The stillness of the night enveloped Myuk like a heavy blanket, the darkness outside his window absorbing sound and light, leaving only the echoes of his troubled thoughts. He had hoped that this new world would be a fresh start, a chance to escape the torment of his past. But even here, in this foreign land, the ghosts of his memories clung to him, refusing to let him find peace.

Myuk settled into the bed, his body heavy with exhaustion, yet sleep remained elusive. He stared up at the ceiling, the events of the day replaying in his mind, mingling with the shadows of his past. He questioned himself, wavering in his resolve. Was he on the right path? Did he really have to become what he despised just to prove his worth?

Finally, sleep claimed him, dragging him into the depths of his subconscious where the boundaries of reality began to blur. Myuk found himself standing in a dimly lit hallway, the air thick with a sense of foreboding. The walls were lined with peeling paint, and the flickering lightbulbs overhead cast long, menacing shadows. He recognized this place immediately—it was a distorted reflection of his childhood home, twisted by the darkness that had haunted him for so long.

The echo of his stepfather’s voice reverberated through the hallway, dripping with venom. “You’re worthless, worm! How many times have I told you!” The words were knives, stabbing deep into the core of his being. But this time, they were accompanied by a visceral memory, one that tore through him with the same intensity as it had when he was a child.

He was seven years old again, huddled in the corner of his bedroom, his small frame trembling as he tried to make himself invisible. The room was dim, the only light coming from the hallway where his stepfather’s shadow loomed large. The door creaked open, and his stepfather’s silhouette filled the doorway, casting a long shadow over the boy.

“Pathetic boy” His stepfather’s voice was cold, and Myuk could see the bottle of alcohol in his hand, the telltale sign of what was to come. “You think you can hide from me, boy?”

Before Myuk could respond, the man’s hand lashed out, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him into the center of the room. Myuk’s heart raced, fear choking him as he struggled against the iron grip. But it was no use. His stepfather’s breath reeked of alcohol, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a simmering rage.

“I lost my job because of you, pathetic piece of filth.” The man’s voice was a low growl, a warning of the pain that was about to follow. Myuk’s body tensed, his small hands trembling as he tried to brace himself for the inevitable.

The first blow came without warning, a front handed slap that sent Myuk sprawling to the floor. The taste of blood filled his mouth as he bit his tongue, the metallic tang a harsh reminder of his vulnerability. But the pain didn’t stop there. His stepfather’s kicks followed, each one more brutal than the last. The impact of heavy boots against his ribs, his back, his legs—there was no escape, no relief.

The world blurred around him as the beating continued, each strike accompanied by a litany of curses. “Just die already! You’re worthless! You’ll never be anything but a waste of space!” The words dug into his psyche, each one a cruel reinforcement of the physical pain he endured.

Myuk tried to curl into a ball, to protect himself from the onslaught, but his stepfather was relentless. The man grabbed a nearby belt, the leather snapping with a sharp crack as it met his skin. The pain was searing, leaving welts that burned long after the strikes ended. But it wasn’t just the physical pain that broke him—it was the knowledge that no one would come to help him, that no one cared enough to stop it.

He could hear his mother in the other room, her voice low and pleading. “Please, stop. He’s just a child.” But her words were weak, barely audible over the sound of his stepfather’s fury. She wouldn’t come to help him—she never did. She was too afraid, too beaten down herself to offer any protection.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the beating stopped. His stepfather stood over him, breathing heavily, the belt still clenched in his hand. “Clean yourself up,” the man spat, disgust dripping from his voice. “I don’t want to see your worthless face for the rest of the night.”

With that, his stepfather turned and walked out, leaving Myuk crumpled on the floor, his body a throbbing mass of pain. He lay there for what felt like hours, unable to move, his mind a whirlwind of fear, anger, and helplessness.

Suddenly, the scene shifted, and Myuk found himself in a schoolyard. The familiar setting did nothing to ease the tension in his chest. Laughter echoed around him, cruel and mocking, as his classmates circled him like predators. The ringleader of the bullies, a stocky boy with a sneer permanently etched on his face, pushed him to the ground.

“Look at the freak! What are you gonna do, cry?” The jeers pierced through him, each one a dagger to his heart. Myuk tried to run, to escape the taunts and the laughter, but his legs felt like lead. The bullies closed in, pushing him to the dirt, their hands rough and unforgiving. He could feel their fists and feet striking him, the pain sharp and unrelenting.

“Why don’t you just disappear?” one of them sneered, grabbing a handful of Myuk’s hair and yanking his head back. The pain shot through his scalp, tears welling up in his eyes, but he forced them back. “Nobody wants you here anyway!”

The bullying wasn’t just physical—it was psychological, a relentless assault on his already fragile self-worth. They would steal his lunch, his money, his belongings—anything that could be taken was fair game. They drew cruel images on his desk, scrawled hateful messages in his notebooks. They would isolate him, turn others against him, ensuring he had no allies, no friends to turn to.

“Let’s see how tough you rare,” one of the boys snarled, slamming him into a locker with enough force to rattle the metal. Myuk’s head struck the cold surface, the pain blinding for a moment as stars danced in his vision. He slumped to the ground, too weak to fight back, too broken to care.

But the worst part was the indifference. Teachers walked by, turned a blind eye, offered no help. The other students watched, some with pity, others with disdain, but none with the courage to step in. Myuk was alone, a punching bag for their frustrations, a target for their cruelty.

“Nobody cares about you, Myuk!” one of them shouted, the words searing into his mind like a brand. “You’re worthless!”

With a jolt, Myuk was pulled from that memory, only to find himself in a dark cavern. The walls glistened with moisture, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth. He realized he was back in the dungeon where he had first arrived in this new world. The cold stone beneath him felt familiar, a reminder of the fear that had gripped him when he had been cast into this abyss.

But this time, he was not alone. Shadows danced around him, shifting and swirling, whispering secrets that clawed at the edges of his sanity. “You are not worthy,” they hissed, their voices a chorus of disdain. “You were brought here to die, just like you deserved.”

Myuk’s heart raced as he tried to make sense of the darkness that surrounded him. The weight of despair pressed down, threatening to crush him beneath its relentless grip. He was on the verge of surrendering to the abyss, but something kept him tethered, preventing him from slipping fully into the darkness.

Zyrith’s face flickered through the shadows, a brief and fleeting image that provided a momentary reprieve from the torment. But it wasn’t enough to save him—only enough to make him pause. He wasn’t done yet. There was still rage inside him, a deep well of anger that had been festering for years. He would use it, harness it, turn it against those who had wronged him. He would never be weak again. He would make them all pay.

The scene shifted again, and Myuk found himself standing at the edge of the darkness, his breath ragged and his heart pounding. The abyss still loomed before him, but now there was a flicker of light, faint but undeniable, cutting through the void. But this light wasn’t a beacon of hope—it was a warning. A reminder that there was a different path he could take, but one that was fraught with danger.

And in that light, Myuk saw a different path—one that wasn’t completely ruled by his past, but where the strength to move forward existed, no matter how faint it seemed. But for now, the rage was his ally, and he would embrace it fully. He would use it to tear down anyone who dared to look down on him, anyone who saw him as worthless.