The past was not a distant memory for Jhin Rothchy. It lived in him—rotting, breathing, pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat that never let him rest.
He had always known he was weaker than his sister.
Estelle Rothchy, the shining prodigy of the family, had been born with grace in her step and fire in her veins. Even at the age of twelve, she moved with a poise that made her seem older, stronger—untouchable. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight; her violet eyes pierced through lies and shadows alike. When she wielded mana, it was as if the very laws of nature obeyed her.
And then there was Jhin—small, quiet, often sick. At eleven, his silver hair lacked the luster of his mother's, and his crimson eyes burned not with fire, but with confusion and quiet longing. He never hated Estelle—not truly. He admired her. Worshipped her, even. But in silence, he bled with a wound no one saw: the shame of always falling short.
And yet… with time, he had accepted it. She was the heir. The chosen one. He, the shadow walking behind her brilliance. It didn't hurt anymore—not like before. He had learned to love her strength, even if it reminded him of his weakness.
That was before everything shattered.
It was supposed to be a simple visit—an excursion to a nearby village under the Rothchy domain. Estelle had wanted to survey the land; Jhin followed, like he always did. The village was quiet, simple. Children played with sticks, their laughter innocent. The air smelled of baked bread, warm wood, and wildflowers.
Jhin had wandered into the forest nearby, drawn by the quiet rustling of leaves. He chased a fluttering light, some harmless wisp of mana or a dancing insect, he couldn't tell. But then—
Smoke.
A sudden, acrid scent of burning.
Screams.
They came sharp and raw—human, desperate.
He turned back. He ran. Branches cut at his face. His breath grew short.
And then—he saw it.
The village was burning.
Creatures—tall, horned, monstrous—moved like nightmares. Their claws tore through flesh, their growls echoed like drums of war. Blood painted the cobblestones.
And in the center of it—
Estelle.
Wielding mana like a goddess of wrath, her silver hair whipping in the wind, eyes glowing violet. She tore through the horde, her voice a cry of defiance. She fought like fire given form—untamed, radiant.
"Estelle!" he cried.
She turned—eyes wide—and without hesitation, thrust her hand out. A magical bind locked Jhin's body in place, pinning him to a tree.
"No—no, please! Let me help!" he screamed, struggling.
But she had already turned back to the fray.
From where he stood—trapped, powerless—he watched her.
He watched as her blade met claws. As she screamed in fury. As she pushed beyond her limits.
And then—he saw it.
A shadow above her.
A claw—long, blackened, and sharp—pierced through her chest from behind. The sound it made… a sickening, wet crack. Blood poured from her lips. Her mana faltered.
"NO!!" Jhin's scream ripped from his soul.
Estelle turned, just barely. Her eyes locked with his. Her lips moved—she said something. But he couldn't hear. His own sobbing drowned the world.
Blood streamed down his face—not from wounds, but from his eyes. A rare magical phenomenon—mana-induced hemorrhage—triggered by overwhelming grief.
She collapsed.
Her body hit the ground with a soft thud.
Lifeless.
Still.
Everything inside Jhin shattered.
The magic holding him in place faded with her death. He fell to his knees, crawling toward her, voice broken. "Estelle… no… please… wake up…"
But there was no warmth left in her.
Only the cold of death.
The monsters had vanished by the time help arrived—burned away by Estelle's final spell, or perhaps they simply fled.
A woman arrived—Seon, Naoko's right hand.
She saw the destruction, the bodies.
She saw Jhin, kneeling in the dirt, cradling what remained of his sister.
She said nothing.
The silence was the beginning of hell.
---
They returned to the Rothchy manor with Estelle's corpse wrapped in dark velvet. The grand silver gates opened without a sound. The hall was cold. Silent. Expectant.
Naoko Rothchy stood at the top of the staircase, wrapped in black silk, her silver hair falling straight over her back like liquid steel. Her eyes—mirror-like and merciless—locked onto the coffin.
She said nothing.
Not a single tear fell.
Jhin stood behind Seon, barely breathing. His clothes were bloodstained. His hands still trembled. When his mother finally looked at him—really looked—her gaze was empty. As though measuring an object, not a son.
He opened his mouth to speak.
She walked past him.
Later that night, she called for him.
He was brought to her chamber. The light was dim. The air smelled of cold iron.
Naoko stood by the window, arms crossed.
"You watched her die," she said.
Jhin's heart ached. "I—I couldn't move… she used a spell. I—"
Naoko turned slowly. Her hand moved like lightning.
**SLAP.**
The strike knocked him to the ground. Blood filled his mouth.
She knelt beside him.
"Don't you dare use excuses," she hissed. "You are my son. My blood. If you cannot save what is yours, then you are nothing."
Jhin's vision swam.
"I tried," he whispered.
She leaned closer, silver eyes boring into his.
**"Being my son is both a blessing… and a curse."**
**"It means you will never be allowed to be weak."**
She stood.
"You are the heir now. There is no one else. If you wish to survive in this world, you will burn everything soft inside you."
She left.
The door closed behind her.
In the darkness, Jhin lay still.
The pain didn't come from her slap.
It came from the hole inside him. The space where his sister had been. The space her death carved open.
That night, the boy died.
And something else began to grow in his place
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I know there are writing mistakes in some chapters but my hands hurt and my fingers hurt from writing and also I have been writing this novel for a month and because I am lazy I did not like to search for the mistakes I wrote while I was feeling sleepy so as long as you understand the story this is a good thing