A Worried Grandma

Noah wasn't like the others. 

From the moment he came into this world, he had been different. 

Diagnosed with an empty physique, he had been born with no elemental affinity toward mana.

It was unheard of. 

Even beasts had an affinity—fire, water, wind, earth, something. But Noah? Nothing.

The healers had explained it as a rare condition, their words were clinical and detached.

To me, it had felt like a curse. Not for myself, but for Noah. I had seen the pitying looks and heard the whispered conversations.

"As if he's not a child of this universe." 

Mana was the lifeblood of this world, and without it, Noah had been set apart, struggling to find his place in a world that seemed determined to reject him. 

The ones who absorb the mana inside their cores and dabble in different mana arts are known as Mages, while those who use it to refine their bodies are known as Body Cultivators.

Unfortunately, since Noah had no connection with this thing called mana because of his physique, he had no choice but to become a Hunter, a term given to those who integrate with a Hollow.

Hollows were remnants of the alien species that invaded Earth years ago. 

During the battle with Kalki, the alien species, humans discovered that the creature's innate abilities got stored in one of their body parts.

This body part is known as the hollow.

If one can properly extract the hollow from the creature's body and merge with it, they can tap into the creature's power and become something else entirely. 

But Hollows were a privilege reserved only for the wealthy and powerful.

The cost was astronomical. 

Even though we belonged to the direct line of the Romero House, since the boy's parents died... he had been stripped of his inherited wealth, and the only thing left with him was an old book my son and daughter-in-law had left for him. 

And since I had sided with the boy, those prideful brats of the Romero clan had started listening to me less and less. 

And so, Noah had struggled. 

A creak at the door yanked me from my thoughts. My heart leapt as I turned toward the sound.

"Noah?"

He stood in the doorway, rainwater pooling at his feet. His suit, once shining and carefully ironed, hung off him like a wet rag.

But it wasn't the state of his clothes that froze me in place.

It was him.

Bruises covered his pale skin, and one of his eyes was even swollen.

His lip was split, dried blood caking the corner of his mouth. His hands, scraped and raw, trembled as he clutched the doorframe for support.

And his eyes—those beautiful eyes...were empty?

"Noah!" I jumped, rushing forward. My heart pounded as I reached for him, my fingers trembling as I cupped his face.

"What happened to you?" I demanded, my voice breaking as I scanned him for more injuries. "Who did this to you?"

He flinched at my touch but didn't pull away. His gaze drifted past me, unfocused, as if he wasn't really here.

"Nothing," he mumbled, his voice so soft I almost didn't hear him. "It's fine, Grandma."

"Fine?" I echoed, my voice rising. "You call this fine? Look at you! You're hurt, Noah! You're—"

My throat tightened, cutting off my words. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes as I guided him inside, ignoring the water dripping onto the floor.

"Sit down," I ordered gently, leading him to the couch. He collapsed onto it, his body sagging as though all the strength had left him.

I fetched a towel and the first aid kit, my movements frantic as I tried to steady my hands. Returning to his side, I began dabbing at the blood on his face, my fingers trembling as I cleaned his wounds.

He flinched but didn't say a word. His gaze remained fixed on his lap, his hands resting limply by his sides.

"Noah," I said softly, my voice wavering. "Talk to me. Please."

He didn't respond. The silence between us was heavy and oppressive, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the window.

"Today's your birthday," I tried, my voice cracking. "Do you remember? You were supposed to come home early so we could celebrate."

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and hollow.

"Celebrate what?" he muttered, his voice filled with disdain. "Another year of being a failure? Another year of being...this?"

His words struck me like a physical blow. I froze, the towel slipping from my fingers.

"You are not a failure," I said firmly, my voice trembling with emotion.

"You are my grandson, Noah. And you are worth more than you could ever imagine."

The boy let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists.

His shoulders hunched forward, and for a moment, he looked so small, so fragile, that it broke my heart.

"I'm tired, Grandma," he whispered;

I don't think I can live like this any longer.

Noah did not even seem to realize what he had spoken.

His voice was so soft, so raw, that it sent a shiver down my old spine.

And then, a single tear escaped the corner of his eye, sliding down his bruised cheek, falling onto my lap.

My breath almost stopped as I tried pulling him into my arms. He didn't resist, his body collapsing onto mine like a child seeking comfort.

"I know, sweetheart," I murmured, stroking his wet hair. "I know."

But suddenly, he pulled away, standing abruptly.

His movements were unsteady as he took a step back.

"Noah?" I called, startled, reaching out for him, but he shook his head, his face pale and hopeless.

"I need to…" he began, his voice trailing off. Without finishing his sentence, he turned and bolted up the stairs.

The door to his room slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house.

Moments later, I heard it—soft, muffled sobs that pierced my heart like a dagger. 

I stood frozen for a moment, my hand hanging in midair as I stared at the staircase. Every fibre of my being wanted to follow him, to hold him, to console him. But a part of me understood that he needed space. 

I sighed, wiping at my misty eyes with the corner of my shawl, turning back to the living room. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, making my chest tighten with unspoken worry.

I clenched the edges of my shawl with trembling fingers.

"Your petite Grandma will let you be, my baby boy," I whispered to the empty room, my voice shaking.

"Just this once."

***

--------------------------

The door slammed shut behind me, echoing through the small, dimly lit room.

My breaths came in ragged intervals as I pressed my back against the door, my hands trembling. 

The faint scent of the cigarette still stuck to my skin, mixing with the rancid iron-like tang of dried blood. 

I scanned the room, my sanctuary and my prison. It was a far cry from the grandeur of the Romero estate, where I had spent my earlier years.

A single window with its frame slightly warped. It let the faint glow of moonlight in as the rain continued to pitter-patter.

The bed was pushed up against one corner, its sheets crumbled and unmade.

Beside it, a small nightstand held a flickering candle and a worn-out book with a cracked spine—the last gift my parents had given me.

Across the bed stood a plain wooden table and chair, scratched and weathered from years of use.

Crumpled pages were scattered across the table, some marked with hastily scribbled notes, others left blank.

A lone lantern hung from the ceiling, its light dim and uneven.

This wasn't my home. Not really.

This house—this tiny, weathered shell of a place—was where Grandma and I had ended up after being ousted from the Romero estate.

Stripped of our inheritance and banished to the outskirts of the Von Stien Empire, we were given this house as though it were some grand favour. 

The Romero clan had wanted me gone, out of sight and out of mind. 

Grandma hadn't protested. I remembered the day we left, her frail hands clutching mine as we walked away from the gates of the estate. 

She had whispered soothing words to me, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions I could see swirling in her eyes. 

She didn't care about the wealth or the power we were leaving behind. All she cared about was keeping me safe. 

And now, here we were, in a city where no one even knew the origins of my name.

There were many with the surname Romero, after all—

But there was only one which came under the 7 Commandments. 

A title given to the Earth's 7 mightiest clans.

The weight of it all pressed down on me as I slid my back down the wall, trying to steady my breathing. 

My fingers clenched the smooth fabric of my shirt, pulling it tightly against my bruised chest.

I tried to fight it—the lump rising in my throat, the sting in my eyes—but it was no use.

"I'm tired, Grandma," I had said downstairs, the words slipping out before I could stop them. But I hadn't just meant tonight. I was tired of everything.

I buried my face in my hands, the warmth of tears slipping down my cheek as it traced a path over my cuts.

My knees drew up to my chest, and I hugged them tightly… as if that single action could hold me together.

But it hadn't.

A choked sob escaped me, braking the delicate silence of the room. The emotions I had bottled up for so long—grief, anger, guilt—spilt out in broken gasps.

My shoulders shook, and my breath held itself as the tears came in waves, wetting the fabric of my sleeves.

The walls of the room seemed to close in on me, the shadows growing darker and heavier. The small, flickering flame of the candle on the nightstand was the only light in the room, but even it felt distant, unreachable.

My body trembled as I sat there, curled up on the floor, the cold from the wooden boards seeping into my skin. 

My head rested against my knees, and for a fleeting moment, I wished I could disappear into the darkness…

Away from the pain, the memories, and the crushing weight of the expectations I could never meet.

Eventually, exhaustion took hold. My sobs quietened, replaced by the steady rhythm of my breathing.

My eyelids grew heavy, and the room blurred as sleep overtook me.

The world faded, leaving only the faint scent of rain and the distant echo of what my parents told me just before they had died in the car accident.

That they had found the cure to my illness. 

***