Ash watched the blood fall.
A single drop of crimson slipped from his finger and landed on the polished white sheath of the sword, a soft soundless patter lost in the still air of his room.
He held his breath, expecting something—anything. A pulse of mana, a flicker of light, a tremble, an echo in his mind.
But the blood didn't vanish. It didn't absorb. It slid down the smooth white surface of the sword like water on glass… and dropped onto the carpet with a muted splat.
Nothing happened.
He blinked.
Don't tell me…
A bad premonition arose in his heart, he drew another drop of blood and let it fall. Again. And again. Desperation clung to his movements like a shadow.
Still, the sword lay still—beautiful and inert.
Unmoving.
Unfeeling.
"FUCK!!!"
His scream exploded into the room like lightning breaking sky—but the air swallowed it. The soundproof walls of the 1S class dorm didn't echo it back. It was like his voice died the second it left his throat.
The room was dimly lit by a single mana crystal, casting soft light across the pale floor and walls. It reflected in the silver edge of the sword, making it look almost ethereal.
"Isn't what I'm feeling emotion?!" he shouted again, voice cracking under the weight of his fury. "Then why the fuck is it not bonding with me?!"
He sank to his knees from seating position.
Hands flat on the floor. Head bowed.
Exhausted.
So fucking tired.
From the moment he'd awakened in this world, it had been a constant game of endurance—catching up, pretending, surviving. He got the runes, sure. But every single one left scars.
When he acquired the Rune of Stability, he was humiliated by Melissia, dismissed like trash. He'd swallowed it, thinking he could afford to be ignored. He let it go, thinking—it's fine, no one's watching. Just a little dent to the ego. He could handle that.
When he claimed the Rune of Life, he paid for it in pain, beaten until his vision went black, bones cracked beneath Ethan's fists.
The Rune of Knowledge? He had to yell in public to keep Ray from entering the library, make a scene, endure the quiet ridicule of an elite class that never stopped sneering behind his back.
He'd endured it all. Not because he was weak—but because he believed it was worth it.
He believed that if he stayed low-ranked, no one would mind him. But again—he was wrong.
They mocked him for being last-ranked. For still being in Class 1S.
He let them. Being last—that was part of the plan.
But this? This wasn't.
He was never meant to land in 1S.
He chose to be underestimated.
Or so he thought.
Then came the Rune of Balance, born from blood and battle. He faced a demon, not metaphorical but real—fangs, claws, and darkness. And still, he won. He survived by luck, by rage, by instinct.
All because he impersonated the Whisperer, stirred the silent waters, he had manipulated things behind the scenes. He thought he was clever.
But everything he touched turned on him.
Everything he had done had worked against him.
But every step forward left more pieces of him behind.
Every victory tasted like ash.
He was tired.
So damn tired.
He bit his lip—hard enough to draw blood. It slid down his chin in a slow crimson thread, only to be healed a moment later by the Rune of Life.
I did everything right.
I endured everything.
So why—why the fuck—does it feel like I'm being punished?!
The worst part wasn't the pain. It wasn't the humiliation.
It was this.
The slow fading.
He used to feel things.
Rage.
Joy.
Embarrassment.
Excitement.
Now, his heart still reacted, but his face never followed.
His expressions had stopped keeping up with his thoughts.
When he smiled—it was only in his mind.
When he cried—it was only in his chest.
He hadn't cried in months.
He hadn't smiled with meaning.
Not really.
Not once.
His reflection stared back at him with empty eyes, no matter what he felt behind them.
And now, even a soul-bound sword refused to see him.
He didn't realize when it got this worse. Maybe after returning from Iron Hold. Maybe after too many sacrifices and not enough wins.
He had never looked into the mirrors that much before, he knew he was not that good-looking, But lately, he caught glimpses—and every time, the reflection looked… wrong.
Eyes that didn't blink.
A mouth that stayed still even when he was screaming inside.
His skin, pale and flawless after two reconstructions, looked like it belonged to a doll.
Even now, kneeling, teeth clenched, rage exploding through his every nerve—his face didn't move.
No scowl.
No sneer.
No tear.
He looked like a statue.
A ghost screaming in silence.
"WHHHYYY—!"
He'd manipulated things. He had schemes. He took risks. He danced along the line of disaster.
But this?
This was different.
The sword didn't just reject his blood. It rejected him.
He pressed his forehead against the cold sheath, gripping the blade with both hands, as if trying to force it to understand.
"I've given everything," he whispered.
"I've fought. I've lied. I've suffered. And I didn't complain."
"I know what I'm fighting for…"
The words caught in his throat.
"I just want… enough strength to protect one person."
That was all.
I didn't ask for much.
I never wanted to be a hero.
I just wanted enough power to protect someone…
Just enough to stop this world from taking the one person I care about.
So why—why won't it give me even that much?
He looked like someone shouting in a dream—lips parted, voice lost, soul unraveling in a room sealed off from the world. His body trembled, his fingers curled against the floor, and yet... not a single tear dared to fall.
His face remained unmoved. A mask, flawless and still.
Ash cried that day—but not in the way people usually do. His sorrow didn't spill through sobs or tears. It welled up inside, heavy and silent, like an ocean sealed behind glass.
He was tired. More than tired. Exhaustion wasn't just in his limbs—it was in his breath, in his bones, in the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat that felt more mechanical than alive.
Everything felt too heavy now.
The expectations.
The lies.
The role he forced himself to play.
He had always told himself he could carry it all—that as long as he stayed focused, as long as he held out, everything would fall into place. That there was purpose in his suffering. That the pain had meaning.
But today... it was too much.
A single thought clawed at the back of his mind, wild and desperate.
Why not just stop pretending?
Why not reveal everything?
Take Elysia's hand, tell her the truth, and run away from this cruel, chaotic world that never let him rest. Just... disappear.
He could. Couldn't he?
But even as the thought tried to bloom, it withered. He couldn't entertain it for long.
Because deep down, he still believed that staying away from her was the better choice.
Not because he didn't want to see her.
But because he didn't want to taint her.
He was afraid.
Terrified of what would happen if he confronted his past.
Terrified of the guilt that still festered beneath the surface, the kind of guilt that no one could see—but he carried it every moment, like a weight on his soul.
He imagined it, sometimes. The confrontation. Apologizing. Telling her the truth. Falling to his knees, voice trembling.
And he could see her smile, soft and sad, as she said:
"It was not your fault, Ash. It was my choice. I chose to protect you, on my own, don't blame yourself."
But those words would only break him further.
Because he didn't believe them.
Because he had always blamed himself.
He always would.
Now, with his emotions fading like the last echoes of a song, fear gnawed at the one hope he had left.
Who could ever love someone like me... if I can't feel anymore?
If I can't cry... how will she know I'm hurting?
If I can't smile... how will she know I'm happy to see her?
If I can't show it... how can I ever show her my love?
He buried his face in his hands, cold palms pressing into eyes that refused to tear.
The sword lay beside him on the floor. Its pristine white sheath reflected the dim glow of the mana light hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a relic. Something sacred.
But it had rejected him.
Just like everything else.
In its polished sheath, he saw the same empty eyes staring back.
Ash curled into himself, muscles tense and aching, mind spiraling through everything he had lost, everything he had tried to hold together. He stayed like that for minutes.
Maybe hours.
The room was silent.
There were no words left to say.
There was no one to listen.
And eventually, worn down by sorrow that couldn't scream, and grief that had no voice, Ash slipped into unconsciousness.
Sleep didn't come as comfort.
It came as surrender.
And the last thing he saw before his mind faded was the sword's pale glow reflecting in his empty eyes.
***
A/N: Quick question for y'all—would you prefer another mass release soon, or should I focus on dropping extra chapters for power stones instead? It's a bit tough to juggle both at once, so I wanna know what you'd rather see 👀 Lemme know what you're vibin' with!