"You stupid kid."
A fist slammed into my gut, knocking the air out of me. I barely had time to groan before another blow landed, sending me crashing to the ground. The guards had found me fast—too fast. My screaming must've drawn attention. The two knights I hadn't managed to kill were still standing, just bruised, and they grabbed me without hesitation.
I saw Liese. She was sobbing, clinging to their legs, begging them to let me go.
But they didn't care.
They dragged me away, tossing me into a carriage. I didn't bother struggling. My body was battered, my head pounding, and my vision blurred from the blood loss. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was coming next.
Punishment. Execution. Whatever they had planned, it wasn't going to be good.
I leaned back against the carriage wall, breathing heavily. My entire body ached, my wrists tied by the ropes, and my throat was parched. How long had it been since I last drank water? A day? Maybe more.
Still, I wasn't exactly regretting what I did.
The bastard had it coming.
Even if I hadn't been in control—if something inside me had snapped—It was weird that I'd done it.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
The doors swung open, and before I could move, the guards grabbed me and untied my restraints, shoving me forward. Sunlight burned my eyes, making me squint. My stomach churned with hunger, my throat screamed for water, but I barely had time to process anything before—
A boot slammed into my back.
I hit the ground face-first, dirt filling my mouth.
"Get up," a voice commanded.
I groaned, slowly pushing myself to my feet. Geez, man, at least give me a second to adjust. But then again, what kindness could I expect from a man whose master was killed by a kid?
As I was led forward, I finally took in my surroundings. The estate wasn't what I expected. It wasn't some grand, luxurious mansion. It was ugly. Cold. More like a fortress than a noble's home.
And standing in front of it was him.
Victor Leclair.
The noble on horseback. The brother of the man I killed.
He was handsome, I'll give him that. Dark hair, sharp jawline, piercing eyes. He looked at me with a cold, unreadable expression, his stance firm, commanding.
But I knew that look.
He was about to fuck me up.
"You understand what you did?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Though you are a child, you still murdered my brother."
I said nothing. What was there to say?
Victor exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple as if dealing with me was an inconvenience. "I never liked him," he admitted. "But he was still my blood." His gaze hardened. "I'll give you a choice."
I tensed.
"You can die now. It will be quick. Painless." His voice was eerily calm. "Or, you can live."
I swallowed.
"But if you choose to live, you will spend a year here. Every day will be hell."
I almost laughed. Did this guy think I'd pick death? No matter what, I'd survive. One year of hell was better than rotting in the ground.
So, obviously—
"I'll live."
Victor smirked. "Good."
...
One hour later.
I screamed.
The metal chain cracked against my back, tearing through my skin. Fire burned through my nerves.
Holy fuck, a chain?!
Another lash. My body arched in pain. I gritted my teeth, but I couldn't stop the strangled cry that escaped.
Another.
And another.
And another.
I lost count.
365 days of this?
AHHHHHHHHHH!
I couldn't even control my own voice. It fucking hurt.
This went on for days. Months. I lost count.
Each time, they beat me until my body went numb. Each time, I collapsed the moment they left, only to wake up to the sting of a whip against my skin. Over and over, until pain was the only thing I knew.
Victor wasn't lying. This was hell.
I had learned to wake before they reached me, honed my senses to the slightest shift in the air, the faintest creak of a door. There was no mercy in ignorance. If I had to suffer, I wouldn't suffer under the element of fucking surprise.
—Giggling?
My body tensed. A sound in the dead of night.
Steps. Light, hesitant. Too soft to belong to the bastards who usually came.
A child?
The door creaked open. My eyes, long adjusted to the darkness, saw her immediately.
A girl. Young. Around my age.
Her hair was dark, but the tips were red—like embers at the end of dying coal. If I were back in my world, I would have assumed it was dyed. Here? It seemed natural.
Not that it mattered. I couldn't speak.
She hesitated in the doorway, blinking into the pitch-black room. "Aww… Marcom didn't tell me. I thought there would be something interesting here, but this is boring."
…Interesting?
I suppose I was, in a way. A battered, half-dead prisoner strung up in a noble's dungeon. Not exactly something a child saw every day.
I think I understood why she was here. Tell a child not to do something, and they'll want to do it. Curiosity was natural.
For a child, that is.
For me?
I was long past that age.
The girl stepped forward, hesitating as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She stumbled slightly, but when she looked up, her gaze landed directly on me.
Her lips trembled. "A-a-are y-you okay?"
A normal reaction. A sheltered child, raised in luxury, suddenly faced with something outside her world. I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to—my throat was too dry, my body too weak.
She took another step closer, eyes scanning my face. Then, as if introducing herself at a tea party rather than a dungeon, she said, "I'm Dahlia."
…Did I ask? No I didn't.
Wait. Dahlia?
A name I knew. A name I should know.
Victor Leclair. The noble who put me in chains. His surname echoed in my mind. Leclair.
Right. Dahlia Leclair.
A minor character in the game. A girl hopelessly in love with the prince, only to be cast aside when he fell for the protagonist. And what did she do in response?
Suicide? No.
She tried to bomb the school.
Crazy, right? A psycho at her core
And now, that same girl was standing before me.
CLANK.
What?
The cold weight on my wrist vanished. The shackle fell to the ground.
Before I could react, CLANK.
The second chain unlocked. My body, too weak to support itself, crumpled to the floor.
For a moment, Dahlia froze. Then she rushed to my side, dropping to her knees.
"Do you need help?"
Her voice was soft. Her hands, trembling, reached for a water bottle nearby. She lifted it to my lips, carefully tilting it so I could drink.
…Maybe she wasn't crazy.
Maybe, right now, she was just a child. A child untouched by heartbreak, by obsession, by the bastard prince waiting for her in the future.
Dahlia Leclair. The granddaughter of the Viscount.
Except there was no Viscount.
The man had been dead for over a decade. Victor Leclair had been covering it up, acting as the family's head in his name. If anyone found out, he'd be executed.
And how did I know this? Because Dahlia's failed bombing would be the catalyst for the investigation. The noble families, outraged that their heirs were nearly killed, would demand answers. And when they found them—
The Leclair name would be wiped from history.
A brutal ending. Deserved, even.
Dahlia didn't know any of this.
Right now, she was just a girl trying to help a stranger.
A stranger she should never have saved.
My fingers pressed against the cold, damp stone floor. And then—
A strange sensation.
The rough texture, the faint ridges of dust, the lingering warmth where my skin made contact—I felt everything. Every grain, every imperfection. It wasn't normal. This was something beyond simple touch.
What is this feeling?
And then it clicked.
Clarion.
The power system of this world.
Every story had one—some kind of unique ability framework that shaped the rules of power. And in this world, it was Clarion. A force rooted in the five human senses: vision, taste, hearing, touch, and smell.
Magic? No. Something different. Something primal.
And I… I had awakened it. Clarion: Touch.
I clenched my hand. The sensation of everything flooded my mind—the weight of dried blood, the subtle cracks in my fingernails, the lingering sting of past wounds.
It wasn't hard to guess why.
The moment I killed someone, the sensation of blood and death on my hands must have triggered it. My body had remembered.
I lifted my gaze to the girl.
She knelt beside me, eyes wide with a child's naive curiosity, oblivious to the decision forming in my mind. My body was weak, my wounds burned, but this was my best chance. The chains were gone. The door was unlocked.
But she was a witness.
My fingers twitched. The sensation of the cold air against my skin, the faint tremor in her breath—I could feel it all. Clarion: Touch had heightened my awareness to the point where I could sense the pulse in her wrist, the slight tension in her muscles.
She wouldn't even have time to scream.
I will kill her swiftly.