CHAPTER THREE: MOTHERS HARSH LOVE

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Chronifer hadn't anticipated the sudden shift. It struck fast and hard, derailing his carefully planned displays of gradual growth, shattering the illusion that he had any real control over his new life.

His mother, Slora, had become an unpredictable variable. For the first ten days after his rebirth, she’d kept a steady, predictable routine with him–gentle conversations, basic alphabet lessons, enough interaction to observe him without revealing too much. But now, her approach had shifted.

“Have you finished The Tree Within by Mofius?” Slora asked. Her voice was steady, rich, and husky, intimidating in its calmness. There was a weight behind it that demanded attention, though it carried a trace of warmth, as if she was reluctant to reveal too much harshness to her son.

As Chronifer entered her study, he reflected on the shift that had followed his first look at his system–a change so immediate and unyielding it left him reeling. Almost overnight, his mother’s demeanour sharpened into something coldly intense, pressing him with quiet demands that bordered on relentless. She tested him with a determination he’d only glimpsed before, eyes hollow yet piercing as she urged him to learn faster, retain more, and speak with a precision he wasn't supposed to show yet. Though some would call it abusive, Chronifer knew better–this wasn’t cruelty but a calculated force, driving him to a pace he hadn’t planned for. His own careful control had been lost in her storm of expectation, and he struggled to keep up, feeling as if he were a ship without a sailor in unknown waters, desperately trying to re-establish a foothold on his own life.

He nodded to her question, holding up the book briefly before glancing around the room. The study, like much of the mansion, was shrouded in faint shadows, yet it felt different here–this was his mother’s sanctuary, her domain where she managed her affairs. Chronifer wasn’t entirely sure what those affairs entailed, but one question that had lingered in his mind had already been answered: she was no queen. After all, what kind of queen stayed locked away in an empty mansion?

His gaze drifted to the towering shelves of dark wood, stretching from floor to ceiling and lined with countless books. Yet, his attention was fixed on a single empty spot. Stepping forward, he placed the book back in its place with care–a small, deliberate act of completion in this shadowed and sacred space.

“Come here, my soul,” she said–a term of endearment she’d been using more lately, one of many in rotation. Sun, love, my dear, son... Chronifer suspected she just disliked his name. Chronifer. Though he mused to himself, it does sound cool.

He crossed the room toward her, passing the heavy desk and stopping beside her chair. She lifted him effortlessly onto her lap.

“Alright then,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of a smile, “answer these questions carefully. But if you miss any, you’ll be expected to finish five books in a week.” Chronifer turned to her, his expression one of pure horror, eyes widening in silent protest. His mother only laughed, and then, with a smirk, added, “Make that six.”

Chronifer, a dedicated hater of most curses, unleashed everyone he knew in the silent fury of his mind.

His mind flashed back to a particular low point: a book she’d given him, the first which she expected him to finish by the end of the first week. It was massive, the size of a small boulder and filled with more words than every textbook and article he’d ever read on Earth combined. The title, Sword Styles of the Mal’al’atis Region, had sounded intriguing at first–until he realised he had zero foundational knowledge. Days went by just for him to comprehend the basics of sword forms, and the further he read, the more obscure it all became. The author’s enthusiasm bordered on obsession, with page after page of sprawling notes, diagrams, and maddeningly detailed explanations. To the writer, sword styles seemed to be life itself, leaving little room for Chronifer to even grasp anything beyond them.

Yet, through the relentless struggle, he’d managed to learn a thing or two–not just about swords, but about the multiverse itself. Each style in the book was designed around superhuman principles, drawing directly from the “Branches” his status screen had hinted at. These Branches weren’t merely skills or techniques; they were powers, rooted deeply in the fabric of the multiverse.

In his exasperated reading, the book had revealed mere fragments of that vast, layered structure–the multiverse, a massive fold of universes and mystical dimensions known as pocket realms, all interconnected and split into regions. He’d barely scraped the surface, but even that glimpse had left him in awe, and a little wary.

It was clear that Slora wasn’t making him read these books for pleasure. This was preparation, and he had begun to understand exactly what for. He had read six books so far through the month, the majority of which focused on monsters, human autonomy, and other races. Well, it was obvious from the system’s race category that others existed–he had reached that conclusion after the fact was spelled out to him–but reading about them in such detail was another matter. Chronifer didn’t know how to feel about the fact that he was knowledgeable enough to pass an exam on various ways to kill humans, other races, and countless monsters. The thought left him uneasy, though he wasn’t sure whether it was the knowledge itself or the reason he was expected to acquire it that disturbed him more.

He turned back to the paper his mother had laid out on her desk. I'm definitely going to ace this one, I've already got to finish three books within a week now. Chronifer looked at the questions and got serious, aiming to keep the pace unchanged. Chronifer had come to realise that he wasn't normal, or rather his body was not, he had consumed books, bigger than dictionaries in days and retained the knowledge.

Chronifer had been pained to let go of his sails but he had come to a concession on this particular topic, slora knew what she was doing and he bet his counterparts on earth weren't getting this theoretical education but rather a practical one, the message of the system still lingered at the edges of his mind. Well this is better, I could have been playing kid for months, while I died of curiosity.

Ten questions, Chronifer looked the questions over, this is definitely not what a five year old was meant to be answering. Chronifer remembered his mother being all panicked about him reaching six the way he currently was. Chronifer didn’t know what would happen then but apparently it was big enough for his mother to squil.

Whatever I better focus extra hard, it's definitely not because I'm scared or anything.

He looked at the questions, actually reading them.

“Mother,” he said hesitating, his voice tiny. “Are these questions from all the books I've read?” He turned to look into her green eyes.

“Yes…” She trailed off, her voice not what her face suggests, “you know what, it's time for lunch, I'm famished.” She added standing up, she shifted his position into that of a simple princess carry.

Chronifer shifted around in his mothers hands and smiled. Well there goes the exam and yay to mother's cooking. The first day slora had cooked in his presence he had expected to eat something subpar but she had been a goddess, Chronifer had never tasted anything better than her cooking.

“Let's have a talk about the books, which was your favourite, again?”

Chronifer’s mood plummeted

“A Guide to Morphborn and Trueborn Anatomy by Ryuu Gregor Shinasho,” Chronifer offered, as his Mother opened the door and entered the hallways of the mansion.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Slora’s feet falls echoed off the polished dark marble floors, the sound reverberated through the lengthy, and labyrinthine hallways. Oil paintings of battles and monsters lined the walls, each painting drawn with exquisite intent. Crimson and black tapestries hung at regular intervals, their patterns entwining symbols of the family horrifying insignia, which sent chills down Chronifer's spine.

“Why?” Slora asked, her voice echoing.

The clan insignia, black and dull gold, was hunting: it featured the face of a crying, chubby infant–features exaggerated in a way that distorts innocence into something unsettling. Its cheeks were swollen and glossy With streaks of gold that represented tears, while it's mouth was opened in a silent scream, The eyes, hollow and dark, gave the impression of something lost, insatiable.

Small, delicate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting forth amber glow along the hallways, which sent stretches of shadows along the walls, making the hallways grand and hunting.

“Well, I guess, I like the author's humour.” Chronifer answered, his mother walking unhurried but seeming to eat up distance regardless of common sense.

“You like Ryuu’s humour?” His mother laughed. Chronfier could sense a joke, he didn't know about, does she know him? Perhaps. Before he could say anything she spoke through her laughter, “Your father isn't going to like that, he finds Ryuu jokes to be old, oh, I wonder his reaction when his son thinks they're funny.”

“Do you know Ryuu?” He quickly added then, since his mother hardly talked about his father, he pounced on the opportunity. “When will father come back?”

“Yes, you’ll meet him eventually. After all, he’s part of the Spiral. Your father, on the other hand, is on, let’s say… a passion mission.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling with distant memories, her husky voice tinged with reminiscence. “Anyway, using the Genmagus Sword Style, which muscle groups are the easiest to target for reducing an enemy’s mobility?”

Chronifer gaped at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. There she goes again, he thought, frustration bubbling as she so casually dismissed the topic of his father–and this Ryuu person. His curiosity about his father grew with every unanswered question, and now there was Ryuu.

But then her words registered fully, and his eyes twitched. What the fu– He caught himself, cutting off the thought as he forced his mind to focus on the question.

“Oh, I'll give you only thirty seconds to think up your answers, but fear not my soul, I'm very accurate at keeping track of time.”

“Just kill me.” He said before he could stop himself.

He looked at his mother, and she met his gaze. For a moment, there was silence–then she burst into laughter, the sound light and unrestrained. Chronifer hesitated but soon found himself joining in, his laughter awkward at first before growing genuine.

“Twenty seconds left,” Slora said through fits of laughter.

Bloody…

“Well, there are a few key muscle groups that fit the style’s rhythm,” he began. Organising his thoughts.

“Go on,” His mother said expectantly.

“For quick results, the adductors in the thigh are ideal. Genmagus relies on fluid, angled strikes, so cutting here weakens an opponent’s balance, allowing for shifts around them easily. Hitting the quadriceps above the knee adds to this, slowing their pivoting to counter.”

Chronifer’s eyes were closed as he visualised how the style would be best utilised.

He continued with confidence. "Then, there’s the biceps brachii and forearm flexors. Genmagus strikes are often close-quarter, so…” his mother cut him off by nodding her head.

“Good, the next question is…”

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By the time they reached the kitchen, Chronifer had answered about fifteen different questions regarding sword styles and the anatomy of both Trueborns–races born sapient–and Morphborns, monsters and animals who gain sentience and the ability to morph their forms.

They reached the kitchen and Chronifer took a seat around one of the tables near the center island. The moment they entered, his mother stopped her questioning and began cooking. But then she did something she usually didn’t.

“Do you know your father is a lucky man?” she asked as she worked.

Chronifer scoffed. And how am I supposed to know that?

“I know nothing about my father?”

His tone had an edge. For months now, he’d been curious about the person he would be calling ‘father’ in this new life, but his mother always masterfully killed the topic.

She didn’t turn to look at him as she spoke. “Of course you don’t… he’s been gone for six years.” Her voice carried a bitter edge, each word deliberate, like she was cutting through the silence with a dull knife.

“I was about to cut ties with the Montcroix-Wythe clan and go back home,” she continued, her tone quieter now. “But then you woke up. And just when I’d nearly given up–like he could sense it–the bastard sent me an apology.”

Her hands stilled. The silence stretched unbearably long before she whispered, “He doesn’t even know he has a son.”

The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He doesn’t even know? His stomach twisted, a hollow ache spreading as he stared at her. The world around him felt suddenly smaller, heavier. His fingers curled into fists on the table.

She kept talking, her voice unsteady. “And I can’t even blame him. I’m sorry… but–” Her words faltered, dissolving into silence.

Why? His mind raced, a tangled mess of emotions. His chest tightened, a strange, suffocating heat coiling inside him. His heart thudded erratically, the sound hammering in his ears.

His breathing grew laboured. Why does it feel like everything’s falling apart? He gritted his teeth, trying to push the feeling down, but it surged stronger. His hands trembled, his vision blurred, his body betraying him.

Family. The word echoed bitterly in his mind. In his past life, with all his fame and power, he’d never had this. Nothing he’d achieved could fill the emptiness where family should’ve been. And now, here he was–finally part of something–and it felt like it was slipping away.

“My soul… My soul!” His mother’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts. Suddenly, her hands were on his face, lifting his chin. She knelt before him, her eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? Why are you panicking?”

“I…” His throat constricted, his voice barely a rasp. He tried to steady himself, to swallow the storm inside him. But the words broke free, raw and desperate. “Don’t… don’t leave him.”

She froze, her hands stilling on his face. Her expression shifted–shock, confusion, then something softer.

The plea hung between them, unguarded and vulnerable. Tears blurred his vision, spilling down his cheeks. “Please,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Don’t let this family fall apart.”

Her gaze softened, her unreadable expression dissolving into quiet resolve. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, brushing the tears from his face.

“Okay,” she murmured, pulling him close. Her warmth steadied him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t.”

A simple promise. But it was everything he needed to hear.

Three days later, Chronifer was still embarrassed. Although his disgraceful breakdown had closed the distance between him and his mother, she was more open with him about matters concerning the Montcroix-Wythe clan, though she still didn’t tell him much, saying his father would do that. I pray he's mostly a good person, was a thought Chronifer found himself having.

The day after his breakdown, a new month had begun, and his mother had told him to reread the six books he already had over and over until he knew every word of them. She also told him he was free to explore the entirety of the mansion and its yards.

Chronifer settled into a rhythm, spending hours with the six books his mother had set out. Day after day, the weight of their knowledge settled into his mind, shaping his thoughts.

Chronifer found himself working out in the mornings, something he had done frequently in his past life. The time was hard to track since there were no clocks throughout the mansion, but he just listened to his body instead. That became his early and mid-morning routine. The late morning was spent reading, while he usually explored the mansion and yards in the afternoon, going through the books he had to absorb. During the evenings, he talked to his mother about the books he had read, and she sometimes told stories–not relating to his father or the Spiral, but about the Multiverse, heroes, gods, and different characters–stories that shaped Chronifer’s wants.

On one of the many days blurring into each other, Chronifer found himself face-to-face with a demon. His body tensed instinctively, every sense on high alert. In an instant, the peaceful days of reading and training fell away, replaced by a pulse of danger he’d almost forgotten. And in that moment, he realized exactly what his mother had been preparing him for.