding me would stain their reputation."
His jaw tightened.
"And my mother…"
He swallowed.
"She never cared."
All those words.
The promises.
The love offered like a bribe.
Pathetic.
The word landed cleanly.
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew the remaining pills from his sleeve.
White against his palm.
He scattered them into the water.
They sank without a trace.
"I don't want peace," he said.
"I want leverage."
The word felt alive.
Dangerous.
"I should have blackmailed her," he whispered.
"Threatened exposure. Taken the money."
A humorless smile flickered.
"They care about reputation more than blood."
His voice cracked.
"I need power. Money. Authority."
Then the truth:
"But I can't get it."
The pressure finally broke.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" he shouted.
"Disappear?"
The night answered.
Not with sound.
But with intent.
Ding.
Varik froze.
Text unfolded before his eyes—cold, precise.
[Helplessness detected.]
[Conditions met.]
[System awakening initiated.]
His pulse spiked.
"This is a hallucination."
[Physique detected: Absolute Neutral Body.]
[Compatibility confirmed.]
"What does that even—"
[Cognitive assessment initiated.]
[Baseline insufficient.]
[Neurological anomaly detected.]
[Searching for optimal external cognition pattern…]
"What are you doing to me?"
[Match located.]
[Installing neurological framework: Zarik Wallace.]
"Who—"
Pain never came.
Something worse did.
The sensation of being overwritten.
Varik collapsed.
Consciousness folded inward—not into darkness, but into something colder.
The lake remained still.