Varik Verilion lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his quarters, counting a crack that split into three near the pillar. He had counted it every night for years. It never changed. Neither did he.
The pill rested on the table beside his bed—white, smooth, anonymous. He did not hesitate. Hesitation belonged to people who still weighed outcomes.
He swallowed.
Swallowed the Soul Numbing Pills.
They are like drugs, though way weaker, but efficient.
The bitterness lingered at the back of his throat as he rose, pulled on his robe, and stepped into the corridor. His movements were steady, practiced. Anyone watching would have mistaken it for calm.
He had learned long ago how to look functional.
"Young master."
The voice came from behind—old, careful, strained with something close to fear. Steven, Varik's protector, stood at the end of the corridor, lantern in hand. The light exaggerated the lines on his face, turning concern into something heavier.
"You're out late," the old man said. "Where are you going?"
"The lake."
Steven frowned. "Alone?"
Varik adjusted his sleeve. "I want to see it."
"The night is heavy," Steven said. "It isn't safe outside."
Lao Tzu paused, then turned.
"Do you really think," he asked quietly, "that anyone would bother harming me?"
Steven opened his mouth, then closed it. Hierarchy demanded caution. Experience demanded honesty.
"You are still a member of the main family," he said. "Even now."
Varik smiled—but his filled with numbness.
"There are two kinds of people the world leaves alone," he said.
"The strongest—and the weakest."
Steven shook his head. "The weak are harmed the most."
"No," Varik replied. "The weakest are ignored."
He stepped past the old man.
"Don't follow me."
Steven bowed. "Understood."
The lantern light receded. Varik did not look back.
---
Steven stood there long after the footsteps faded.
He told himself it was none of his business.
He told himself he was a servant, not family.
Neither thought held.
In five years of service, he had watched the boy shrink—not physically, but inwardly. He had seen unopened letters returned. Hope, learning to die quietly.
15 years old. And no Cultivation.
He possesses no resonance with any authority.
Abandoned by his mother and rejected by the academy.
Steven had lived for a hundred years. He had seen sects rise and rot, prodigies burn out before forty, geniuses decay into tyrants. He understood the rules of this world.
Which was exactly why this unsettled him.
Soul-numbing pills.
He had seen them. He knew what they did.
Once you start, you don't stop.
"It was inevitable," he muttered. "That's what this world calls mercy."
Varik's marriage annulment had been public. The humiliation efficient. The message unmistakable:
You have nothing left to offer.
Steven exhaled slowly.
"No one harms the weakest," he said to the empty corridor.
"Because there is nothing to take."
He did not follow.
---
The lake lay still, a sheet of dark glass reflecting a sky indifferent to human timing. Lao Tzu sat at its edge, knees drawn up, fingers pressing into damp soil.
"So you knew," he murmured, imagining Xuan Yu's eyes on his back.
"Of course you did."
He laughed softly. The sound collapsed before it could become real.
Pitiful.
That was the word, wasn't it?
He stared at his reflection—pale, hollow-eyed. A face people looked past without guilt.
"What choice did I have?" he asked the water.
He had trained. Endured. Bent. Swallowed pride until humiliation became routine. He had chased approval like oxygen—mother, father, elders, anyone.
Five years without a letter.
He closed his eyes.
"I thought effort was enough," he said. "How stupid."
His fingers clenched.
Love was not given.
It was exchanged.
Parents protected children who justified the investment. Sects protected cultivators who strengthened the sect. Kings protected nations that kept them kings.
Trade. Always trade.
He opened his eyes again, bloodshot.
"And I had nothing to trade."
The realization no longer hurt. It had already finished its work.
Death, at least, would end the accounting.
But beneath the numbness, something shifted.
Rage—not loud, not explosive. Dense. Compressed. A thing denied expression for so long it had grown heavy.
He stood.
And started saying things, as if he were talking to the world itself, that refused to understand him.
"If you were talentless like me," he said to the silent world, voice shaking,
"would you dare say the things you said?"
His breath quickened.
"All of you—arrogant because you were lucky. Cruel because it cost nothing."
He laughed, sharp this time.
"I exist," he said. "I'm alive. I'm still here."
The words surprised him.
"I don't want to end," he admitted hoarsely.
"I want to move. I want to walk. I want to dominate."
Silence answered.
"No one is coming," he whispered. "Not in this life."
His hands trembled—not weakness. Exhaustion.
"I hate that I need you," he said. "Resources. Protection. People. I hate that I can't live alone."
His chest tightened.
"I begged my mother in those letters."
"I begged my father to let me stay."
The memory burned.
"They played me," he said. "My father kept me only because kicking me out would stain his reputation."
His jaw tightened.
"And my mother…"
He swallowed.
"She never cared."
All those words he offered in his letters?
The desperate words. The promises. The love offered like a bribe.
Pathetic.
The word landed cleanly.
"And I hate that you're right."
The lake did not respond.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his sleeve and withdrew the remaining pills. White against his palm. He stared at them—then scattered them into the water.
They sank without a trace.
"I don't want peace," he said.
"I want leverage."
The word felt alive. Dangerous.
"I should have blackmailed her," he whispered.
"Threatened to expose the divorce. Taken the money.
She wouldn't have been able to do anything."
A humorless smile flickered.
"They care about reputation more than blood."
His voice cracked.
"I need power. Money. Authority. The ability to refuse."
Then the truth:
"But I can't get it."
The rage finally broke containment.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" he shouted.
"Disappear?"
The night answered with something that was not sound.
Ding.
Varik froze.
"…What?"
Text unfolded before his eyes—precise, merciless.
[Helplessness detected.]
[Conditions met.]
[System awakening initiated.]
His pulse spiked.
"This—this is a hallucination."
[Physique detected: Absolute Neutral Body.]
[Compatibility confirmed.]
"What does that even—"
[Cognitive assessment initiated.]
[Baseline insufficient.]
His jaw tightened.
[Neurological anomaly detected.]
[Searching for optimal external cognition pattern…]
"What are you doing to me?"
[Match located.]
[Installing neurological framework: Zarik Wallace.]
"Who is Zarik?"
Pain did not come.
Something worse did.
The sensation of being overwritten.
Varik collapsed.
Consciousness folded inward—not into darkness, but into something colder.
The lake remained still.