It hurts.... Please stop....
The desperate plea was a ragged sound torn from my throat, raw and utterly futile.
I could taste the dust and the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.
I'll do anything...
My arms were wrapped tightly around my head, the inadequate defense against the relentless assault.
The world was a spinning canvas of blinding pain and dull, sickening impacts.
My body was constantly receiving punches and kicks in the back of the school.
I curled tighter, trying to make myself small, to disappear into the grimy brick wall.
It was their pleasure to see me finally showing emotions, but through physical and mental abuse.
My tears were my surrender, my terror their victory.
It really hurts...
Every nerve ending screamed in agony.
The pain was absolute, a heavy, crushing weight that felt like it would splinter my very soul.
I can't do anything...
The thought was a spiral of black despair.
My muscles were leaden, my spirit broken.
I had tried to fight once, and the retribution had been swift and brutal, teaching me that resistance was pointless.
I'm so weak...
The self-pity was an even deeper cut than the kicks.
I was a pathetic victim, powerless and alone.
Then I woke up.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in the huge, silken bed, my chest heaving.
The opulent room, the gentle light filtering through the velvet curtains—the stark contrast to the grimy alley behind the school was a shock to the system.
I reached a trembling hand to my face, but the skin was smooth and unbruised.
It was a dream of my past life.
The memory, however, was vivid and agonizing, replaying the terror and the crushing helplessness of being entirely at the mercy of others.
Even this body's influence of me being tougher and braver, it was just the exterior.
The sudden, cold wave of calculation and indifference that had defined my new life moments ago evaporated, replaced by the familiar, cold sweat of fear.
The Draeven Vaelir de Morvaine persona, the aloof, high-and-mighty shield, was just a facade.
I realized I was still me, the fragile, scared one who was using this exterior as a shield because...
I didn't want to get hurt again.
The bravery was borrowed; the fear was my own.
And the thought of facing my powerful family tomorrow evening suddenly felt terrifying again.
It was still early, long before the dark night would truly set in.
The light filtering into the room was the soft, muted glow of late afternoon, lending a heavy, tired atmosphere to the chamber.
I sat up slowly, my heart still pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and finally felt amiss.
My eyes felt swollen from crying, it seemed, and my... my nose and mouth...
I lifted a hand, touching my face gingerly.
My fingers came away slick with a deep red.
Blood.
This...
This...
The sight of the blood, a tangible, physical injury in this perfect, pristine new life, broke the last fragment of my composure.
It wasn't the pain that shocked me, but the reality of it.
The servants who carefully entered to check, keeping things in order, were shocked when they saw me.
Three figures, a man and two maids, had silently glided into the room to tidy up some scattered pillows and books.
They froze instantly, their eyes widening marginally as they took in my appearance.
Surprisingly, they quickly recovered and tended to me like this was always happening.
The shock lasted only a second.
The man, the supervisor, snapped out an order, and the two maids rushed forward with practiced, silent efficiency.
One produced a silk handkerchief to gently wipe the blood from my chin and nose, while the other moved to fetch a basin of water.
Their movements were not clumsy with surprise, but smooth and rehearsed, as if cleaning up a bloody nose was a routine part of their daily duties.
Why?
This was not mentioned in the journals and books.
I searched my memories of the documents I had consumed.
There was no mention of the aloof young prince having mysterious, spontaneous nosebleeds or injuries.
Am I sick but not publicly known?
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
A secret, debilitating illness would explain the Grand Duke allowing me to reside here alone, and it would explain the servants' practiced, resigned demeanor.
This was a detail the family history certainly wouldn't advertise.
I needed to investigate this anomaly before I set foot in the palace tomorrow.
I asked the man about my illness.
I kept my voice low and even, adopting the aloof mask of Draeven Morvaine.
I tried my best to maintain composure, acting as if I knew I was ill, to see if I really had an illness.
"What is the cause of this, Marcus?"
I used his name, which I had gleaned from the journal entries as the head attendant, to add weight to my question.
"It seems my condition is worse than I had been led to believe. Explain it to me."
The supervisor, Marcus, flinched but straightened his back.
"Your Highness..."
He explained that somehow my condition got worse.
"It is not an illness, per se, Your Highness. It is a chronic weakness,"
Marcus explained, his tone carefully neutral.
"The healers have noted that since birth, your magical affinity has been so volatile that it affects your physical well-being. The extreme emotional or physical strain can cause a bleed or an intense fever."
I engaged in a low, quiet exchange, acting disinterested but listening intently.
"You are naturally weak in birth, they say, as we exchanged conversations."
Marcus confirmed that the official story was a congenital weakness.
My body simply couldn't handle the sheer potential of my Mana affinity, and any strong emotion—even extreme stress or a bad dream—caused a physical flare-up, leading to internal pressure and the spontaneous bleeding.
This made my aloofness necessary.
The original Draeven hadn't been an emotional recluse out of choice, but out of necessity.
Any strong feeling could literally cause his body to bleed.
After they left, seeing me taking the meds—a bitter-tasting liquid that Marcus assured me would stabilize my Mana—things finally sank in.
The cause of the aloofness and coldness.
The original Draeven hadn't been cold because he was a jerk; he was cold because any emotional expression could physically hurt him.
His indifference was a survival mechanism against his own body.
The attitude of the people around me now made sense.
The Morvaines were a family of powerful magic swordsmen who valued strength, but beneath their composed exteriors lay concern.
I wasn't shunned out of disdain but protected from strain.
They kept their distance not because they didn't care, but because they feared their presence, emotions, or expectations could harm me.
Their restraint was their form of affection — quiet, distant, but sincere.
I've inherited not a cold personality, but a fragile, ticking time bomb of a body, 'I thought, staring at the small, half-full bottle of medicine.'
'My fear is not just emotional now; it's a physical vulnerability that the real Draeven fought with his entire life.'
The stakes for the family dinner tomorrow had just escalated exponentially.
I needed to control my fear, my memories, and every single emotion, or I wouldn't just be embarrassed—I could be seriously injured.
I began contemplating things.
I stared at the ceiling of the ornate room, the soft afternoon light failing to lift the shadows from my thoughts.
What was the point of being alive again when I already decided to end it?
The question wasn't philosophical; it was a simple, bitter truth.
The sheer exhaustion of my past existence had culminated in a final decision, a decisive end to the pain.
I was tired of living, yet here I was. Still alive, but hurting.
The memory of the nightmare, the phantom ache of the kicks and punches, was proof that my emotional scars were as deep as ever.
And the spontaneous nosebleed had been a brutal reminder that my physical self was now just as fragile as my emotional self had always been.
But deep inside, I was thankful.
A cold, detached gratitude settled over me.
My personality in the past life seemed to be helping this body.
The chronic indifference I had developed as a coping mechanism against abuse and neglect was now a vital shield.
Since I was originally expressionless and detached, I wasn't causing the stress to this body to bleed.
The constant, low hum of anxiety that should be crippling Draeven's body was being neutralized by my ingrained lack of interest in the outside world.
It was only because of the nightmare, the sudden, sharp plunge into extreme emotional distress, that the physical trauma had manifested.
The calculative part of this body as well was his defense.
I realized the cold, analytical nature wasn't just a side-effect of a noble upbringing; it was another survival tool.
When emotion was dangerous, logic and strategy took over.
The original Draeven had been forced to become a rational machine to keep his heart rate down and his blood inside his veins.
'The weakness is the price of life, and the calculation and coldness are the required payment,' I concluded, a deep, resonant understanding of my new self solidifying in my mind.