Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 273. The True Me

After my "study session" with Wannre ended, I found myself wandering aimlessly along the endless expanse of the Silver Sea surrounding the palace.

There was nothing specific on my mind, yet inside, a hurricane of thoughts churned and spun without direction. It was the kind of mental noise that felt like silence, but heavier—like the still air before a thunderstorm. And above all else, Wannre's words refused to leave me alone.

"Be comfortable in your own presence."

A single, simple sentence. Ordinary, almost casual. Yet, for some reason, it struck me with the force of a hammer against brittle glass. It unsettled me, left me oddly helpless and confused.

It shouldn't have meant anything. On the surface, it was just a platitude—one of those vague, well-meaning phrases teachers and mentors like to throw around.

But for me, it carried a weight I couldn't dismiss. A weight so heavy that I found myself replaying it, again and again, as though some hidden meaning would reveal itself if I listened hard enough.

And perhaps there was a meaning. One I already knew but had always refused to acknowledge.

Because being myself—the pure, unfiltered self—was something I had never done in my life. Not once.

I had always lived in the shadow of expectation. I had to please my parents, to fit in with friends, to survive difficult situations, to twist my words just right to make people help me—or to help them when it benefited me. Even breathing sometimes felt like a performance. Every step, every glance, every word was a calculation.

Existing itself required me to not be myself.

And if I was myself… what then? The answer was obvious. I'd become an outcast. And in a place like Earth, where even a shred of stability or safety demanded alliances, connections, and a carefully managed image, being an outcast was nothing short of suicide. Moronic.

People love to cry about freedom, about choice, about rights and isolation, but I've always known these things are facades. Paper masks over iron bars. No one truly has them. Not the ones scraping desperately for survival at the bottom, nor the ones gazing down at the world from pristine towers of power.

Everyone is bound. Everyone is tied to something. Status. Obligation. Fear. Desire. We all wear chains; the only difference is whether they glitter or rust.

And then there are those who claim they seek isolation, as if that will grant them clarity, peace, or enlightenment. But for what? Mental peace? No.

Outwardly, they pursue solitude. Inwardly, they hope someone notices their absence, someone comes searching, someone pulls them back into the light.

"Most humans are social creatures. They desire company more than anything. Even if that company is from someone they hate or despise. They need someone to rely on. Whatever facade they've created outwardly, inwardly, they all crave a person to lean on."

And yet—here I was. One of the very few who did not. Or at least, who had taught himself not to. Who had burned out the desire.

Reliance? For what? So someone could stab you in the back the moment you turned around? So they could weigh you down with their expectations and failings? So they could become liabilities in the moments that mattered most?

Every kinship—whether between parents and children, siblings, lovers, partners, or friends—was, at its core, inherently meaningless. All of these ties people glorify were nothing but seasonings sprinkled over the bland dish called life.

Spices that make it seem richer, warmer, more vibrant, when in reality the dish remains the same at its base. They don't sustain you; they merely mask the taste of the void.

Parents? People worship their parents as if they were divine, as if their sacrifices were holy. But parents have expectations. They do not raise you from nothing for nothing.

Even when they don't say it outright, the weight of their hopes, dreams, and conditions sits heavy on your shoulders. Doing something with no inherent benefit is a myth, a polite fiction society loves to repeat. Love is rarely unconditional, the conditions are just hidden better.

The same extends to siblings, friends, and even the so-called partners people proclaim as their "other half." Everyone likes to pretend they're different, that their circle is purer, truer, immune to the cold logic of self-interest. But if you strip away the romanticism, the rituals, the polite words, what's left? Transactions. Exchanges. Mutual benefit wearing the mask of intimacy.

People deny this. They'll clutch at their pearls and insist they marry for love, not for security or convenience. They'll talk about soulmates and destiny and devotion. But peel back the language and it's always the same: help. Financial, emotional, physical—some resource that eases the burdens of existence. Without the exchange, the bond rots. And if a better source of those resources appears? That fragile facade of "love" shatters in an instant. No guilt. No hesitation. No second thought. Just a shift, a pivot toward a better deal.

I believed this. No—I lived it. This was my ideology, etched into me like a scar. And I was sure, deep down, more people were like me, even if they were a quiet minority. Most simply lacked the courage to admit it.

But once you step back, once you strip away the sentimental lenses and look at the broader perspective with a rational mind, untouched by the haze of emotion, you begin to see it. The reality of life. The reality of people. Of society. Of the world itself.

"All throughout one's life," I would think, "they are alone. Truly alone."

People will grieve when you're gone, yes. They'll cry for a day, a week, a month, maybe even a year or two if you were lucky. But then what? Time will pass, and others will whisper to them: move on.

And just like that, you're gone. Your memory fades. Your credibility dissolves. Your life becomes an anecdote. A lesson. A name on a stone. Nothing more.

"Many would call me mad for thinking like this. They'd argue that life is rich with connection, that the bonds I dismiss as meaningless hold power I simply cannot see, blinded as I am by my own cynicism. They'd tell me my worldview is warped, that I'm missing out on the essence of being human. They'd insist the things I dismiss as illusions are, in fact, the only truths worth clinging to."

To them, I would say one thing:

"I don't care. If I cared about opinions like that, I wouldn't have these thoughts in the first place."

That was me. The true me. A man who stared at the world without filters, without illusions. Who measured reality not by sentiment but by reason. Who refused to put on the rose-colored glasses everyone else wore so willingly. I wasn't interested in pity, or in comforting lies.

And now… now I wasn't even on Earth anymore. I was free of the old systems, the old networks of obligation and expectation. I didn't need to rely on anyone. I could live on my own, carve my own path, unbound by ties I never wanted. I could finally test my philosophy in its purest form. A life stripped bare of all relations.

But even as I thought it, a question clawed at me, cold and quiet: If I reject all ties, if I abandon all warmth, what then is the aim of my life? Why do I live?

It was a question I couldn't answer. Because unlike the so-called "normal" people, I couldn't point to family, friends, or love and call them my reason. I didn't have a grand aim or noble goal to cling to. No heroic purpose, no sacred duty, no dream.

I just… lived. Meaninglessly.

A man adrift, carried along by the current of existence with no particular destination. No shore in sight, no anchor to hold me. Just the open sea, the endless waves, and me—floating, waiting, unmoored.