Kallen walked back from the Sacred Grove in silence, his steps light yet firm. The gentle rustling of leaves accompanied him, the distant chirping of birds fading into the background of his thoughts.

Then, seemingly remembering something, he shook his head unconsciously—like an old man reminiscing over past regrets.

Did he hate Luiz? Definitely not. But was there resentment? Yes.

Was it Kallen's fault that complications had occurred during his birth? Maybe. But even if that were true, could he have controlled it?

Complications happened during childbirth, no matter the world. If fate had decided that it would be Lyra who suffered, how could Kallen have foreseen or prevented it? The answer was no!

"Fate" he muttered lightly. A fleeting glimmer danced in his eyes, like a mirage, then vanished.

Something flickered at the edge of his mind, but whenever he tried to grasp it, it eluded him. The harder he chased, the further it slipped away, leaving him with nothing.

He furrowed his brow slightly, then shrugged and let it go, his thoughts drifting back to their usual course.

On Earth, his relationship with his parents, if they could even be called that, was purely transactional. No familial warmth. No motherly love. No fatherly protection.

His cold expression wasn't a mask, and neither was it a defense mechanism. It was simply the way he had been raised.

And beyond that, the life he had lived required it.

On Earth, he had been born into a cold, brutal, and ruthless reality. His world had been only blood and darkness. And even when he thought he had seen a light—when he reached for it, believing it was real...

He cut off that train of thought. That wasn't something he wanted to think about.

People didn't realize that the most emotionally detached individuals; the ones who seemed distant and unfeeling, often had the most emotions to give.

A person trapped in a dreary, lifeless abyss would latch onto anything that brought sincere color into their world.

For Kallen, that color was Lyra.

A mother's love wasn't something one could ever get enough of.

Luiz, on the other hand...

Kallen only felt a flicker of resentment toward him. Not because of his apathy or the way he subtly placed the blame on Kallen for what had happened, Kallen honestly couldn't care less about that.

What truly stung was the disappointment of betrayed expectations.

Somewhere, deep down, he had hoped to feel even the faintest trace of fatherly affection from Luiz. But that hope had been crushed under the weight of reality.

Still, it wasn't an unfamiliar feeling.

Back on Earth, warmth and affection had been distant concepts, mere illusions he had never truly experienced. This, too, was just another thing he would have to continue with.

It was even better this time. He had a mother.

Still, it was a reminder... a brutal reminder.

The world wasn't made of warmth and light. It never had been.

"Expectations breeds hope, and unfulfilled expectations weakens the mind..."

"Does talking to yourself all the time make you feel good?" A snotty-nosed, crimson-haired brat... or whatever Kallen labeled him as, interrupted his thoughts.

Kallen gave him a side glance but didn't respond. Simply moving on, uninterested.

He had already sensed the brat's presence long before he got close, but he hadn't cared enough to acknowledge it.

Still, it seemed that even if he wanted some peace, someone else had different plans.

"O c'mon, Kal, you don't have to be so hard all the time. Chill out."

The boy's voice carried a teasing lilt as he trailed after Kallen, but it was met with nothing but silence.

Kallen didn't even spare him a glance.

"Anyways, how's your mom? I take it that you're coming from the Sacred Grove"

He stopped.

For the first time, Kallen turned his head ever so slightly—not enough to be considered an actual response, but enough to let the air around them shift.

The temperature seemed to drop, and an almost imperceptible pressure seeped into the surroundings. It wasn't overwhelming... at least not yet, but it was there; whispering a true intent to kill and slaughter.

Atticus felt it instantly, and a shudder ran up his spine, his instincts screaming at him to tread carefully. But instead of backing off, he lifted his hands in mock surrender, flashing his signature easy grin.

"Relax, man. That was an innocent question. You're always too edgy."

Kallen didn't respond.

His expression remained unreadable, but the air grew heavier, the wisp of killing intent thickening ever so slightly.

Atticus felt it coil around him, brushing against his skin like the slow drag of a blade.

Yet, he barely blinked.

Brushing off the invisible pressure as if he hadn't noticed a thing, he slipped effortlessly back into conversation, his voice casual, perfectly camouflaged with nonchalance.

"So, where you headed?"

Kallen had originally been going to his room for a shower, but since he hadn't remotely reached his limits yet and the day was still young, he decided to entertain the troublemaker.

"To train."

"Excellent!" Atticus beamed. "Let's train together. What do you say?"

There was a beat of silence.

"Alright."

They walked in silence until they reached an open field within the castle, the afternoon sun casting long, warm-blue rays over the expansive training ground.

"So, which weapon do you intend to train with?" Atticus asked, with curious light.

Kallen didn't answer immediately. Instead, he strode toward a section of the field where weapons stood in neat, glinting rows upon racks. His hand hovered briefly over a selection of blades before settling on a longbow.

He lifted them effortlessly, the motion smooth and precise, like someone who was accustomed to their weight, their feel, and purpose.

The longbow was slung over his shoulder, fitting snugly against his back. Then, he grabbed two quivers full of sharp, polished arrows.

At just six years old, Kallen's physique was striking.

His frame, though still young, bore the lean musculature and defined build of an eight- or nine-year-old, a testament to his unique heritage and relentless training.

His bones were dense, his muscles coiled with an unusual strength for his age. He was not a child in any sense but appearance.

He walked over to the archery section of the field, where distant targets stood at varying distances.

The training ground itself was an arena, partitioned into different segments designed for specific styles of combat.

The ground was blanketed in lush, trimmed cyan grass, and above them, was a thin, transparent barrier; a nearly invisible dome shielding them from the heat of the massive blue sun that loomed in the sky.

Atticus tilted his head, raising a brow as he watched Kallen prepare.

"A bow?" His tone held mild amusement. "I thought you preferred hand-to-hand combat and short-to-mid-range weapons?"

Kallen barely spared him a glance. "I'm not bad with a bow either." His voice was quiet, and carried a hint of certainty.

Atticus let out a low chuckle. "Well, isn't that convenient? I just so happen to be exceptional with a bow." His smile widened.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached for his own longbow, grabbing two quivers filled with arrows.

"Mind if this elder brother of yours show you a few pointers?"