When Ethan saw the man, apart from stopping in his tracks, he had no other reaction. After all, to everyone else, the man was his father—his blood, his guardian, the head of one of the most powerful families in the kingdom. But to Ethan? He was a stranger. A stiff, well-dressed ghost given flesh and breath—just another game character dragged into the real world.
The silence between them stretched long, almost unnaturally so. A cold breeze whistled between the walls of the stone courtyard, brushing against Ethan's torn shirt and the still-raw skin beneath it. His clothes smelled faintly of smoke and dried blood, the reminders of a day that nearly ended his life. And yet, standing before the man who was supposed to protect him, Ethan felt absolutely nothing.
The man's eyes—steel-gray and emotionless—lingered on Ethan's face. He didn't blink. Didn't frown. Didn't even flinch at the sight of his son's half-melted cheek, a grotesque scar that now split his once-handsome face in two. Ethan noticed his gaze. Noted it. Logged it. But kept walking as if nothing happened.
As he passed, the man finally spoke.
"From today onward," the man said, his voice level, calm, and cruelly clear, "you are not my son."
The words didn't echo. They rang—as if the very stones under their feet carried the sound across the estate.
"I revoke your Hargrave surname," the man continued, his tone gaining weight with every syllable. "Ethan is now forbidden from using the Hargrave name—in this life and the afterlife."
There was a subtle hum that followed. A ripple. A magical binding embedded in the declaration, heard not just by the guards nearby, but by everyone within the manor walls. Hidden runes glowed faintly along the stone arches. Even the grass seemed to still.
A moment later, distant gasps followed. Murmurs. Whispers. Then the frantic scratching of quills.
Some journalists had been outside the gates, lingering as always, desperate for gossip about the Hargrave family. Today, they hit gold. A disownment—public, humiliating, and from the family patriarch himself? That wasn't news. That was history.
In an instant, quills danced across parchment. One reporter nearly dropped his inkpot in excitement. This wasn't just a scandal—it was a fracture in the kingdom's strongest house.
Inside the manor, the reactions were just as chaotic.
The Elders froze. One even dropped his teacup. In all the centuries of the Hargrave bloodline, never had the head of the family cast out his own kin without consulting the council. No secret votes. No warnings. No debates.
Ethan, however, wasn't surprised. Not even a little.
After all, to him, the man wasn't his father. He was a glorified NPC.
Behind Ethan, Charlotte's brows pinched tightly. Her heart beat faster. Her thoughts raced. All this because of a fight between Ethan and Amelia?
She couldn't believe it. Couldn't wrap her head around how something so small could erupt into something so destructive. This wasn't just parental disappointment—this was calculated exile. A surgical removal of a branch from a family tree.
Her gaze drifted across the manor lawn. Not one person offered Ethan a glance of sympathy. No servants wept. No guards questioned the order. Instead, they were all crowded around Ethan's older brother—rushing to assist, treating him like a fragile heirloom. A healer gently examined his arms, another checked for bruises that didn't even exist.
Charlotte's fists clenched. She felt something unexpected stir in her—compassion.
He's just a kid, she thought. Fifteen, maybe. And yet he's treated like… nothing. Like garbage tossed from a banquet table.
She glanced at Ethan again, remembering the dossier she'd been handed weeks ago. Assassinate him, they'd said. He's unstable, they warned. A threat. A liability.
But now?
Now he just looked alone.
Still, the memory of her sister flashed through her mind, dragging her pity back into its cage. She forced her heart to harden again.
Then Ethan stopped.
His eyes widened, and he suddenly grunted in pain, stumbling forward. He clutched his chest like someone had stabbed him. His breathing turned ragged, shoulders trembling with effort. His knees buckled slightly.
Charlotte moved instinctively but stopped herself. She watched, confused, tense.
Ethan's eyes glazed slightly. His hand still pressed tightly over his heart. His thoughts weren't here.
This pain... it's not mine, he realized, staring blankly at the grass below him. It's from him—the former Ethan. A piece of his soul was still lingering…
He gasped.
He just wanted his father to acknowledge him… just once. But after hearing those words, that little wisp of his soul couldn't hold on any longer. It vanished.
For a while, Ethan remained crouched. The courtyard was still. When the pain subsided, and the air returned to his lungs, he rose slowly. His father was already gone—just like that. No lingering glance. No farewell.
Charlotte quickly wiped the trace of a smile from her face and followed behind as Ethan walked into the manor.
Back in his room, the last shred of the former Ethan's soul faded, and something shifted inside him.
Memories surged in—raw, painful, disjointed. Every moment the old Ethan had suffered, every humiliation, every heartbreak—it all unraveled in Ethan's mind like a twisted documentary.
He stood still for a while, letting it pass.
Then, with mechanical calm, he changed out of his torn clothes. He packed a simple backpack with clothes, cash, and a few essentials. Without a word, he turned from the room and walked straight to the family infirmary.
There, he took every potion he could carry—stamina, healing, even minor buffs—and chugged three on the spot.
Scabs peeled from his skin. The red, angry scar across his face loosened and fell off in a single piece like old wax. The burn healed. Muscle fibers reknit.
His body straightened. His steps grew stronger.
He didn't look back at Charlotte. Not once.
I need to leave, he thought. I need to get somewhere they can't reach me. Not yet.
The academy.
It was the only place that made sense. The family wouldn't dare strike there, not openly. Not unless they wanted to provoke the other noble houses. And Charlotte couldn't protect him forever.
He remembered the first time the former Ethan enrolled. The bullies. The beatings. The cruel laughter. He remembered the hate, the helplessness.
He also remembered how his hands trembled when Amelia smiled and lied.
She'd declared they'd sworn to marry each other when they were kids—right in front of the court. When asked, Ethan had nodded. He had no choice. She'd threatened him just days before.
And the king, bound by politics and pride, accepted it. He didn't want a war with the Hargraves over a child's promise.
But then, Ethan remembered why the assassination happened. It wasn't about a marriage alone.
It was about power.
His elder brother had fallen for the princess. And as long as Ethan lived, he was an obstacle. A weak, disfigured obstacle.
But now, that obstacle had vanished—from the family tree, at least.
"The bastard planned this," Ethan muttered to himself. "He failed to kill me… so now they're clearing the path another way."
Charlotte heard him and leaned in slightly, curious.
Ethan's lips twisted into a grin.
"The princess might've spared me herself… but crippling me? That would've been enough. The family wouldn't bother healing a disgrace. No one marries a cripple, especially not royalty. Naturally, the princess would turn to my brother."
His laughter was low and bitter. "It's a perfect plan."
Charlotte's breath caught in her throat. He's figured it out… all of it.
"And if I had died in Ravenheart," Ethan went on, eyes narrowing, "the Hargraves would have used it as an excuse to wage war. Just to eliminate the young master there—another rival for the princess's hand."
He tapped his chin. "So, disowning me might still be part of their plan. They think I'll run to grandfather's house, or a cathedral. Maybe even Charlotte's place. They'll have traps waiting, just in case."
He paused.
"And if I try to return to the academy, they've probably sabotaged the route."
His eyes closed.
"In short… I'm already in my grave."