Chapter 3: When the Blood Began to Speak

Zairen stared into the cracked mirror, its jagged lines splintering his reflection. The face wasn't his—not the boy he once was. It was a hollow stranger, pale as death, with eyes like twin graves that had seen Hell and lingered to rot within it. Each fracture in the glass whispered a scream from his past: a child's wail, a mother's final breath, steel slicing flesh.

He turned away.

The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he crossed the ruined room to a broken window. He pushed it open, hinges groaning like dying lungs. Night spilled in—dark, endless, cold. The breeze brushed his skin, soft and strangely kind, like a mother's hand on a dying child's brow.

He inhaled. For one fleeting moment, the wind felt like peace.

Then his stomach growled—loud, ugly, desperate.

"…I think I need food," he muttered, voice dry as bone, worn as rusted steel.

His eyes swept the desolate room: dust, rot, silence. Then he saw it—an old tray on a cracked table, its tarnished silver lid gleaming like a forgotten offering. He lifted it.

The stench hit like a fist. Vile. Unforgiving.

Mold-blackened bread. Soup turned to swamp water, green and thick, with vegetables drowned long ago. Meat—gray, slick, crawling with maggots. A living disease.

It reeked of death.

Zairen didn't flinch. He smiled—a slow, twisted thing only the broken could wear.

"Ahhh… it's good to be back."

And then—he ate.

His teeth tore through decay. Mold crunched under his tongue. Sour meat slid down his throat like sin. He chewed the rot, swallowed the sickness, unflinching, silent.

When it was done, he collapsed onto the bed with a tired thud, like a corpse returning to dirt. The ceiling blurred above him, and memories came—vivid, vicious, unforgiving.

He saw himself, small and innocent, laughing in a sunlit garden. His mother's voice sang, "Zairen! Zairen!" His father read under a peach tree, his sister chased butterflies. He remembered sneaking into the forest, dirty and proud. His mother always found him, kneeling to wipe dirt from his cheeks with her dress, whispering, "Zairen… you stupid little boy." She'd carry him home, where food was warm, hands were soft, and love lived.

Then came that day.

He'd begged for the Royal Carnival—floating lanterns, fire dancers, sugar clouds. His parents said no, waiting for his sister's return from the Holy Kingdom. But he pleaded, and his mother, too kind, smiled. "Only for a little while."

That starless night, everything ended.

Their carriage rolled past the old forest trail. Then—screams. Steel. Fire.

Not bandits. Traitors.

The guards turned first, blades flashing red under moonlight. Then came worse—figures in black, masked, inhuman, moving like death given form. His father fought like a demon, blood painting the dirt. But even demons bleed.

Two broke through, seizing Zairen and his mother. "Drop your sword," one hissed, "or they die."

His father froze, bloodied, shaking. "Please," he whispered. "Let them go. I surrender."

A mocking nod. "Of course."

Then—schhk. A wet rip. Blood sprayed across Zairen's face, hot and blinding. His mother dropped, head barely clinging, eyes wide, lips curled in a forgiving smile.

Zairen didn't scream. He didn't move. Only breathed, her blood soaking his knees.

His father roared, snapping a masked man's neck, grabbing Zairen. "RUN, Zairen! RUN!"

But Zairen stared at her broken body.

"RUN, DAMN IT!"

Tears fell. His legs moved. He ran—through clawing branches, tripping roots, until his feet bled and the sky wept.

He found a cave, collapsing with his mother's shawl, clutching its fading warmth.

Days later, they "rescued" him. But what was left to save?

At the estate, his sister sobbed—not for him. "Because of you… Father died!"

Blame. Rage. Hate.

He was five. Just five. And they cursed him.

His aunt and uncle arrived, smiles like lies, coveting the estate, the titles, the power. They needed his sister. Zairen was discarded—a shadow, unseen, unfed, forgotten.

Now, on this rotting bed, Zairen chuckled, low and bitter. He thought of his sister, now noble, beloved by all. "What a fragile little puppet," he whispered. "So easy to control. Easier to break."

He smirked, voice like ash. "Now my mood is ruined."

He turned on his side, eyes empty, heavy. "Let's stop thinking about the past… Tomorrow's a new day. A new beginning."

And he slept—not like a man, not like a monster, but something carved from sorrow, wrapped in rot.

Something that still remembered her blood.

And the smile on a dying mother's face.