The villain's side of the novel



Thirteen years ago, amidst the battle for the succession of the Parada family's head family seat, the intensity had reached its gruesome zenith. Out of the original thirty-three children vying for power, only sixteen remained alive, their survival hinges on the unwavering support from their mothers' families. However, among the survivors stood one child who defied the odds, surviving the brutal carnage alone, abandoned by everyone, including his own mother and sister. Despite enduring such isolation and neglect, this forsaken child would rise to become the most feared and formidable presence in the conflict.

Within the somber halls of Prada Palace's facility, a child stood amidst a chilling tableau of blood-soaked carnage. His small frame was cloaked in crimson stains, a stark contrast against his pale, anguished countenance. With trembling hands, he gripped a bloodstained sword, pointing it shakily at another child who confronted him.

"You... you are a monster," the bloodied child muttered, his voice quivering with terror, as he tried to muster the strength to stand against his adversary.

"I'm not a monster!" the other child screamed, his voice tinged with desperation, as he lunged forward with unbridled fury.

Panic gripped the bloodied child, his instincts urging him to flee from the nightmarish figure before him. He turned abruptly, his trembling legs carrying him in a desperate bid for escape. But his efforts were in vain.

A surge of searing pain erupted from his back, the sensation ripping through his fragile form. He crumpled to the ground, life ebbing away from his small body, his final moments consumed by a suffocating darkness.

The black-haired boy gazed upon the lifeless form that now lay before him, his eyes betraying a maelstrom of complex emotions. With an enigmatic expression, he turned away, his steps carrying him towards his quarters. He paid no mind to the lifeless corpses that littered the room, knowing all too well that when he awoke the following day, they would vanish without a trace.

Unbeknownst to the child, a window of Prada Palace framed a haunting scene—a woman and her daughter stood in silence, their eyes fixed upon the retreating figure. Fear and disappointment etched deep lines upon their faces, but their vantage point denied them the sight of the tears that cascaded down the young boy's cheeks.

Meanwhile, in the present, within the confines of one of the opulent living rooms of Prada Palace's facility, a beautiful woman with flowing black tresses sat restlessly upon an ornate chair. Impatience danced in her eyes as an old woman, clad in the uniform of a devoted servant, entered the room.

"Nesrin, has he responded? What did he say?" the woman implored, her voice carrying a note of urgency.

"Montaser conveyed that he is currently occupied and cannot entertain visitors. However, he insisted that releasing Erma is not an option. Yet, he grants you permission to visit her, should you desire," Nesrin relayed dutifully.

Understanding washed over the woman's features, casting a shadow of sadness upon her delicate countenance.

Lament filled her voice as she spoke, "I understand."

The woman, Isabel Prada, mother to Fray and Erma Prada, had once belonged to a fallen noble family in a distant village. Fate had thrust her into the clutches of the Prada family when its patriarch, bewitched by her ethereal beauty, threatened her into becoming one of his courtesans. Life within the confines of Prada Palace had been a relentless tempest, with Isabel enduring ceaseless torment and abuse at the hands of

 her husband and fellow courtesans. The pain she bore was so unbearable that one of the wives had even taken the lives of Isabel's parents over a trifling disagreement.

Such torment had reduced Isabel to a hollow shell, unable to lift her gaze in the palace halls. However, a flicker of hope had ignited within her when her beloved children, Erma and Fray, had entered her life. In them, she found purpose and a renewed sense of hope. But that fragile hope had shattered when she witnessed her seven-year-old child commit an act of cold-blooded violence, signifying the irrevocable loss of her son to the Prada family's dark influence.

Isabel's voice trembled as she posed a question to Nesrin, her loyal maid of many years, "Nesrin, do you believe I was wrong in my treatment of him?"

The maid, Nesrin, hesitated momentarily before responding, her voice tinged with deference, "Ma'am, as a mere servant, I lack the authority to meddle in such matters."

"Nesrin, you have been by my side since my earliest days in this palace. You are the only one I can trust to offer an honest opinion. I implore you, share your thoughts," Isabel pleaded.

Finally, Nesrin relented, recognizing the depth of Isabel's despair. "Well, I do understand your reasons for keeping your distance from Fray. He has become an object of fear for even lady Elisa, and..." Nesrin paused, choosing her words carefully. "But...?"

Isabel's voice wavered, anticipation and vulnerability lacing her words.

"Ma'am, forgive my bluntness, but you are not a seasoned warrior, and thus, you may not fully comprehend the standards of power. Fray possesses exceptional talent in combat, reaching the second kingdom at the tender age of eight. Even if he wanted to remain hidden, his remarkable abilities would make it an impossibility," Nesrin explained, her voice gentle but laden with a weight of understanding. "Do you grasp the gravity of what I am saying?"

A heavy silence enveloped the room as Isabel absorbed Nesrin's words, her face etched with melancholy.

....

Meanwhile, in the family head office, Fray stood before his brother and sister, assessing their readiness.

"Are you two ready?" he asked, his gaze fixed on them.

The siblings, now cleaned up and dressed in new clothes, appeared strikingly handsome. If anyone saw them in that moment, they would find it hard to connect them with the homeless children who had scavenged for food just a week ago.

"We are ready," they replied in unison.

"Spirit Gate, open," Fray commanded.

Ryan closed his eyes and felt his consciousness being crushed and reshaped repeatedly. When the sensation subsided, he opened his eyes to a remarkable sight.

"Wow!" Ryan exclaimed in astonishment.

Before him stood over twenty spirits, each with a majestic form and an oppressive aura. However, one spirit in particular caught Ryan's attention—a twenty-meter-tall bird engulfed in flames. Its terrifying aura alone made it clear that this spirit was the strongest among them.

[Rank seven spirit... The Fire Phoenix.]

Simultaneously, in another location, five individuals gathered around a meeting table.

"As you know, all our spies in the main palace have disappeared. We cannot gather accurate information about the forces present in the city. However, we have confirmed the news of Elisa's severe injury, and we should seize this opportunity to attack," one of the men declared.

"But Montaser still poses a threat. Are you certain we can defeat him?" someone inquired.

"If the five of us join forces with the Darken Mercenary Leader and that peculiar man, killing Montaser won't be a problem."

"And what about Fray? Are you sure he's not a threat?"

"Fray? That kid? Are you joking? He's nothing more than a spoiled child. Killing him will be easier than slaughtering a chicken."