Chapter 06: Unusual Madness

The charged atmosphere finally settled after the storm of rage had passed. His mother knelt beside him now, her trembling hands carefully wrapping bandages around his chest, as though a single misplaced touch might shatter what remained of his broken bones.

His father—silent throughout the tempest—handed him a glass of water and painkillers, his eyes locked onto his son's face, unmoving from the first clash to the last.

It wasn't a gaze of tenderness.

It was stone-cold observation, suspicion simmering beneath a veneer of calm.

Daren took the glass and forced down a sip. The water tasted bitter to him—thick, concentrated, like some poisoned brew from a forgotten, dark age.

The urge to spit it out rose in his throat, but the fading pain outweighed his disgust. He swallowed the acrid taste, if only to numb the agony.

His eyes drifted to his mother as she tightened the bandages, his mind wandering, dissecting her reaction.

'She wept like this over mere half-truths and shadows of honesty… Clever, yes, but her emotions rule her so easily. And if I learn to exploit that weakness—just how much could I reap from her in the long run?'

He exhaled slowly, the foul aftertaste still clinging to his tongue, then turned his stare back to his father—whose face was a mask of familiar caution and buried fear.

Not attacking him had been the right choice. If his mother had shattered his ribs, his father might have torn apart something far deeper.

The entire time, he had feigned shock and fury—but it was nothing more than a performance, mirroring his own.

His mother's trembling voice cut through his thoughts:

"I'm not pressing too hard, am I? Your face is twitching… like the pain runs too deep."

He showed no sympathy. His reply was dry, wrapped in the same old human masks he'd long mastered:

"It's fine. Just the painkillers and the water."

A brief silence settled. His father watched from his seat, eyes tracking every micro-movement.

Daren drew a slow breath, then spoke abruptly—his tone a manufactured mix of disgust and feigned curiosity:

"Those glowing buds… Are they why I've strayed from food? From your control?"

His father chuckled darkly, looking at him like a fool oblivious to the obvious. Daren pressed on, weaving elaborate, interlinked questions—until his mother cut through with a cryptic answer:

"Yes… and no."

He grasped only fragments of her meaning but scowled like a petulant child, feigning frustration:

"Speak plainly. I'm tired of riddles."

She laughed softly, a sad smile playing on her lips as she clung to the last shreds of her maternal façade. His father, meanwhile, kept watching—studying every tremor in his body and soul.

"Yes, they're related… but the true root of your suffering lies within you. The buds are just a side effect—abilities on the verge of awakening."

Daren masked his understanding behind cold bewilderment, even as the truth glared back at him.

He saw them—tiny spheres feeding on those luminous particles, shadowy tendrils devouring the light not to serve it, but to break free.

They didn't worship the light.

They rebelled against it.

His mother finished her ministrations. Daren stood unsteadily, his body swaying with each step as though he might collapse. He wanted to leave—but his father blocked the door.

"Weren't you the one desperate for answers? For truths about us—about your own power? You spit venom, then try to walk away… as if scraps are enough. As if you're satisfied."

Daren gripped his father's shoulders, struggling to stand straight, black blood seeping from his lips like poisoned ink.

"Do you not see my state? I'm in pain, and yet you mock me for leaving? All I need is rest. Don't worry—I don't need your identity. I know everything… except your names. As for my abilities—we'll discuss those later."

His father's expression froze. Shock bled through the cracks of his composure. Daren tried again to push past, until he finally hissed:

"Let. Me. Rest. We'll finish this another time."

His father's grip on his wrist tightened, near-bone-crushing. His voice was a low, furious growl:

"What exactly do you know about us?"

Daren answered quickly—unwilling to endure more pain, and well aware of his father's unpredictability:

"I know you're not blood-related… and that your origins are German."

His father's grip didn't relent.

"And what are you hiding?"

Daren lowered his head, then lifted it again in wordless defiance.

His mother suddenly shrieked, pulling him into her frail arms as though clinging to the remnants of a son slipping away:

"Can't you hear him?! He's in agony—his heart is screaming! Can't you see?!"

Then she turned to him, tears welling in her eyes, desperate to absolve a guilt that could never be erased:

"If only I hadn't lost focus… you wouldn't be like this."

A fleeting, treacherous moment.

A whisper of forgiveness almost slipped through—as if he might grant them another chance.

But he crushed it.

Erased every trace of weakness.

He remembered the oath he'd sworn—to exploit every opportunity, every emotion, every flaw. To tighten his grip on those around him and crush whoever stood in his way.

To reach the summit, even if he had to climb a staircase of skulls—of those who trusted him, whom he used, whom he betrayed.

It wouldn't be the first time.

And he would destroy them—piece by piece, moment by moment—until they drowned in endless regret.

But… not yet.

For now, he would take what he needed from them.

Then discard them… when nothing remained.

His father spoke quietly, eyes fixed on the floor:

"I… acted rashly. Rest. We'll continue when you're ready."

Daren pulled free from his mother's embrace and staggered to a nearby chair, too weak to even lean back. His gaze was sharp, his mouth still dripping thick, ink-black blood:

"Let's continue the discussion about the abilities. They've piqued my interest—and I want an explanation I can actually understand."

His mother tried to protest, fearing he'd lose consciousness, but his father laughed—a hint of pride in the sound. Daren silenced them with a firm tone:

"I am my own master. I know when to sleep and when to demand answers. Give me what I want—your concern can wait."

Then, in that moment—a whisper.

Faint, like a breeze only he could hear. Neither parent seemed to notice.

His father began recounting an ancient tale, his voice like that of a storyteller weaving myths.

Long ago, there existed an outcast sect—branded as madmen for claiming to see floating entities in the air. Their visions varied: some saw shimmering lights, others saw flames or abyssal darkness in countless forms.

Their origins traced back to Europe's darkest age, where corruption and the Church's iron grip reigned. Many accused of heresy belonged to their ranks. They fled to Asia and Africa, spreading their roots.

Those who saw the particles faced one of two fates: either they fully awakened and escaped (or hid), or they fell into an eternal slumber—transforming into grotesque, fairy-tale monsters.

Those entities were behind countless religious massacres, carried out in the name of "purification." By the end of the Middle Ages, they vanished into the shadows, fueling revolutions that toppled corrupt priests and popes.

The rest of the world drowned in its own conflicts: Japan's Sengoku wars, Islamic conquests, the Crusades.

When Europe entered the Renaissance, industrializing nations tried to exploit the awakened—but the nature of their powers made it impossible.

So they faded into obscurity, reduced to mere superstitions—footnotes in tales of the supernatural.

His father concluded:

"That summary should help you grasp a fragment of your history… and a glimpse of the power awaiting you."

Daren listened intently, dissecting every nuance, knowing full well there were missing pieces. Meanwhile, his mother returned with a vial of dark liquid that reeked of ancient blood.

He took it without hesitation and swallowed it in one gulp. No disgust, no bitterness—just something… else. Something he couldn't name.

Flatly, he asked:

"What was that? Medicine? Poison? The taste in my mouth is… gone."

Before she could answer, he pointed at the wall near the door:

"You two—how long do you plan to eavesdrop?"

Naylsa and Mirelda stepped out from the shadows. His question to his father was laced with suspicion:

"Since when has Naylsa been awake? And why wasn't I told?"

His father faltered. Daren's voice was ice:

"I've watched her. The way she avoids touch. Your excessive attention. Many things made it obvious."

Naylsa tried to explain—

"Silence. I didn't ask for excuses."

She snapped, lunging at him—but her father caught her with preternatural speed, pinning her down. He barked:

"Have you lost your mind?! You'd attack him in this state?!"

She ignored him, her emerald eyes spilling starlit tears as she glared at Daren:

"You play the victim, but you're no less a killer. Do you think I'm still that naive nine-year-old girl?"

A pause. Then, her voice twisted with scorn:

"You're deluded. You treated us with cold indifference, as if we weren't even worth a word. You rage at our parents, yet you're no different. I've awakened—I could crush you whenever I please. You're two years older, and your power only stirred now."

A hollow laugh.

"This is your reality. You're just a stepping stone for the strong—like me. Those wasted years trying to 'fix' our family? I'll never accept them. Not even in my dreams. Just go to hell, you black-hearted demon… still clinging to a ghost who died five years ago—"

"Did I not order you to SHUT UP?!"

A terrifying aura erupted from Daren—murderous intent, sharp as a wolf's fangs encircling prey. He stood, his eyes thirsting for blood. His mother rushed between them:

"Don't do something you'll regret!"

But the aura intensified. Even Mirelda trembled under its weight. His father roared:

"Take one step, and I'll break your bones all over again!"

Daren's voice was guttural:

"Spare me the warnings. I won't regret a thing."

Naylsa shook, trying to convince herself she was stronger—but all she saw was a predator moments from tearing her throat out.

Before she could speak, Daren uttered cryptic words into the air—as if addressing an invisible specter:

"Do you hide behind a mask… or are you just a sanctimonious hypocrite?"

A horrific shiver wracked Naylsa. An unnatural weight crushed her chest. She tried to speak, but her lips trembled—even the air reeked of blood, as though Daren's body thirsted for it.

"W-What do you mean?! I'm your sister, I—"

His roar cut her off:

"LIES! I won't fall for the same trick twice! SHOW ME YOUR TRUE FACE—or I'll make your delusions cost you in BLOOD!"

In the corner, Mirelda collapsed, lips turning blue. His mother tried to intervene, powerless against Daren's unraveling sanity.

His father just smiled—a mad, gleeful grin.

Daren's disgust spiked. That smile reminded him of the masked figure haunting his nightmares:

"Still clinging to your pathetic tricks? I won't be fooled by fake pain—this is all an ILLUSION!"

Naylsa screamed:

"Have you lost your mind to a pre-awakening nightmare?! What kind of ghost did you see to—"

Emotions beyond description surged—black blood like molten iron in his veins, his skull splitting with warring thoughts.

His left eye darkened like abyssal night; his right burned like the North Star—sharp, fiery.

Kill! Forgive!

He clutched his head as the ceiling above him fractured into opposing hues.

His mother dragged Mirelda away from his destructive aura while he stumbled toward his father and sister—reality itself distorting.

His father appeared as a masked specter; Naylsa, a radiant shadow.

The weight of emotions crushed him like iron—unaware his eyes had shifted into something inhuman.

Then, the voices flooded in—mocking, ancient:

'Just a slave to the mask! You, who forged the chains of your own bondage!'

Over and over, a ceaseless echo—until his father released Naylsa, reaching for him instead.

But with each step, Daren's lips moved without thought, as though a demon spoke through him:

"I won't kneel to threads spun like a child's game! I won't bow to meaningless delusions! Damn you all—"

Before he could finish, a warm, gentle hand touched his cheek—and the pain dissolved.

His strength failed.

He collapsed into unconsciousness, internal wounds bleeding freely.

His mother, sensing the shift, abandoned Mirelda (still passed out on the bed) and sprinted back—only to find his father cradling Daren's limp form, desperate:

"HEAL HIM! NOW!"

A quick assessment revealed internal bleeding, a ravaged left lung. No time to waste—they rushed him to their company's nearby headquarters.

In the car, Naylsa refused to look at his pallid face, even in unconsciousness.

Outside, sunlight glared off glass skyscrapers; shops and restaurants stood empty in the sweltering heat.

Twenty minutes of frantic efforts to staunch the bleeding—then they arrived at the towering building, its entrance emblazoned with the name:

"White Feather."

Above it, the emblem—a white eagle's plume.

In the highest floor, an elegant woman watched from the window, a hungry smile playing on her lips as Daren's body was carried inside.

Her voice was calm, yet brimming with anticipation:

"At last… he arrives after all these years. Verla and Verkl's extraordinary son. Will he be able to face him in the future? I'll await the moment of truth… with bated breath."