Liam didn't have many pleasant memories involving Arthur's father and didn't know much about him, either. The most vivid memory he had was the man refusing to adopt him after talking to the government officials at the orphanage and the most relevant piece of knowledge Liam knew about the man was that he was afraid of him, something Liam couldn't blame him for.

As they arrived at the island some time later, the group was greeted by the sight of Arthur's smiling father and mother surrounded by soldiers who dressed very similarly to the ones on the helicopter before. Arthur's father was a tall older man with a strong build, silver hair and a full beard, though his clear blue eyes made it clear that the man was far from senile. Arthur's mother, on the other hand, in spite of being middle-aged, still carried on her looks the spring of youth, her hair still a full brown, the same color as her eyes; the expensive dress did not hide her shapely figure.

"How did your parents manage to keep this many people under them after the System announcement, anyway", whispered Liam to his best friend, making sure not to look away from their welcoming entourage.

In an experienced way, Arthur quickly whispered back just at the right volume, like they had done so many times before.

"They multiplied their salaries. These are the ones willing to bet they're gonna be around after the first System summoning. Betting their everything on those two months afterwards before the second one. Not a gamble I'd make, personally."

Liam nodded almost imperceptibly, as Arthur's parents were already approaching them.

After an exchange of greetings, Liam was guided to his quarters, deep inside the huge resort that covered almost half of the island. Arthur's was next to his, a fact he somewhat appreciated. On the way, both men had talked to each other and made plans to physically prepare for the System summoning to the best of their ability. That meant intense physical exercise for the entire month, maybe three if they were on the second wave.

Liam sighed as he collapsed on his bed, giving himself one last chance to rest before the training began. He then began to think about what would happen after he got summoned by the System, and what exactly it would entail.

"Where will I be sent to? Is it even another, real place? What if it's not fit for human life? Did the announcement mean we'll have to compete with other intelligent species? Since when are those a thing?! Why-"

Liam knew there were no answers to his musings, but didn't let that keep him from begrudgingly thinking anyway. Sighing once again, he closed his eyes. Gradually, his consciousness drifted into sleep.

...

The box was small. Even at his age, it was too small for him. He did not know how long he'd been there, but laying on his own filth was starting to burn his skin. The stench was unbearable. Yet, he persevered wordlessly. Not even a grunt came out of his mouth. His eyes were as glassy as they were dead, but the child was very much alive.

The box opened with a creak, the feeble light from outside momentarily bliding the small child. After a few seconds of adjustment, he silently looked up. Staring back at him was a giant of man, his blue eyes colder than ever. The man's black beard and hair were surprisingly neat, given that his clothes were stained in various places and the man himself was sweaty like he'd just come out of a shower. Once he opened his mouth, a deep voice rumbled out.

"So? Ready to behave yourself now?"

The child weakly nodded before the man grabbed him and pulled him out of the box in a single move. Without another word from either of them, the man carried the boy out of the basement and into the house above, heading towards the kitchen. After putting the kid on a chair, he grabbed some food and threw it in front of the boy.

However, the boy did not eat. Even as his stomach growled and the smell of the bland, tasteless food assaulted his nose, he did not move.

"You can eat now", said the man. Only then did the child begin wolfing down the food in front of him. It had been days since his last meal. Days stuck inside the box.

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A woman's voice came from outside.

"Duncan! Duncan! You piece of sh*t, where's the wood?!"

The man's eyes flared with anger, something that made the small boy instantly curl up and look down, almost daring not to breathe.

"The wood's outside, woman! And watch your tone when you speak to me, b*tch!"

"I'll watch whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want it, you oaf! How dare you?!"

The woman burst into the kitchen, her blonde hair wildly dancing in the air. She seemed to be around her mid thirties, and would be considered quite beautiful were it not for her venomous eyes. She had only barely got inside the room before she started screaming at the man at the top of her lungs, grabbing a knife from the dirty kitchen's counter with shocking skill. As if he did not care, however, the man started screaming back, never bothering to give the knife a second look.

As his parents got in each other's face once again, the small boy silently slipped away upstairs, taking extreme care so that the wooden floor and steps beneath him would creak the least.

In his room, the boy quickly hid under dirty sheets he slept on, trying to make himself seem as small as possible. The room was filthy, small and cramped, but it was the only place the boy felt even remotely safe. The room was made of wood, just like the rest of the house.

In one of his escapades to the village nearby, the boy had heard from the villagers that his father had harvested the wood for the house with his bare hands, which would explain their lack of clear shape and of cuts.

It was only during one of those escapades that the boy had learned: his father was strong. Abnormally so. He'd never questioned it before, for his father was the only man he'd seen, but after watching another adult man trying to lift something both him and his father would easily be able to, the boy had realized; not only was his father strong, but he was too.

After each and every one of the escapades, the boy was severely beaten and thrown in the box when he got home. It was what made him stop.

The sound of solid wood shattering from a blow came from downstairs. The boy curled up underneath the sheets, breathing even shallower breaths. He then closed his eyes, trying to escape his reality.

Every day, a similar situation would play out. Every once in a while, one of the child's parents would get too angry at him for something small, and beat him. His father usually threw him in the box. His mother used her knife to make new scars. Both would make him starve for entertainment.

It was hell. At the age of 8, the boy had the majority of his body covered in scars and was severely malnourished. The villagers knew. However, they were far too afraid of the boy's father to make a move. Legends about him circulated throughout the village; some said the man could even break stone with his fists, others that he was bulletproof. As time passed, the legends only increased, as did the villagers' fear. There was no saviour coming for the child.

Despite that, as he got older the boy learned. He learned what would make his parents angry, that is, most things he would do, and the things he could do without retaliation. With time, the nameless boy got punished less and less. His scars were mostly old ones, and he hadn't been in the box for months. At the age of 10, the boy had managed to eat well and frequently enough that he was no longer malnourished. In fact, he could be considered quite healthy. It served to ease the villagers' mind. They convinced themselves all was well since it had ended well.

Until one fateful night.

The boy's father had arrived home in a drunken sturpor, which had caused his mother to launch into a screaming frenzy. The argument escalated and the boy headed upstairs like he always did. Sitting on top of his bed, he sharpened his hearing to the best of his ability, trying to understand what exactly was going on.

A woman's scream pierced through the air. Alongside it were the dull thuds of bone against flesh. Sounds too brutal to be a mere beating. The boy was alarmed like he never had been before, his heart threatening to burst. His muscles tightened in acute stress response before the boy decided to make his way downstairs. The hallway was dark. It was a night without moonlight.

Slowly descending the stairs, the boy managed to spy his father's figure punching a mangled mess of unmoving flesh. His mother. The boy's pupils dilated as he quickly grasped the situation. He felt no grief; the woman had caused him too much pain for him to weep for her. Instead, he feared for his own life.

'Am I next?'

His father rose up to his full height of over two metres tall, his hands covered in blood. With a sharp movement, he turned towards the stairs, his bloodshot eyes meeting the boy's, causing the child to be paralyzed in fear.

"Oh, kid. You see, she was pissing me off. Pour me some beer, will you?"

The man staggered towards the chair in the living room, stepping over his wife's corpse as if it were beneath his notice.

The boy felt as if he could hear his own beating heart, feeling the blood rush across his body with unprecedented speed. He knew that, at that moment, he was stronger than he'd ever been. However, it was far from enough. But he had to try.

The older man was incredulous as he watched the 11 year-old boy slowly begin to circle him, like a tiger in a cage.

"Hm? What? You're finally fighting back, huh?"

The man staggered up from his seat, stepping forward with such strength that the boy hesitated and wondered if he'd made the right choice. Nevertheless, the child made up his mind as he watched the man stumble in his drunkenness once again.

That night, Liam fought his father to the death.