For an indefiime, Mirac remained on his knees.

  The silence of the cell was broken only by his ragged breathing, ing in bursts like the wheezing of a wounded animal.

  Then, finally, the tears began to fall.

  Slow. Heavy. Scorg. Drops of salt carving invisible tracks into his skin, dragging with them shreds of innoce, trust, and love.

  He curled into himself, his shoulders hunched under a weight that was not just pain, but an even more atrocious realization: that he was alone.

  ‘We are no longer your family…‘

  Those words still echoed in his head, hammering away at any remaining hope.

  He clutched his arm to his chest in a desperate attempt to tain the emptiness expanding inside him, dev his stomach.

  The cell seemed to shrink, the walls closing in like jaws ready to crush him.

  The memory of their faces—his mother staring at him with hatred, his father impassive as a statue of ice, his sisters looking away—merged with older images: hands caressing him, shared ughter, hugs, kisses…

  All of it, gone forever in the span of a single night.

  “I-I ’t believe it…”

  A sob escaped him, broken, followed by a muffled whimper.

  He bent forward, his forehead striking the stone floor.

  The physical pain was a relief pared to his torn soul.

  “It’s not fair…” he whispered, his fingers g at the ground. “It’s not my fault…”

  No. Of course not!

  The bme y with whoever had sent that damer…

  But not just them!

  The real bme y with whoever had started this whole disaster!

  With whoever had branded him as a Chaotic…

  With the mysterious entity that had ned him to an Anomalous Syntony…

  And so, ultimately, the fault was its alone: Math itself!

  “It’s your fault…” he hissed, his gssy eyes staring into the void. “Yes, it’s all your fault…!”

  The sound of his voice crashed into the silence, reverberating through the shadows of the cell like an eadness.

  “Damn you…”

  A treman in his fingers, traveled up his arm, and finally erupted into a violent shudder that shook his entire body.

  Despair cracked, ah it, anger boiled—thid indest like va beh the ice.

  “DAMN YOU!” he suddenly roared, his voice a cavernous cry boung off the walls.

  He sprang to his feet. His legs wobbled, but he didn’t stop.

  The tears dried almost instantly, as if the fury c through his veins had burned away every trace of his grief.

  “It’s all your fault, Math!” he snarled, g his fist until his knuckles cracked.

  Without a sed thought, he hurled himself at the wall opposite the door, his arm outstretched, the strike charged with every ounce e in his body.

  Thud.

  The first punch struck the wall with a dull thud. The skin on his knuckles split against the rough stone, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Thud.

  The sed punch was harder.

  Thud.

  The third, even more. Devastating!

  Thud!

  On the fourth blow, blood spattered everywhere, staining the stone a deep crimson.

  “It’s your fault and your stupid Syntony!” he shouted, each word punctuated by an ever-fiercer punch.

  The punches grew more violent, more erratic. Fragments of skin remairapped in the cracks of the stone.

  The pain was distant, blurred by the adrenaline and the blind fury c through his body.

  “Why did you e?!” he sobbed, breathless. “Why me?! e on, tell me!”

  A final, strangled scream tore from his throat.

  But then, his body gave in.

  He colpsed, falling onto his right side, his palm against the ground, struggling to breathe.

  His hand was a mask of torn flesh, the exposed tendons pulsing with every heartbeat. Blood dripped slowly, trag senseless patterns on the floor.

  Then, little by little, the anger dissolved, leaving behind an abyssal emptiness, an oppressive silence so heavy that eve of standi impossible.

  Trembling, Mirac dragged himself to the darkest er of the cell, an instinctive, animalistic reflex to seek shelter where the shadows could swallow him. The straw pricked his skin through his clothes, but it was an insignifit disfort pared to the torment raging inside him.

  He curled into himself, knees drawn to his chest, forehead resting on the only arm he had—his right one.

  The wounds on his hand throbbed, but the real pain was elsewhere: in his chest, where his heart—that an too human, tile—seemed to have turned into a stone.

  “Why did you ruin this life too?!” Mirac sobbed between words. “Why ’t I live like everyone else?!”

  The sentence caught in his throat.

  “I never asked for much!” he murmured, his voice breaking. “All I ever wanted… was just… a normal life…”

  He closed his eyes, imagining himself sinking into the straw, slipping through the stone, dissolving into a pce where her Math nor pain could reach him.

  In the darkness, as the blood from his wounds slowly dried, a thought fshed through Mirac’s mind—ohat, at the same moment, stirred withior’s spirit:

  ‘But maybe… this isn’t really your fault, Math…’

  His muscles gradually rexed, his eyelids lowered halfway—his breath still uneven.

  ‘Maybe… the problem is ME…!’

  A shiver ran down his spine as the pain in his hand dulled, repced by a creeping numbness.

  And as his eyelids finally closed, his st thought faded into the void, fragile as a whisper:

  “Maybe… I just simply don’t deserve… to be happy in life…”

  * * *

  { 3 DAYS LATER… }

  Three days…

  Seventy-two hours…

  Four thousand three huwenty minutes…

  Thanks to his ability “Immaterial Clock,” Mirac hadn’t lost track of how much time had passed since his impriso—even though, by now, the very cept of time had lost all meaning for him.

  After venting his rage with a flurry of punches against the wall, Mirac had remaihere, motionless, lying on the ground in the farthest er of the cell.

  Sihen, he hadn’t moved.

  He hadn’t spoken.

  He hadn’t cried.

  He had done absolutely nothing.

  In that existential void, there was no oo fort him or stay by his side…

  No sound, except the irregur rhythm of his breath—bored and deep—and the faint crag of the wood burning iorches…

  No light, except the faint glow of the two torches hanging oher side of the door…

  No warmth, except for the fai his own body produced in a futile attempt to fight off the cold seeping into his bones…

  There was nothing.

  But above all, there was no food!

  Since he had been locked up, no one had brought him anything to eat, and every so often, his stomach growled to remind him of that fact.

  So, he had tried to at least quench his thirst by approag the rusty faucet jutting out from the wall. But when he had turhe knob with trembling fingers, not a single drop of water fell.

  Iably, day by day, Mirac felt his strength leaving him, growing weaker and more drained with each passing moment.

  His lips, cracked and coated with a thin white film, bled at the ers. The skin on his face, pale and stretched tightly over his protruding cheekbones, looked like dried part.

  His heart pounded in his temples, a furious drum amplifying the dull pain in his forehead.

  At first, Mirac thought they had simply fotten about him—and, therefore, about bringing him something to eat.

  But as the days passed, a more uling suspi crept into his mind: perhaps, his family simply believed that feeding him ointless now.

  After all, if his so-called “Divine Blessing” had already saved him from the poison, then it should have kept him alive even without food or water.

  But… did he really have a Divine Blessing?

  His first resurre had been nothing more than reination: he had died in his previous world as Vector and awakened in the body of Prince Mirac. However, no one could have known that, which was why everyone believed he had e back to life after his cardiac arrest thanks to a Divine Miracle from Mother Nature.

  And now, after having “risen” once again—surviving even the poison—it was only natural that King Arthur and the rest of the family had ged their minds, believing that the first time, it hadn’t been just a Divine Miracle that brought him back to life, but that Mother Nature had granted him an actual Divine Blessing.

  Even Mirac himself hadn’t been able to e up with another expnation for how he had survived the poison. As absurd as it souhe only pusible theory seemed to be exactly that: a Divine Blessing.

  However, after accepting this theory as truth, Mirac didn’t waste another sed dwelling on it.

  He didn’t want to.

  He had no i in unraveling the mystery of his inexplicable resurre.

  Nor did he care to find out whether he truly had a Divine Blessing.

  Not even to uncover who had told his family about his Chaotiature!

  By now, nothing mattered to him anymore…

  The only truth that really mattered to him now, was the ohat kept eg in his mind:

  ‘It’s exactly like my past life…’

  Living in solitude...

  Sleeping on the ground, without food or water…

  With no one by his side…

  Waiting patiently for the end of his miserable existence…

  Nothing that Mirac hadn't already experienced in his previous life.

  And the awareness of having once again been ned by fate to the same cruel fate ed him more than hunger and thirst.

  His eyelids weighed down on him like sheets of lead, but he dared not close them: every time he did, he saw again the cold eyes of those who had tried to kill him that night.

  So, forced to keep them open, his dull and sunkeared at the cra the wall across from the doht where he had thrown himself in a fit e—and where now his blood, drying, had left brownish streaks, the same color as his split knuckles.

  He no longer remembered how many times he had stared at that crack…

  He didn’t even know why he was doing it now!

  Perhaps to remind himself of wheill had the strength to release his anger. Ahat, by now, had beeinguished.

  He inhaled slowly.

  The air scraped his lungs like sandpaper.

  ‘Maybe I should try to get some sleep…’

  With this thought, Mirac closed his eyes, defying the memory of the icy stares that were waiting for him behind his eyelids.

  Perhaps sleep could erase everything, if only he stopped fighting.

  Surrendering to exhaustion was so easy: all he had to do was let his body, already so close to colpse, sink into the floor like a sack of bones…

  But then, suddenly, just as he felt his mind shutting down and his body giving in to sleep, Mirac heard a sound.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  At first, he thought it was the beating of his heart, a distant drum pounding in his temples.

  But the noise grew clearer, more real.

  It was footsteps: rhythmic steps in the hallway!

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The prisoiffened.

  ‘Could it be…?!’

  Mirac had no doubt: it was definitely someone from his family!

  Or rather, from those he could once call that…

  At the thought, a shiver ran down his spine, but he didn’t move.

  What did it matter anymore?

  Probably, bitterly reflected Mirac, they had simply remembered to feed him.

  That steady step wasn’t a sign of affe, but the cold annou of someone about to deliver the leftovers from dinner.

  After all, prisoners don’t get warm meals, nor any kind of sideration. Just crumbs, like those thrown to stray dogs before smming the door in their faces.

  ‘By now, I’m just a strao them…’

  At some point, the footsteps stopped in front of the cell.

  Mirac remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the cra the wall, on that dried red that reminded him of hile the flesh was.

  For a long, endless moment, only silence reigned.

  Mirac expected to hear the voice of one of his sisters, or perhaps his mother.

  But what echoed between the walls didn’t belong to any of them:

  “Young Prince, are you well? you hear me?”

  At that moment, Mirac felt his heart stop, suspended between o and the .

  ‘This voice…!’

  He flinched, his fiightening on the pile of rotten straw beh him.

  An irregur breath escaped his lips, like the wings of a moth in agony.

  With effort, he tore his gaze away from the cra the wall and slowly lifted his head.

  The barred porthole in the door was small, just enough to glimpse the outside.

  And right there, framed by the metal bars, he saw a face he never would have expected to see in that pce.

  First, he noticed the bck hood, from which strands of fiery red hair protruded.

  Theangur gsses outlining dark, attentive eyes, burning with something that was her fear nor pity… but a determination that felt strangely familiar to him.

  Mirac’s eyes and mouth opened wide.

  His vocal cords tracted, the muscles in his neck stiffened in an instinctive block—for endless seds, the sound remained buried uhe weight of astonishment.

  But then, when the knot in his throat loosened with a shudder, his voice came out faint, trembling:

  “C-Carmen?”

  The pupils, clouded by dehydration, tracted with difficulty in the dim light.

  “I-Is it really you, Carmen?”

  Iy, Mirac didn’t need an ahe torch the servant was holding was enough to clearly outline her features.

  It was then that the boy caught a glimmer in her eyes, while a bitter smile curved her lips.

  The metal bars creaked under Carmen’s fingers’ pressure, her knuckles turning white from the effort as she leaowards the inside of the cell.

  “Yes, it’s me,” replied the woman with red hair. “Five me for the dey, young Prince.”

  Mirac blinked rapidly, incredulous, as if to make sure he wasn’t halluating.

  "W-Why... Why are you here?" he stammered.

  Carmen didn’t answer immediately.

  Her eyes quickly slid over his wounds, the bloody hand, the corpse-like pallor.

  A muscle twitched along her jaw, as if she were holding back from saying something inappropriate…

  “A lot has happened, young Prince,” she finally murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “After your disappearahe King mobilized most of the castle guards to find you. In this way, the news spread quickly throughout the kingdom, and now everyone is looking for you. Meanwhile, despite the disappearance of his son, the King—apanied by Grand Knight Leonard and the Seven Infernal Knights—did not hesitate ahis m for the Sacred Region, where this year’s World ference will take pce. I have patiently waited for this moment to be able to reach you. Without this opportunity, I would never have made it. That’s why it took me so long.”

  Mirac took a deep breath.

  The relief of seeing her again mixed with a sense of uhat stirred in his chest.

  “No, Carmen… there’s no need… You don’t have to risk your life for me anymore…” he said, his voice cracked. “There’s a very good reason why I ended up in here… And that reason is-“

  Mirac was about to reveal the truth…

  To fess that he was a Chaotic!

  But then, a thought sparked in his mind…

  “Wait…!”

  His eyes narrowed. His heart started pounding faster.

  “Carmen… Why are you here?”

  To this question, she did not hesitate for a moment:

  “Is it not obvious, young Prince? I came here to save you!” she excimed, with a decisive tone. “But apparently, it won’t be that easy. This door is ented with powerful Fire Runes. Without the key or without deactivating the runes first, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help yo-“

  “No.”

  Mirac’s tone greer, his voice trembling with somethiill couldn’t name.

  “You misuood my question, Carmen… What I meant to say is… How are you here?”

  A heavy siletled between them.

  “For all this time…” Mirac licked his lips, dry from the effort, “I thought they had poisoned you along with me that night… I thought you were dead! But apparently, that’s not the case…”

  His eyes grew more focused, his mind w frantically.

  “Also, now that I think about it… romised each other that day to meet at midnight in my room… and then go search for whoever ying on Michelle… So tell me this: why didn’t you show up?”

  Carmen remained silent—her full lips pressed into a thin line.

  “And that’s not all…” Miratihe rhythm of his words being more insistent. “Just now, you said you waited for King Arthur to leave for the Sacred Region before io ‘save me’… Because you didn’t want to risk him disc yht? But the only logical expnation for such caution is that you already k was him who had imprisoned me in this cell! And, sequently, you were already aware that it was him—along with my mother and my three sisters—who had poisoned me…”

  The shadow of the torch flickered on Carmen’s face, revealing an expression sid it seemed carved from stone.

  “But once again, this silence of yours makes me think that what I’m saying is the truth…”

  Slowly, with a visible effort, Mirac lifted himself off the ground, leaning against the damp wall.

  “You already knew everything… Maybe even before they put their pn into a to finish me off…”

  The blood froze in his veins.

  “Is that why you didn’t e to my room that night anymore? Because you already khey would e to make sure the poison worked? But how could you have known? Only someone who had warhem beforehand about my secret could have predicted it… Or rather, only the mysterious sender of the letter…”

  At that point, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked together perfectly, turning every suspi into certainty.

  “Carmen… don’t tell me that…” he murmured, taking a shaky step toward her. “Was it you… who wrote the letter to my father?!”

  Faced with that question, a long sileretched between them.

  Time seemed to stand still.

  Carmen lowered her gaze slightly. Her fingers detached from the bars, falling limply like dead leaves.

  But finally, raising her gaze, with the intense eyes that defined her in the most serious moments, she answered the question:

  “Yes, young Pri was ME.”