Chapter 15 - Nathaniel Hunt (3)

'My name is Nathaniel Hunt.'

'Wait no that's not right. My name is Nathan Lannark'.

The names clashed in his mind like two swords locked in combat.

He blinked, his vision swimming as the world around him came into focus.

The ground beneath him was cold, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

His head throbbed, and fragments of memories—no, *two lives*—flooded his mind.

He was Nathan Lannark, a sixteen year old boy who had died in his old world, reincarnated inside his favorite novel, into the body of Nathan Hunt, the illegitimate son of the Marshal of the Terran military.

And also the final antagonist of the novel.

But now, as he lay there, the memories of both lives collided, merging into one chaotic stream.

Then the first memory began playing.

He was a child, no older than six, standing in the grand hallway of the Hunt estate.

The marble floors gleamed under the chandeliers, but the opulence felt cold, distant.

His father, Marshal Joseph Hunt, strode past him without a glance, his boots clicking sharply against the floor.

Nathan—little Nathan—reached out, his small hand trembling.

"Father?" he whispered.

The Marshal didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head.

Nathan's hand fell to his side, his chest tightening.

Behind him, he heard the mocking laughter of his half-siblings, Theo and Stella.

"Look at him," Stella sneered. "The bastard thinks he's actually one of us."

"He's not even fit to clean our boots," Theo added, shoving Nathan to the ground.

The servants walked by, their eyes averted, as if Nathan were nothing more than a stain on the floor. Even they knew their place was above his.

The memories shifted fast forwarding, but darker now.

Nathan was older, maybe ten, standing in the kitchen as his stepmother, Lady Evangeline, loomed over him. Her eyes were cold, her lips curled into a sneer.

"Useless," she spat, slapping him across the face. "You're a disgrace to this family. If it were up to me, you'd have been thrown out with the trash where you belong."

Nathan didn't cry. He had learned early on that tears only made it worse. He stood there, his cheek stinging, his fists clenched at his sides.

And so the memories continued playing out. But not all of the memories were just painful.

Afterall there was a silver lining for Nathan.

And that silver lining was Natasha Denoir.

She was a friend, and the only one who treated him like a person.

She was the second eldest daughter of the Denoir house. One of the highest ranking houses under the Hunts.

They played like kids, running through the training grounds, wooden swords in hand. Natasha's laughter rang out, bright and clear, as she dodged his clumsy swing.

"You're too slow, Nathan!" she teased, tapping him on the shoulder with her sword.

He grinned, chasing after her. For a moment, he forgot about the neglect, the abuse, the insults.

For a moment, he was just a kid, playing with his best friend.

The memories fast-forwarded.

Nathan was older now, fifteen, standing in the combat arena of the Hunt family. His instructor, a grizzled veteran named Captain Graves, barked orders.

"Faster, Nathan! You think your enemies will wait for you to catch your breath?"

Nathan gritted his teeth, pushing himself harder. He had something to prove—not to his family, but to himself.

And to her as well. His best friend.

He trained relentlessly, his body growing stronger, his skills sharper.

But no matter how good he became, it was never enough.

His father never acknowledged him. His stepmother never stopped her abuse.

His siblings never stopped their taunts.

The memories faded, and Nathan's vision cleared.

He was back in the present, lying on the ground, his body aching. The Fantasian prisoner stood over him, a smirk on his face.

"Hm?". The man raised an eyebrow in confusion at the change in the air around him.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Nathan rose slowly, his movements deliberate.

His eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now burned with a quiet intensity.

"Nathan Lannark," he said, his voice low and steady. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "No—Nathaniel Hunt."

The prisoner's smirk faltered. Something about Nathan had changed.

The air around him crackled with an unspoken power, a quiet resolve that hadn't been there before.

Nathan straightened, his gaze locking onto the prisoner's. "Let's finish this."