Chapter 3: The Inevitable Truth
Zaeden D'Angelo – POV
Three Years Later
Life in this new world had been… tolerable.
I spent my days with my family—resting, eating, sleeping. But beneath the quiet rhythm, I was always learning.
In the past three years, I'd absorbed everything I could. Every word, every expression, every flicker of movement. With the Blessing of Intelligence, nothing escaped me. My mind recorded it all with perfect clarity.
Our meals were modest but enough. I'd grown into a child with blue hair and sharp emerald eyes—vivid like forest glass. They seemed to glow a little brighter every time I caught my reflection in the well water.
And the more I saw, the more I understood:
This world was far more complicated than it first appeared.
There were five major races—Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Demons, and Beastkin.
Most people I saw were human, with a handful of beastkin scattered through the markets. I remember once seeing an elf, tall and elegant, walking through town with his hood low and his presence silent. Rare.
But nothing opened my eyes like what I witnessed when I was just two years old. My mother had taken me into the city. And there, in the middle of the street, I saw her—clothes torn, face bruised and bloodied.
A beastkin woman. Chained. Screaming for help as onlookers threw garbage, curses, and worse.
The rancid smell—I despised it.
A stench that clung to memory.
Darkness.
Hatred.
The flaws of this world.
And I did nothing.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I couldn't.
I was small. Helpless. Powerless.
Just a child.
We lived on the continent of Telayalia—the westernmost landmass of this world. A land saturated in mana, dense forests, and dangerous magical beasts. Nine fractured nations carved its borders, with three ruled by humans.
Far across the sea lay Adria—a cold, war-scarred continent wrapped in ancient ruins. Of its five nations, only one was ruled by humans.
There were nobles, and commoners.
Discrimination, and injustice,
It was far from perfect.
I didn't just want to survive in this world.
I wanted to understand it.
And, eventually… change it.
But change starts with knowledge.
So I began with language.
By the age of two, I was already trying to decipher their script. The characters were unfamiliar—curved lines, odd spacing, backwards rules—but I studied them quietly, biding my time.
Eventually, the day came when I could speak without raising suspicion.
And that's when it truly began.
⸻
My mother, Kayla D'Angelo, had once been a noblewoman and a renowned author. But she gave it all up to marry my father—a farmer with no name, no title, and no future.
She chose love.
And the world never forgave her for it.
She didn't speak of her past, but I saw it in her eyes. In the way she paused when nobles walked by. In how her hands brushed longingly over books she couldn't afford.
My father, Roy D'Angelo, bore the weight of inherited debt. His own father had gambled everything away. And now, with another child on the way and barely enough food to survive, he'd grown distant—tired in a way that even sleep couldn't fix.
Lately, things had shifted.
At night when the stars shined the brightest.
He would walk out.
I once heard him whisper to the night, 'I'm a terrible father'—as if the stars were the only ones who'd listen.
Those aren't thoughts that repeat, unless you truly believe your choices are hurting your child—and yourself.
.
My mother smiled less. My father's shoulders slumped lower. I noticed the whispered conversations when they thought I wasn't listening. The silences when my name came up. The way they avoided my eyes.
They were planning… to sell me
And it broke my heart to forgive them.
⸻
It made sense, in a cold, logical way.
I was a burden. Another mouth to feed. A child too intelligent, too observant, too strange. A liability.
They were desperate.
But before that day came, I wanted one thing.
One last gift from my mother.
That morning, I found her sitting at the small kitchen table. Her back was stiff. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap. She didn't look at me—but I caught the tears in her eyes before she turned away.
I stepped closer.
"Mom," I said softly. "Can you teach me how to read and write?"
She turned, startled. Her voice cracked faintly.
"You want to learn… now?"
I nodded. "Please."
She studied me for a long moment, then gave me a small smile. Not forced—real.
"…Alright," she whispered. "Just know, it won't be easy."
"For most people," I said, smiling gently, "maybe."
She laughed. Quietly. Fragile, but genuine.
And just like that—we began.
⸻
Those days were the best I'd ever spent with her.
Each letter became a treasure. Each sentence, a sword.
She told me stories from her childhood—tales she remembered from her old life. One in particular stayed with me:
"Long ago, a prince among phoenixes soared through the skies, his wings wreathed in fire. But when he fell in love with a mortal, he was cast out—banished from the sacred lands of flame. Yet his blood still burns in our veins…"
I always wondered: Was it really love that doomed him?
Or something else?
It felt like a truth deliberately hidden.
Still… all I wanted in those moments was to stay beside her.
To keep my hand against her warmth.
But I couldn't.
Not forever.
This world wouldn't allow it.
And wishing changes nothing.
But knowledge…
Knowledge can.
And I needed it.
⸻
I devoured everything she gave me. Books on history, law, culture. I learned of kings and tyrants. Rebels and revolutionaries.
I learned that most people awaken their mana at age 10.
That commoners—if brilliant enough—could enter the famed Bryson Academy at 12.
And I learned about the Appraisal of Gifts Ceremony.
The single event that decided a child's future.
One moment that could define your path—whether to a life of obscurity… or to chains.
Then I discovered the Requisition Law.
A decree that anyone born with an A-rank or higher gift must serve the kingdom. Refusal was treason.
They would be taken by force.
Their families "compensated" with petty coins.
Five silver for A-rank.
One gold for S-rank.
Ten for SS.
Thirty for SSS.
They called it protection.
I called it legalized theft.
People with those gifts could reshape empires, alter wars—and they were sold for the price of a horse.
No matter what…
I had to avoid that fate.
Not just for me.
For them.
For my family.
⸻
One night, I overheard them.
"The Appraisal Ceremony is in one week," my father said quietly. "We'll learn Zaeden's gift."
He continued, voice low. "We can only pray it's not A-rank or higher. The Requisition Law… we can't survive that. Not after what happened last year."
"What happened last year… the screams still echo. That event was unspeakably cruel."
Last year?
What happened?
Did someone get taken? Killed? Silenced?
My mother's voice trembled. "Don't say that. We'll find another way."
"There is no other way," my father replied, almost gently. "I wish there was."
Then silence.
And the sound of her sobbing as he pulled her into his arms.
I stood alone in the hallway, listening.
Wishing it weren't true.
Hoping they wouldn't sell me.
But deep down, I knew:
The countdown had already begun.
And if they do sell me…
Will I still be able to forgive them?
This world isn't bright.
It's broken.
A place where suffering is currency.
A place I want to change.
But not yet.
Not now.
For now…
The clock is ticking.
And with each second… the inevitable draws near.
A truth.
That burned.