The Fallen System: Gaining Bloodlines of the Fallen-Chapter 38: Echoes of the Past

While Cairen and Ling enjoyed an interesting conversation that would definitely change the course of the War Academy, loaded with implications, a very different conversation was taking place in the throne hall.

The old guardian, his long beard brushing against the stone floor, broke the silence that inhabited the hall.

"Majesty, the whispers have begun to spread. The absence of the princes has not gone unnoticed. Questions will arise, and with more force each day."

The King of Rhyne, seated on the throne, did not seem disturbed by those words.

His green eyes reflected the faint light of the rocks.

"It’s fine." His voice sounded firm.

"Let the whispers continue. The news about the inheritance will soon reach the capital and the neighboring kingdoms. Many eyes saw only my daughter and that boy emerging from the gate."

"Then everyone will know the truth, or a version of it. And that is enough."

He paused, his gaze losing itself for a moment in the vastness of the hall.

"And I am not yet that old. Having other heirs is not a problem that time cannot solve. What matters is that Ling is well, more than well."

"She gained significant advantages in the inheritance. And her interest in that boy... is a variable that may be more beneficial than any forged alliance."

"When she fixes her eyes on something, she does not stop until she obtains it. If she secures his affection, or at least his loyalty, we will have not only a princess with our stable lineage but potentially a pillar for our dynasty."

The old guardian, listening, only nodded slowly. The king’s logic was, as always, practical, cruel, and ever focused on the long term.

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Inside the carriage returning to the castle, silence reigned.

Cairen leaned back against the velvet upholstery, his attention captured by the beauty of the night city.

The white capital of Rhyne was a different sight beneath the moon and the lights.

The shadows stretched long, creating dark corners where his spiritual sense caught glimpses of nocturnal lives and furtive dealings. But most of the main streets glowed with a serene and orderly beauty, with guards stationed at specific points patrolling.

It was a beauty he could truly appreciate.

’Very different from... forget it.’ Cairen remembered something but pushed the memories of his past life to the back of his mind.

The carriage stopped smoothly in the inner courtyard of the castle. Ling stepped out first, turning to him as he exited.

"I hope you enjoyed the outing." She said the word with a hint of teasing.

Cairen frowned, looking at her for a moment before averting his gaze.

"The food was good." He replied, his voice neutral. Without another word, he turned and walked toward his chambers, feeling the weight of her gaze on his back until he disappeared from her sight when he entered a corridor.

Ling remained for a moment, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips, before heading to her own room.

Inside his chamber, Cairen felt the exhaustion of the day weighing upon him. The constant tension, the strain of the spiritual sense, the forced social interaction. All of it had taken its toll.

He considered whether he should sit and cultivate, taking advantage of the castle’s rich Qi, but a deep mental fatigue pulled him away from the idea.

For some reason, he felt more tired than usual, as if his very soul was telling him he needed rest.

And so he did, collapsing onto the bed, and sleep took him almost instantly.

But it was not ordinary sleep.

It was a conscious darkness. He knew he had fallen asleep, but his awareness remained alert in a familiar state.

Suspended in a void of darkness, a sensation he had felt a few times before. The same horridly familiar sensation of entering a vision from some lineage.

But, at the same time, different, it seemed to come from a place older and more personal within him.

Then, a burning sensation, faint yet almost like an intense tingling, arose on his back.

The world spun violently, and, suddenly, he was no longer in his chamber.

He was standing before a church. Not an ordinary church, but a monstrous structure of dark stone with stained-glass windows, the construction immense compared to the nearby houses.

But the walls were strangely old and cracked, with broken glass at heights no one had reached to repair.

The church stood under a cloudy, dark-gray sky, and a cold wind struck Cairen’s face.

’This... no... this is...’

A chill that had nothing to do with temperature wrapped around his being. He knew this place. He knew the cracks, he knew every shadow that hid within.

His attention was pulled forward. A boy, far too thin for his age, in clothes that had once been expensive but were now filthy and tattered, stood before the great oak door.

The boy could not have been older than eight. His eyes, wide and frightened, on a pale and dirty face, stared at the ground.

It was him. Himself.

The boy, Cairen of the past, raised a trembling hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing faintly against the imposing façade.

It did not take long for the door to be opened by a tall, thin man dressed in simple but clean clothes.

The man looked at the boy with an expression of pure disdain and disgust, his nose wrinkling as if he smelled something rotten.

"Father! There’s another beggar at the door. What should I do?" the man shouted inside, his harsh voice cutting through the silence.

A voice from the depths of the church responded, distant and impersonal.

"Just let him in and put him in one of the rooms. We are in need of new ones..."

The voice trailed off, but Cairen, the spectator, knew what would follow. The little boy’s expression, however, seemed to ease. Relief. The naïve, desperate idea that this place could be a refuge.

The man then reluctantly opened the door wider. The boy entered, his head permanently lowered, shoulders hunched under an invisible weight. He did not even look at the man or try to locate the priest.

Cairen, the spectator, was pulled inside, following the ghost of his younger self.

He saw the boy being taken by a stern-faced nun, who led him to one of the rooms in the back.

He saw her bathe the boy with cold water, the rough friction of the cloth against his bony skin. And then he saw her dress him in clean clothes, but so large they hung on his body like a sack. A constant reminder of his size and fragility.

Cairen, observing, felt a shiver run through his entire body. His breathing, which did not need to exist in that state, became quick and ragged.

He was remembering. Remembering every moment of silent humiliation, every hope cruelly destroyed. His life, which had already been a constant struggle on the streets for a time, did not improve within those walls.

In fact, it had only worsened. Worsened greatly.

Cairen was watching again the beginning of the nightmare, the start of the path that led him to his end. And for the first time, he was fully conscious to witness every detail.