The transition from the training hall to his medical suite was a blur of frantic voices and the sharp, metallic scent of his own blood.
Lucian found the entire ordeal exhausting. He didn't mind the wound, in his other life, he had survived being flayed alive for research or just being killed by others.
Compared to that, a jagged gash from a training drone was merely a minor inconvenience.
The family physician, a man who had spent decades treating the Thorne family's various injuries, stood by the bed with a tray of glowing surgical instruments.
His hands, usually as steady as a mountain, were trembling slightly. It wasn't the blood that bothered him, it was the patient.
"Young Master, I'm going to administer an anesthetic now" the doctor whispered, reaching for a blue-tinted vial.
"The jagged nature of the metal caused a deep tear. The stitching process will be... excruciating without it."
Lucian turned his head slightly, looking at the vial with a dull, vacant gaze.
"Don't bother," Lucian said.
The doctor paused, the vial hovering in mid-air. "Pardon? Young Master, the tissue damage is significant. I have to clean out the debris before I can close the wound. You won't be able to stay still."
"Just do it," Lucian replied, his voice a low, dry rasp. "The pain isn't the problem. The constant chattering about it is. It's... annoying. Just finish it so I can sleep."
Hans, standing at the foot of the bed, felt a cold chill settle in his chest. He watched as the doctor, hesitant and pale, began the procedure.
The room was silent except for the soft clink of metal and the wet sound of the needle piercing flesh. Lucian didn't scream. He didn't even grip the bedsheets.
He lay perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing rhythmic and slow. To him, the sensation of the needle was just another 'noise', a physical frequency he had long ago learned to tune out.
The doctor's forehead was slick with sweat by the time he tied off the last suture. He had never seen a human, let alone a man known for his low pain tolerance and fragile ego, endure such a thing without a single flinch.
It was as if the man on the bed were already a corpse.
The doors slid open, and the Marquis stepped in.
He didn't look like the iron-fisted ruler of the house. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost. He stood by the bedside, his shadow falling over Lucian's pale frame. Behind him,
Silas stood in the doorway, his face shadowed, and Lily sat in the corner, her eyes red and puffy from crying.
"The doctor says you'll recover within the week," the Marquis began, his voice uncharacteristically thick. He looked at the heavy bandaging on Lucian's shoulder.
Lucian didn't respond. He didn't even look at his father.
"You saved the future of this house, Lucian," the Marquis continued, stepping closer. "I... I misjudged you. I thought you had acted like this to antagonize us. To see you act with such selflessness... it changes things."
The Marquis took a breath, as if bracing himself. "I will restore your full allowance. I'll even provide you with a personal guard and the best artifacts the treasury has to offer. If there is anything you want, anything at all name it. Consider this my thanks."
It was the offer of a lifetime. For the 'old' Lucian, this would have been the ultimate victory, a chance to return to luxury and power.
"I don't want it," Lucian said.
The Marquis froze. "What?"
"The money. The title. The guards. I don't want any of it," Lucian repeated. His voice was flat, devoid of any spite or hidden agenda. It was the voice of a man declining a glass of water he wasn't thirsty for.
"Why?" the Marquis asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "You've spent years fighting for my approval, for the inheritance, for the status. Now that I am giving it to you freely, why do you refuse?"
Lucian didn't answer. He simply turned his head away, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the high-tech skyline in hues of bruised purple and orange.
To Lucian, the Marquis's gratitude was just another heavy layer of responsibility he didn't want to wear.
A restored allowance meant he would have to attend parties. A guardsman meant he would be watched. Everything his father offered was just more chains.
The Marquis waited, expecting a lecture or a demand for a higher price. But Lucian remained silent, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky.
He didn't give a damn about the inheritance or the apology. He just wanted the room to be empty again.
"Lucian..." the Marquis started, but the words died in his throat.
He realized that for the first time in his life, he had no leverage over his son. You cannot bribe a man who wants nothing.
You cannot threaten a man who doesn't fear death.
Silas watched from the doorway, his heart hammering. He saw the way Lucian looked at the sky, the way his eyes is devoud of anything it made his own skin crawl.
He realized with a terrifying clarity that his brother hadn't stood in front of that drone to be a hero. He had stood there because he simply didn't care if he lived or died.
"Leave him," the Marquis finally whispered, his shoulders slumping. "He needs... rest."
As the family filed out, Lily slipped past them and left a small, cold compress on the side of his bed. She didn't say anything, she just touched his hand briefly before scurrying out.
Lucian lay in the dark, the throbbing in his shoulder a dull, annoying rhythm. He had tried to find an exit, and instead, he had built himself a pedestal. He closed his eyes, the silence of the room finally settling in.
'Just a little more,' he thought. 'Just a few more years of this, and then surely... surely it will be over.'