Tyler had always hated his cousin. Monica had deeply irritated him since they were kids. Back then, she used her long white hair as a provocation, swinging it with the intent to challenge him whenever he got close. He, in turn, responded with his own impulsive gestures, yanking her strands hard, eliciting laughter and furious screams from her. But now, as his body was slammed onto the living room floor with overwhelming force, he realized how insignificant those memories seemed in the face of the crushing power Monica now displayed.

The impact against the wooden floor echoed through the room, the sharp sound cutting through the air and stealing his breath for a moment. The dark wood creaked under the weight of his body, and he struggled to reorganize the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. Monica was no longer the girl he could easily tease or play with. In front of him stood a relentless warrior, her presence dominating the room. The scarlet armor enveloping her shone intensely under the golden light of the chandelier above, as if amplifying the aura of threat she radiated—a vivid reminder of the gap between the Tyler of before and the man he was supposed to become.

Tyler tried to get up, gasping, his body out of control, but Monica’s boot was already firmly planted against his chest, pressing him back to the floor with unrelenting force. The long, gleaming blade she had summoned now hovered over his throat, its cold tip lightly touching his skin, a cruel and tangible reminder of his helplessness before her. The heat of the blade contrasted with the cold of his own surrender.

She was enjoying this. Monica’s laughter echoed through the room, sharp and cruel, like a sharp blade digging deeper with every second. Her gaze, filled with pleasure and disdain, glowed like threatening rubies. Her red eyes reflected a malice that was almost palpable as she tilted her head slightly, letting her white hair fall like a soft curtain, enveloping the two of them in a cloak of intimidation.

— What’s wrong? — she taunted, her voice dripping with sarcasm, each word a thread of venom. — Giving up already? Gonna call for mommy?

Across the room, Michelle watched the scene with the calm of a distant spectator, oblivious to the emotional turmoil taking over the space. Seated gracefully in a velvet armchair, her dress flowed softly around her, capturing the soft light of the room. Her hands, delicately cared for, held a teacup, the delicate porcelain touching her fingers as she occasionally brought it to her lips. Her gaze, impassive and distant, was like that of someone who had seen this scene many times before, almost critical, as if evaluating something trivial.

— Apparently, your mother didn’t put you in the fencing class I recommended... — Michelle commented, her tone lightly disapproving but relentless, hanging in the air like a dense cloud.

Hyan, who was sitting nearby, visibly shrank under his aunt’s cutting gaze. His fingers fidgeted nervously, as if he didn’t know where to put his hands. He murmured softly, almost inaudibly, his voice trembling slightly:

— She did... but we left when Tyler tried to stab me with a sword...

— Mom! — Tyler shouted, cutting him off with a desperate voice, the tone laden with a growing tension that no one could ignore.

Michelle sighed, a sound filled with infinite patience, as if nothing could surprise her anymore. She placed the teacup delicately on the table beside her, the clink of porcelain sounding almost like a warning. She rose with the grace of a queen, her movements elegant but calculated. Each step echoed through the room with a confidence that contrasted with Tyler’s posture. Even without the physical strength Monica displayed, her presence was imposing, dominating the space in a quiet but undeniable way. She crossed the room with firm steps, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, and stopped beside the two. With a cold and disdainful look, she shot Tyler a gaze that seemed to pierce him like a sharp blade.

— Weak and emotionally unstable — she said, her voice cold as steel. — Is this our great leader?

Tyler felt his face burn. His aunt’s words were a direct blow to his pride, as if an invisible weight had been placed on his shoulders. He struggled to find a response worthy of the humiliation, but the weight of Monica’s presence still held him down, as if it were impossible to rise in the face of it all.

— What the hell did you expect...? — he finally shouted, frustration overflowing in his voice, an explosion of anger that seemed to want to shatter the silence hanging in the air. — You’re all insane!

Michelle leaned in slightly, a cold, calculated smile appearing on her face. Her sharp, relentless eyes fixed on Tyler with an intensity that seemed to pierce his soul.

— You were supposed to be the Scarlet Arcanist — she said, her tone almost maternal but laced with a cruel edge of irony, as if she were testing him. — The heir to the greatest of the Arcanists.

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know what it meant to be the “Scarlet Arcanist,” but something inside him exploded with anger. The weight of expectation seemed to crush him, heavy as a lead cloak, as oppressive as Monica’s boot still pressing against his chest.

Before Tyler could protest further, a soft, calm voice cut through the room like a breeze in the midst of a storm:

— Michelle...

Everyone turned to Cassandra, who had remained silent until then, standing in a darker corner of the room. Her presence was almost ethereal, as if she didn’t fully belong to the physical world, yet imbued with a subtle authority. Her eyes, calm and deep, conveyed a quiet wisdom, quite different from Michelle’s haughty posture or Monica’s aggressiveness.

— Tyler is tired. We all are... and you arrived so suddenly — Cassandra said, her voice soft but carrying a calm that seemed to disarm the tension in the air.

Michelle hesitated, a shadow of doubt passing through her eyes. She seemed to ponder Cassandra’s words, which rarely happened. For a moment, the atmosphere hung suspended, as if everyone were waiting for a decision. Finally, she sighed, a heavy exhale, and straightened her shoulders with the precision of a warrior who knew the battle was far from over.

— Let’s go, Monica — she ordered, her voice still firm but now carrying a slight softness, as if wanting to end the standoff. — Be certain we’ll meet again soon, boys...

Monica, with an impatient sigh, kept the weight of her boot on Tyler’s chest for a few more seconds, as if it were necessary to prolong his humiliation before withdrawing. With a swift motion, she finally stood up, frustration visible in her posture.

— See you later, Rat Brothers... — she said, her sarcastic smile cutting through the air like a blade, before dismissing her armor with a simple but authoritative gesture.

Tyler remained on the floor, his entire body throbbing with pain and humiliation. The sensation of Monica’s blade against his throat still burned on his skin, like an indelible mark. He ran his hand over his throat, feeling the hot sting of pain that still seeped into his bones.

The silence that followed the sound of Michelle and Monica’s footsteps echoed through the room, leaving a cold, crushing void. He watched them leave, the doors closing behind them, and the silence became an unbearable weight.

Still sitting on the floor, his face burning with shame and frustration, he looked at the spot where they had stood moments before. Their words still reverberated in his mind, especially the name of his father, which now seemed to carry an even greater weight than he had ever imagined.

He didn’t understand anything. And he hated that more than anything else.