Grey sat alone in the dimly lit room, the weight of solitude pressing heavily on his shoulders.
After parting ways with Rex, he had returned to the inn and secured a small, modest room—just enough space to be alone with his thoughts.
The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a fire in the corner.
In his hand, he held a small round bottle—the tier one potion he had exchanged for his more valuable tier five.
His body, though outwardly composed, was far from healed.
The wounds he'd sustained during the meeting with Lucien—especially from his battle with the thieves—had not fully recovered.
He hadn't taken a direct hit during his fight with Rex, but even so, the strength behind each of Rex's strikes had left his bones rattled and his muscles aching.
He didn't show it outwardly, but his body was sore, and the fatigue had burrowed deep into his bones.
That was why he had traded down.
Using a tier five potion for such minor injuries felt like a waste.
A tier one should suffice.
As he brought the potion to his lips, the liquid slid down like water—tasteless and cool.
Almost instantly, a faint glow enveloped his body.
It was subtle, nearly imperceptible, but he felt it: the stitching of torn flesh, the realignment of cracked bones.
In the span of a breath, energy flooded his limbs, and the pain that had dogged his movements for days simply... vanished.
The effect was astonishing.
Far beyond what he had imagined.
"Amazing..." he murmured under his breath.
If this was just a tier one potion, what would a tier five feel like? Could it restore limbs? Reverse time on a dying body? Could there even be a potion that brought back the dead?
It was an absurd thought.
An impossible one...
Yet since transmigrating to this world, impossibilities had started to make sense.
This world defied logic. And it fascinated him.
His eyes dropped to the bag at his side.
Reaching into the folds, he withdrew a small, smooth stone etched with an ancient rune.
It glimmered faintly, casting an ethereal glow across his face and throwing flickering shadows onto the walls.
With a firm press of his fingers, he cracked the stone.
It crumbled to dust in his palm.
A brilliant white light flared briefly, then faded.
When the glow subsided, a black circular tattoo had appeared on his right wrist, pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
Grey remained silent, his expression unreadable as he traced the new mark with his fingertips.
The old woman's words echoed in his mind:
"To use it, you must focus on your rune and channel your will."
He reached for the sword beside him, gripping the hilt with a calm, steady hand. But as he attempted to activate the rune, a searing pain shot through his wrist.
The pain was immediate and intense, like molten iron searing his flesh. Grey's eyes narrowed, but his expression didn't waver.
Pain was nothing new to him—it was something he had known since the moment he was born, a constant companion in his life.
But this pain was different, sharper, more insistent, as if the rune itself was fighting against his will.
He clenched his teeth, refusing to give in.
Even though his mind was strong enough to endure the pain, his weak, skinny body was not.
The agony stirred up long-dormant memories within him.
He struggled to control himself and focus on the rune, but the more he concentrated, the more his mind began to wander, slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers.
Memories that weren't his own flooded his thoughts, vivid and disorienting.
He was pulled into a scene from the past, a memory buried deep within him.
The memory that flooded Grey's mind was as vivid as the day it had happened.
He was ten years old, sitting on the deck of a small sailing boat that drifted lazily across the lake owned by the Ravenwood family.
The gentle sway of the boat and the cool breeze brushing against his face should have been soothing, but even as a child, Grey had felt an inexplicable heaviness in his heart.
His father, Lucien Ravenwood, stood at the helm, his golden eyes reflecting the sunlight as they surveyed the tranquil waters. His mother, Liana, sat gracefully on a bench, her gaze distant, as though her thoughts were miles away. And beside him was his sister, her arm hooked around his shoulder, her smile as warm as the sun above.
"Don't be disappointed, Grey," his father said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "So, what if you can't use mana? You don't need mana to survive. There are people out there who are crippled and can't even walk—Do they give up on living? No, they don't. So, don't give up either, okay?"
His mother, looking off into the distance, added, "You do not have to worry about anything. No one will look down upon you. After all, the blood of the Ravenwood and Nightshade families flows in your veins."
The warmth in his father and mother's voices brought a rare wave of happiness to Grey's heart, a momentary flicker of hope.
His father's words, so full of care, made Grey believe that perhaps everything would be alright.
"Yeah, Father is right," his sister chimed in, her voice light and comforting.
She tightened her arm around him, pulling him closer into a gentle hug.
"You're strong, Grey. Stronger than you know."
Grey lowered his head, burying his face into his sister's shoulder, her gentle pats on his head bringing him a fleeting sense of comfort.
His sister, the one person who had always been kind to him, looked up and pointed at a golden fish swimming near the boat.
"Look, Grey! That fish has the same eye color as us."
Grey lifted his head and tried to focus on the fish, his sister's enthusiasm contagious.
He leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better view.
"Grey, be careful. Don't go too close to the edge," his mother warned, her tone firm but caring.
But as if on cue, Grey's foot slipped on the wet deck, and in an instant, he was falling.
The world spun around him as he plummeted into the cold, dark water.
The icy shock of the lake hit him like a wall, knocking the breath out of his lungs.
Panic surged through him as he flailed helplessly, the water swallowing him whole.
"Father!" Grey screamed, his voice choking on the words as he desperately fought to stay afloat.
"H-Help... h-help me!"
"...!?"
But when he looked up, his heart seized in terror.
His family was just... watching.
Blub—blub—
The sound of water gurgling around him drowned out his pleas.
His father, the man he had looked up to with such reverence, stood on the deck of the boat, his expression unreadable.
His mother's distant gaze bore no sign of concern, not even the slightest movement to save him. And his sister, who had just moments ago held him so close, was frozen in place, her smile gone, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
"Wh-Wh-Why?" Grey sputtered, his voice breaking as water surged into his mouth, filling his lungs.
"W-Why aren't... y-you helping me?" he choked out, the desperate question slipping from his lips as he struggled.
His arms flailed, his legs kicked, but it was no use.
The more he struggled, the more the water dragged him down, its icy fingers wrapping around him, pulling him deeper into the abyss.
The cold seeped into his bones, numbing his limbs and stealing the last of his strength.
His vision blurred as the water stung his eyes, but even through the haze, he could still see them—his family, standing there, unmoved, uncaring.
His father's golden eyes, once so full of life, now looked down at him with an emotion Grey couldn't comprehend.
Was it indifference? Disdain? He couldn't tell.
But whatever it was, it pierced through him more sharply than the cold ever could.
"Father...?" Grey's voice was a mere whisper now, swallowed by the water that surrounded him.
His limbs grew heavier, his body beginning to sink.
The weight of the water pressed down on him, crushing his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.
Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat a painful thud in his ears.
He looked up one last time, his eyes wide with terror and confusion.
His family... they were still there, still watching, still unmoving.
And that's when the realization hit him, a truth more terrifying than the thought of dying:
They weren't going to save him.
They were letting him drown.
Grey's struggles slowed as a chilling thought settled in his mind.
'Isn't it better if I just die?'
'Maybe... maybe that's what they want.'
The fight drained out of him as the cold water wrapped around him like a shroud, pulling him into the depths.
His hands stopped flailing; his legs stopped kicking.
As he sank deeper, his eyes remained open, fixed on the blurred figures of his family.
The water grew darker, the light above him fading away, but his gaze never wavered, locked on the people who had just watched as he was swallowed by the darkness.
His lungs screamed for air, but Grey no longer cared.
The water closed over him, and he let it take him.
His body went limp, his eyes fluttering shut as the cold numbed him to the core.
The last thing he remembered was the crushing silence of the deep, a silence that mirrored the cold indifference of his family.
But as if there is always light in the dark, a glimmer of hope no matter how desperate the situation, Grey heard a voice. It was faint, barely more than a whisper, yet it reached him through the crushing depths.
The voice was so soft, so low, that he could barely discern who it was or what it was saying.
"Young master..."
And then everything went silent.