its better this way

Aurora pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply as if physically restraining the headache forming in her skull.

"So, let me get this straight…" she muttered, voice tight. "You're telling me that this thing—" she motioned toward the identical figure standing beside Zed, "—is another version of you?"

"Yes."

"And he's the one who single-handedly slaughtered seventy-three assassins last night?"

"Yes."

Aurora slowly exhaled through clenched teeth. Her eye twitched.

"Zed."

"Yes?"

"...What the hell?"

"Yes."

That was it.

Aurora grabbed his ear and twisted it.

"Stop yessing me and answer properly!" she snapped. "How the hell did he solo all of them?! You're still in Lesser Awakener state!"

Zed winced, trying to pry her fingers off. "Ow—ow—alright! We had an advantage!"

Aurora let go, arms crossed. "And what exactly was that?"

Zed rubbed his sore ear before nodding toward his copy. "He's… immortal."

Aurora's glare softened. "Excuse me?"

"He can't die unless I absorb him or order him to disappear."

Silence.

Aurora stared at him for a long moment. Then, ever so slowly, a grin stretched across her face.

"Oh," she murmured, eyes lighting up. "Oh, this is a blessing from the Devas!"

Before Zed could react, she clapped a hand on his shoulder, her entire demeanor shifting to pure joy.

"Zed, do you have any idea how rare something like this is?! You—You're practically unkillable!"

Zed, still nursing his ear, sighed. "Yep. Sure. Blessing from the Devas."

Aurora gave him a final, approving nod before marching toward the door. "I need to offer my gratitude immediately," she muttered, already lost in her own excitement.

As the door shut behind her, Zed and his copy were left alone.

The copy smirked. "You're not gonna tell her?"

"Tell her what?" Zed asked, already knowing the answer.

The copy crossed his arms. "That this boon wasn't given by the Devas. It was a Fallen who granted it."

Zed shuddered. "If she finds that out, she'll probably pass out again."

The copy chuckled. "and."

Zed frowned. "Then what?"

The copy's smirk faded. "That our neural systems are connected. Whatever physical pain I feel, you feel it—just delayed—when you're asleep."

Zed leaned back, exhaling. "No. It's better this way."

The copy tilted his head. "Why?"

"If she thinks I have an OP boon, she won't worry about me as much," Zed muttered. "I'd rather keep it that way."

The copy snorted. "Hah. Now I understand why adults hide so much from kids."

"You talk too much," Zed deadpanned. "Now get in."

The copy gave a mock salute before vanishing, dissolving into a faint wisp of light.

Zed stood alone in the quiet room, staring at the ceiling.

He had avoided the truth for now…

But for how long?

A grand villa in storm watch, once a symbol of power, now lay in ruins, its towering walls engulfed in flames. The acrid scent of smoke and burning wood filled the air, mixing with the metallic stench of fresh blood.

Inside, amidst the chaos, Viscount Reynard trembled. His once-pristine robes were stained with sweat and fear as he stared at the man before him—Roadie.

The blade in Roadie's hand gleamed, reflecting the fire's glow.

"W-Why…?" Reynard stammered, his voice shaking, his back pressed against the scorched walls. "Why are you doing this?"

Roadie said nothing.

Instead, he simply swung.

The sword cut cleanly, slicing through flesh and bone like butter.

Reynard's head toppled before his body even hit the floor.

Blood pooled beneath him, steam rising as the heat licked at his remains.

Roadie flicked the excess blood off his blade, then glanced down at the lifeless body.

"Chatterbox," he muttered, stepping over it without a second glance.

As he made his way through the burning wreckage, the distant sound of screams and collapsing structures filled the night. Yet amidst the destruction, a still figure caught his eye.

Zander.

The young man stood motionless, his gaze fixed on a pale, lifeless woman lying in the rubble. Her white hair, now matted with soot and blood, spread out like a ghostly halo around her.

Roadie walked toward him, his voice calm despite the chaos.

"You know her?"

Zander didn't answer at first. His expression remained unreadable, his posture tense, but his eyes—dark, empty—held something deeper.

Finally, he spoke.

"She was my mother."

Roadie clicked his tongue. "Haa… Want to give her a proper burial? I can send a few fellows with you."

Zander didn't move. Didn't blink.

Then, without looking at Roadie, he turned away.

"No," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "She doesn't deserve it."

A pause.

Then, a cold, bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

"After all… she was a whore who sold her own son for alcohol and pleasure."

He walked away, leaving the body behind, untouched, as if she were nothing more than a nameless corpse.

The flames roared on.

The bonfire burned bright and wild, crackling as it devoured logs, its embers swirling into the night sky. Drunken laughter filled the clearing, mixed with the clatter of bottles and the occasional clang of metal mugs toasting in celebration.

Bandits sprawled around the fire, their faces flushed from stolen wine, their voices rough with crude jokes and half-forgotten ballads. Some were hunched over their winnings—gold coins glinting in the dim light—while others leaned against trees, passing around a bottle.

Zander moved through the revelry, his calm, calculating gaze drifting over the men. He wasn't much for celebrations, but tonight, he had a purpose.

His eyes landed on Ron.

The burly bandit sat on a fallen log, mid-laugh, an arm slung around a fellow raider. In one hand, he held a bottle of wine, the other gesturing wildly as he recounted some ridiculous tale.

Then, he spotted Zander.

"Well, look who it is!" Ron grinned, raising his bottle. "The brain of our crew—Zander! Come here, boy! Have some wine!"

Zander wordlessly took a seat beside him, accepting the offered cup.

The conversation flowed, easy and light—stories of old heists, reckless fights, stolen fortunes. But as the fire crackled and shadows danced, Zander shifted the topic.

"Hey, Ron…" He swirled the wine in his cup, watching how the firelight turned it blood-red. "I hear you have a daughter."

The moment the words left his lips, the atmosphere changed.

Ron's grin froze. His hand, mid-drink, paused in the air.

A slow, heavy silence settled between them.

Bandits didn't talk about family. It was a weakness—one that could be exploited, one that could get them killed.

Ron's eyes darkened. His voice dropped.

"Who told you that?"

Zander smirked faintly. "You did."

Ron stiffened.

"Last night," Zander continued, his voice calm, almost amused. "You were drunk out of your mind. Said a little too much."

Ron cursed under his breath, rubbing his face with a heavy hand. "Damn it… knew I drank too much…"

Zander reached into his coat and tossed a small leather pouch onto Ron's lap.

"Here. It's from me."

Ron frowned, untying the pouch. Inside, a glint of gold shone under the firelight.

His brows furrowed. "What's this for?"

Zander leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "I have no use for money. If I gave it to the others, they'd just waste it on brothels or booze. Figured you could use it better—maybe, when she's older, you can send her to school or… wherever."

Ron stared at him. The hardened, grizzled bandit—a man who had slit throats without hesitation—looked on the verge of breaking.

His fingers tightened around the pouch, knuckles white. Then, without warning, he pulled Zander into a rough, bone-crushing hug.

"Kid…" His voice was thick. "You're a damn good man."

Zander let out a low chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "Let's not get carried away."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the fire warding off the night's chill.

Then, Zander spoke again.

"So… you haven't seen her in eight years?"

Ron exhaled, leaning forward. "Yeah."

Zander tilted his head. "Then how do you plan to recognize her?"

Ron let out a dry chuckle.

"I might not remember her," he admitted, reaching into his coat. "But she'll remember me."

He pulled out a small wooden case, flicking it open. Inside was a delicately painted portrait—a young girl, no older than six, with blonde curls and bright, curious eyes. The artist had captured every detail—her dimpled cheeks, the slight tilt of her head, the warmth in her gaze. The paint was slightly faded, but the care put into it was undeniable.

Zander studied the image before raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure she's yours? She's way too pretty."

Ron barked out a laugh, though there was a wetness in his eyes. "Everyone says that." He tapped the painting lightly. "She got her mom's looks."

Zander stared at the painting for a long time, before speaking softly.

"You're lucky, you know?"

Ron looked at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone.

"Lucky?" he repeated. "How the hell am I lucky? I haven't seen my daughter in eight damn years."

Zander exhaled slowly, his gaze distant.

"My mother never loved me."

Ron fell silent.

"My father died when I was little. I barely remember him," Zander continued, voice even. "And my mother… well, she wasn't the grieving type. She spent most of her time drunk, wasted, whoring herself out for cheap wine."

The fire crackled.

"When I was five, she sold me."

Ron's grip on the painting tightened.

"Traded me for a few bottles of alcohol and a warm bed with some filthy merchant," Zander said, his voice void of emotion. "Didn't even look at me when they took me away. Didn't care."

Ron's jaw clenched. He had seen cruelty in his life—murder, betrayal, backstabbing—but something about Zander's quiet, empty way of saying it unsettled him.

Zander leaned back, arms behind his head. "So yeah. You're lucky, Ron. You might not have been with her all these years, but at least you have someone waiting for you. Someone who wants you back."

Ron looked down at the portrait, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden frame.

After a long silence, he spoke.

"Yeah." His voice was rough. "Yeah, I do."

The fire burned on, the scent of smoke, wine, and damp earth filling the air.

Two bandits sat in the flickering glow—one reminiscing about a future he still had, the other buried under the weight of a past long gone.