I was just an ordinary man—government-employed, assigned to hunt down criminals. On paper, my job was routine. In truth, it was filth, layered and endless. I preferred working alone. I knew my combat skills were more than sufficient. They didn't care. They kept assigning me partners. Probably to keep me under surveillance. They knew I didn't follow the rules.
I was dismissed for 'extrajudicial killing' The mission was to apprehend a group of drug traffickers during a deal. No one mentioned they were armed. My team walked in unprepared. They died. I survived. I eliminated every target. It was them or me. I chose me.
I expected recognition. A promotion, maybe. Instead, I was branded a criminal. They wanted the perpetrators alive—for court, they said. As if that changed the outcome. They would be executed anyway or rot in a cell. I only sped up the process. Efficiently.
After that, I worked on my own terms. Police, criminals, nobles, civilians—anyone who got in my way became a target. Killing became routine. The world made me this way. Humanity is greedy, self-serving, and dishonest. I just stopped pretending otherwise.
No one in my life ever earned my loyalty. Sacrifice? That's a word for fairy tales. I've never seen it in action. I don't believe it exists—not really.
Maybe I'm the only one who sees people for what they are.. animals in masks, pretending to be civilized. I got tired of pretending too.
My parents abandoned me at four. Sold me off to clear their debts. The family that bought me wasn't noble—just rich and broken. I was a replacement for their dead son. Nothing more.
The mother had a fixation on dressing children. I became her doll—sometimes even forced into girls' clothes. The father barely spoke. When he did, it was with his fists.
I escaped at nine. Ended up in an orphanage. Child labor was the rule there. No work, no food. Simple system. Ruthless, but effective.
I remember the oldest boy—fifteen. He stole food for the younger ones. They caught him. Left him outside in a snowstorm for three days as punishment. When they finally checked on him, he was frozen solid. We buried him ourselves.
At sixteen, I was kicked out. Started lifting crates, running deliveries, and occasionally picking pockets just to eat. I rented a one-room flat in a crumbling building. Barely livable, but better than the street.
At nineteen, the same family from my past reappeared. Instead of running, I used them. I demanded they pull strings to get me into the police force. They complied. Money buys access.
As a cop, killing became normalized. Later, it turned into a job—freelance contracts, paid eliminations. Murder became just another transaction. And the money flowed.
In my downtime, I read. I don't know why, but I picked up a book called Love Against All Odds. It was popular. I wanted to see why. A waste of time. The title told me everything I needed to know. Lesson learned..the cover rarely lies.
Years passed. More kills, more money. The rich fools who bought me as a child died in an "accident." I inherited their fortune. Divine irony, perhaps.
Then one day, I woke up in the only romance novel I'd ever read. Love Against All Odds. Poetic justice? Or punishment?
How did I know it was that novel? Easy. The sun hit my eyes, I blinked, and I was surrounded by fire. Explosions rocked the earth. Then I heard voices—a man and woman speaking gently, but urgently.
"Dear Guardian, we won't be able to stay with you. From now on, Yiren will take care of you. When you're older, you can claim the kingdom. Just tell them proudly that you're the son of Henry and Janet, and show them the pendant in the cave. Protect it—it's our family's legacy."
Then the woman added softly, "Go to the Soran Cavern. You'll find magical weapons and answers there. You'll know who you are."
Henry and Janet. The names rang a bell. I'd read them before. It hit me—those were the protagonists of the novel.
But something didn't add up. They weren't supposed to die. The book ended with a happy-ever-after. So why was I here, alone, crying in the ruins?
Then it clicked. I didn't enter the story during its events—I came after. They had a child. Me. Or at least, I'm playing his role now. A baby in the middle of a burning battlefield.
I looked up at the massive tower piercing the sky. Instantly, a headache. I remembered from the novel—Yiren, the man at the top of that tower, was the final villain.
So why did Henry entrust me to him?
Abandoned again. Even in a second life.
And now, I'm to be raised by a madman?
Also, What were they thinking, asking a barely breathing infant to go to a cave? Wouldn't it have been easier to just tell Yerin themselves? Or did their stupidity truly surpass all limits—they really thought I'd understand and remember?
No point in analyzing their stupidity. I had other problems—like surviving in this new world.
My new body, at least, learned quickly. I began speaking early. Not clearly, but enough. Progress.
Just as I was getting used to this, the tower exploded.
Yiren descended. Of course, dramatically. He couldn't just walk like a normal person.
He landed in front of me. I didn't recall much of his description from the book—didn't care, honestly. But seeing him now... Silver hair down to his knees. Bangs covering half his face. Ice-blue eyes that looked like they'd freeze time.
He stared at me—clearly not expecting a baby.
I raised my hands toward him, mimicking the innocent gestures children use to get attention. I'd seen it work.
His expression was a blend of amusement and disbelief.
"Hey... what are you doing here, little one? Abandoned by your parents?"