Chapter 484: A Young Master's Life II

Chapter 484: A Young Master's Life II



They wanted me to be that kind of person-the kind who could get away with anything.

And once I figured that out, I started leaning into it hard.

Why wouldn't I? Everyone was practically begging me to act like I was above them.

I started picking fights for the fun of it. Arguing with tutors, backtalking my parents, blowing off responsibilities just to see how far I could push things.

And every time I did, they'd just shake their heads, shrug, and move on. Like nothing I did could really touch me. Like I was some force of nature they had to put up with.

That was when I really understood the power I had, the weight of the name I carried.

I remember Ava's birthday party one year.

Big, fancy affair, tons of lights and decorations, enough food to feed the entire sector for a day.

We were sitting in her giant garden under some ridiculous ice sculpture, and she was laughing about something stupid that bastard had said.

Then she stepped back, hitting one of the staff, causing them to spill a tray of drinks.

Glass fell, shards and liquid splattering everywhere.

Unfortunately for the man, a few drops had splashed on her dress.

The whole thing immediately turned tense.

Ava left in anger, screaming about this or that, and everyone stopped, just watched. Even I held my breath, knowing exactly what was going to happen next.

The guards hauled that guy to the middle of the hall like he'd committed treason. Made him kneel, beat him, humiliated him in front of us, all of us, just to please us. He begged and begged for it to stop, looking around for a savior, looking at me, and I... I didn't do a damn thing. Just sat there, enjoying the show.

I realized something then: I liked seeing people scramble, beg, and fear. Made me feel... powerful.

Watching someone get torn down for a mistake, knowing it'd never happen to me that was addictive.

Every kid wanted power, but me? I'd tasted it young, and I wasn't letting go.

My dad would try to talk to me sometimes. Like he actually gave a damn, cared about such things. But those talks never went anywhere.

He'd sit me down, look me in the eye, and go on about "responsibility" and "duty" like I was supposed to just snap my fingers and turn into this perfect little son he could parade around, show off to his little gangster friends.

It was pathetic, honestly.

The more he tried to "help" me, the more I pushed back, just to spite him.

By the time I was twelve, I had it all figured out.

I was the boss, the one in control. And if anyone had a problem with that, they could take it up with my fist.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

It was a simple philosophy, but it worked.

People either respected me or feared me, and that was good enough for me.

Maybe that was when the world changed for me, when I realized nothing could touch me unless I let it.

My father's name, the money, the people always ready to bow and scrape-all of it put a shield around me.

I could do the worst, and still, no one did a damn thing.

The more I pushed the boundaries, the more power I found I had.

to change.

He never spoke to me about it again.

By fifteen, I was a full-blown nightmare.

Breaking rules, running my own little gang of spoiled kids with my three 'friends', doing

whatever I wanted.

I'd walk into a room, and it'd go dead silent.

People knew who I was and what I could do to them if they stepped out of line.

Even the adults. They'd mumble apologies, avoid my gaze, and let me have my way.

And that's how I wanted it.

Everything was mine, whether it be then or eventually. I didn't need to pretend otherwise.

Or so I thought... until I found myself here, lying in this grave, my body broken and my mind reeling, too weak to move, too tired to fight.

The irony? All that power, all that privilege... and it meant nothing now. Nothing.

It's funny, really.

After everything I've been through, after all the fights and the challenges, it came down to

this.

I'm gonna die here, alone, without anyone to witness it. Just me and the ruin.

I tried to move, tried to feel something in my arms, but they were dead weights at my sides. My chest hurt, lungs dying to breathe-just one was all I wanted.

Even my anger was slipping away, lost in the exhaustion and pain that was pulling me under.

Images of my father, of the house, of Ava laughing. Sofia. That smug, stupid grin on Elijah's face, like he'd already figured out how to live in this screwed-up world and I was the idiot

fumbling around.

Damn it. That bastard.

My hand twitched, and I managed to curl my fingers into a fist.

Felt weak as hell, but it was something. Just a flicker of energy, enough for one last try.

I imagined his face right in front of me, and I flexed my right arm, ready to punch.

I'd wipe that smirk off his face, one way or another.

My fist shot upward, sailing through the rubble, and it went... through?

It didn't bounce back.

It had reached the other side.

I could actually feel the damp air touching my hand.

'No...'

And that was when it hit me-the grave I dug was barely filled.

I could've clawed my way out all along.