In the warm light of morning sun, Jack was strolling through the garden. A fountain stood before him, crowned with the statue of a tall knight raising his sword to the sky as if challenging the heavens. A stream of water jetted out from the sword's tip, forming a breathtaking dome of sparkling droplets that fell gracefully into the pool below.
Jack walked through the garden with brisk steps, humming his favorite song. His destination was a woman with silvery, lush hair who sat in the middle of a flower field, arranging dishes on a velvet cloth and serving steaming hot stew—his favorite. She smiled warmly and beckoned him forward with both hands.
"Come faster, or it'll get cold!" she called with a laugh.
But Jack's steps suddenly grew heavy.
Bloody arms erupted from the ground, grabbing his ankles. He stumbled as the water from the fountain began to overflow, turning a deep crimson. The pool darkened as blood replaced the clear water. Jack struggled with all his strength, trying to break free and reach the flower field—but the flowers had already begun to wither and turn blood red, one by one.
"MOOOOOOM!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
A shadow stirred on the horizon, swift and ominous, racing toward his mother who continued to prepare the stew, unaware. The black shadow took the form of a man dressed in pitch-black, his facial features distorting endlessly, changing every second. His hand moved like a whip—sharp, sudden.
Then, a small silver orb rolled toward Jack's feet, stopping just in front of him.
It showed a face… all too familiar.
A sudden scream tore through the quiet night.
"MOOOOOOM!"
In a room bathed in moonlight, Jack sat up, drenched in sweat, his breaths heavy and ragged as he tried to calm himself.
The door creaked open. A man with messy black hair stepped in, his brown eyes dull with exhaustion, dark circles beneath them. He looked worn down, his expression filled with fatigue—but also concern.
Without a word, he sat beside Jack and gently ran a hand through his damp hair. With a clap of his hands, a maid with short blond hair burst into the room, handing over a warm towel and a bowl of medicine before quickly leaving.
"Another one?" Duke Joshua asked softly.
"Yeah… same one," Jack replied, voice shaky. "I was frozen. Just like last time…"
He looked away, his voice cracking with shame.
"Dad, why am I so pathetic? A coward—even in my dreams, I couldn't do anything but scream. Night after night, for five years, I've frozen in fear, unable to move as death surrounds me. And the worst part is…"
He paused, tears welling in his eyes.
"Sometimes… I feel lucky that it wasn't me. Isn't that awful? What's wrong with me, Dad? What's wrong…?"
Jack broke down at last—after five years of silent suffering, the guilt of surviving finally pouring out in sobs as he collapsed into his father's arms.
Joshua looked at his sobbing son, bitterness swelling in his heart. His own eyes watered, but he didn't let them fall. Not now. His son—after all these years—was finally mourning, finally breaking the silence he had endured alone for so long.
Ever since that cursed day, the bright, curious child named Jack had vanished. At the funeral, when others cried, Jack stayed in a corner, silent, his eyes fixed on his mother's still form. Joshua had seen it… but did nothing. He hadn't known what to say, what to do. He too had been drowning in grief, in rage. All he could think about was finding the truth, punishing those behind the massacre.
And in his obsession, he had left Jack to suffer alone.
Even after the funeral, Jack barely spoke. He focused only on his training and studies—silent, cold, driven. At age thirteen, he successfully formed his mana core—a remarkable achievement for someone so young—but it brought Joshua no joy.
Because he had already lost his son.
Every time he saw Jack train like a lifeless puppet, read with dead eyes, and move with hollow purpose, Joshua's heart bled. He regretted it all. If only he had paid attention. If only he had reached out. If only he had given Jack the love of a father instead of abandoning him to endure alone.
And now, he understood.
All this time, Jack had been blaming himself—for surviving, for being helpless. But what could a ten-year-old child have done?
"No, son… you're not pathetic," Joshua said firmly, his voice tight with emotion. "You were ten. A child. If anyone should be blamed… it's me."
His hands gripped Jack's shoulders, his eyes meeting his son's.
"I failed you. I failed your mother. But never again. I swear—I won't make the same mistakes."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
"Son… tomorrow, there's a very important meeting. All our vassals and officials will be there. I want you to attend it with me—not just as the Duke's son…"
He looked at Jack with conviction.
"…but as my successor."
"I will give you a reason to survive."
__
The next morning, Jack was at the training grounds as usual, swinging his sword in rhythmic arcs, each strike echoing with purpose. The sun was still low, casting long shadows across the sand as his thoughts drifted back to the previous night.
His father's words echoed in his mind: "I will give you a reason to survive."
Jack wasn't sure if his father had misunderstood him. It was true—he often felt that it should've been him who died, not his mother. He did feel pathetic… cowardly even, thinking back to that garden, to that moment when he stood frozen in fear, watching the blood soak the earth and her hands go limp. Maybe—just maybe—if he had moved, if he had screamed sooner, if he had tried something, she could have survived.
But as he grew older, he came to realize—there was nothing he could've done. Not as a powerless ten-year-old boy.
So he trained. He trained until his muscles screamed. Until he could barely stand. Until every weakness in his body was burned away. He swore never again—never again would he feel that helplessness, that crushing weight of fear and regret.
He did have a reason to survive.
He wanted to avenge his mother.
More than that, he wanted to know the truth—why she and so many others had to die that night. Why Uncle John, the man who had always been by their side, loyal and strong, had taken his own life. Why? That question had haunted him for five years. It drove his sword. It fueled his training. It kept him awake when the nightmares didn't.
These whys became his goals—the anchors to his resolve. The things he had to do.
And yet… through all the books he read, all the thoughts he gathered from the minds of great men and women of history, Jack had learned something else too—something even more important.
As humans, they didn't need a reason to survive.
Survival itself was the reason.
Living—struggling—fighting on, even when the world offered no answers, no hope... that, too, was purpose.
Jack's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, and he swung again—sharper, cleaner, stronger.
The past would not define him.
But it would shape the blade he carried.