The griddle sizzles.

  Batter pouring.

  Smell of butter.

  Ryōna blowing a rebellious lock of hair aside.

  Hayate flipping a pancake with too much concentration, like it’s surgery.

  Uta cracks an egg.

  The yolk falls.

  And his gaze… empties.

  The sound of the kitchen fades.

  The steam turns into fog.

  And time rewinds.

  30 years ago

  The wind is brutal.

  Snow slamming against the fa?ade of an old mansion, abandoned, isolated on Continent 7.

  A place where they send what nobody wants.

  Exiles. Lost ones. Waste.

  The doors burst open.

  A man enters carrying a child.

  Blood staining the snow behind him.

  Narrator:

  Mikhail Dragunov. 24 years old.

  A face identical to Uta’s…

  but hardened.

  Dark beard.

  Open wounds on his side.

  Hands stained with dried blood.

  His eyes show no pain.

  They show contained fury.

  At his side walks a woman.

  She does not tremble.

  She does not cry.

  She holds a blanket around the little one.

  Name: Anastasiya Dragunova

  Light brown hair.

  Soft gray eyes, but firm.

  The face of someone who still believes the world can be better… even walking among ruins.

  Her presence is not weak.

  It is the only warmth in the middle of winter.

  In her arms—

  A two-year-old child.

  Uta.

  Dark hair, big eyes, confused, but calm when he hears his mother’s voice.

  Mikhail looks at the mansion.

  Dust. Cold. Darkness.

  Exile.

  One more wounded soldier drags himself behind them.

  Another carries a crate of old weapons.

  They are few.

  Broken.

  Defeated.

  Anastasiya looks at Mikhail.

  — We’re alive. That’s enough.

  Mikhail clenches his fists.

  — They exiled us… believing we would die here.

  He looks at the child.

  His eyes change.

  — Then we will raise an empire… from the place they forgot.

  Uta, 7 years old.

  Smaller, thinner, but with the same big eyes.

  He sits on his mother’s legs in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a thick blanket.

  Anastasiya holds an old book, the pages worn.

  — “Even in winter, the heart keeps its spring…”

  Uta smiles.

  He doesn’t fully understand the words.

  But he understands her voice.

  The warmth.

  The safety.

  The door bursts open.

  The cold enters first.

  Then him.

  Mikhail.

  Bigger. Harder. More marked.

  His presence smothers the room.

  He looks at the scene.

  The book.

  The comfortable child.

  The fire.

  His expression tightens.

  He walks.

  Each step heavy.

  He stops in front of them.

  Without warning—

  He grabs Uta by the arm and yanks him up.

  Uta:

  — Mom!

  Anastasiya stands instantly.

  — Mikhail, stop!

  But he’s already speaking.

  Low voice. Cold. Convicted.

  — Stop making him weak.

  — Easy times create weak men.

  He tightens his grip on Uta’s arm.

  — I grew up in hard times.

  His eyes burn.

  — And hard times create strong men.

  Uta tries to pull free.

  He can’t.

  — Mom… save me…

  Anastasiya runs to them.

  Grabs his other arm.

  — He’s a child!

  Mikhail doesn’t shout.

  He doesn’t lose control.

  That’s what makes it worse.

  He pushes her.

  Not in rage.

  With decision.

  Anastasiya crashes into the table.

  The book falls to the floor.

  The pages open.

  The poem remains unfinished.

  Uta screams.

  But Mikhail is already dragging him out of the room.

  The door slams shut.

  The fire keeps burning.

  But it no longer warms.

  Anastasiya slowly gets up.

  She presses a hand to her chest.

  She doesn’t cry.

  But her eyes change.

  For the first time…

  fear.

  Not for herself.

  For her son.

  Uta, 12 years old.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Taller than normal for his age.

  A body already marked, muscles forming too early.

  He breathes with difficulty.

  The garden is covered in snow.

  Absolute white.

  Silence.

  Except for impacts.

  Blood on the snow.

  Three adult men surround him.

  Soldiers.

  Thirty years old. Trained. Armed.

  This is not practice.

  It is a trial.

  Uta lunges.

  He takes hits.

  Falls.

  Gets up.

  Again and again.

  His body no longer fights for pride.

  It fights to endure.

  From the staircase—

  Mikhail watches.

  Without emotion.

  Arms crossed.

  Evaluating.

  A soldier lands a direct punch to Uta’s face.

  Uta drops to his knees.

  The snow stains red.

  Silence.

  Uta clenches his teeth.

  Stands up.

  And something changes.

  Not rage.

  Silent determination.

  He moves faster.

  Strikes one in the knee.

  Another in the throat.

  Uses weight, terrain, exhaustion.

  One falls.

  Then another.

  The last tries to run—

  Uta takes him down.

  He breathes hard.

  But remains standing.

  Mikhail descends the steps.

  Approaches.

  Snow crunches under his boots.

  — I’m surprised.

  Uta looks at him.

  Seeking approval.

  Like a child.

  Grave mistake.

  The air vibrates.

  A green aura coats Mikhail’s fist.

  Dense. Violent.

  He vanishes—

  Appears in front of Uta.

  Direct impact to the stomach.

  The sound is not human.

  Uta’s body folds in the air before being launched into the ground.

  The snow explodes.

  Silence.

  Mikhail, looking down at him:

  — But you’re still weak.

  Darkness.

  Scene change

  Warmth.

  Dim light.

  Smell of herbs.

  Uta opens his eyes.

  He’s in his bed.

  Bandages on his torso.

  Painful breathing.

  Anastasiya is beside him.

  Trembling hands cleaning dried blood.

  Tears falling silently.

  Uta tries to sit up.

  She gently stops him.

  Uta, weak voice:

  — Mom…

  She strokes his hair.

  — I’m happy with you…

  She swallows.

  Breathing is hard.

  Uta:

  — I’m sorry for all the trouble I cause you…

  — I’m sorry…

  Anastasiya shakes her head, crying.

  She leans in.

  Kisses his forehead.

  A kiss trying to heal something magic cannot.

  Uta looks at her.

  Eyes wet.

  But firm.

  — Someday I’ll protect you.

  Pause.

  He studies her more closely.

  Softly touches her cheek.

  — Don’t wear makeup…

  — He hits me too.

  Silence.

  Anastasiya breaks.

  But makes no sound.

  She just hugs him carefully, not to hurt him.

  4 years later.

  Uta, 16 years old.

  Tall. Very tall.

  Broad back.

  Arms marked by years of brutal training.

  Dark green hair, longer, messy, falling over his eyes.

  He no longer looks like a child.

  He is in a room.

  The room is wide.

  Cold.

  Elegant.

  But it doesn’t feel like a home.

  It feels like a luxury cage.

  He sits at a table.

  An open book.

  Poetry.

  His lips move silently as he reads.

  As if searching for breath between words.

  Across from him—

  Shizuka, younger.

  Light blond hair.

  Neatly tied back.

  A medical notebook open.

  Bandages on the table.

  — If an artery opens, you have less than a minute. Direct pressure. Here.

  Uta doesn’t even look at her.

  Turns the page.

  — If I’m going to read something, I prefer poetry.

  Shizuka watches him.

  Sighs.

  — You’re a strange one.

  Before Uta can reply—

  The door opens.

  Anastasiya enters.

  And the air changes.

  Whenever she enters, the world lowers its voice.

  — Shizuka, dear… could you leave us for a moment?

  Shizuka understands.

  Closes her notebook.

  Nods.

  Leaves without questions.

  Anastasiya doesn’t move.

  She looks toward a corner of the room.

  Dark.

  Silent.

  There—

  A boy.

  Kuro.

  Younger.

  Thin, but with the gaze of a watchful animal.

  Always present.

  Always observing.

  — Mrs. Dragunov… I’m here to protect Uta.

  Anastasiya looks at him.

  Not with harshness.

  With sadness.

  — Do you see a threat…?

  Kuro understands.

  Nods.

  No smile.

  Leaves.

  Closes the door.

  Silence.

  Only mother and son.

  Anastasiya approaches.

  Sits in front of him.

  Moves his hair from his face.

  Like when he was little.

  — Uta… tonight we escape.

  The book slips from his hands.

  — …What?

  Anastasiya:

  — It’s now. Or never.

  Uta:

  — It’s madness. Father will find us.

  She shakes her head.

  Eyes wet.

  But firm.

  — It’s the only way to be free.

  Uta clenches his fists.

  His mind was trained to obey.

  But his heart…

  beats with hers.

  Long pause.

  He breathes.

  Nods.

  — …All right.

  She smiles.

  But it’s not a happy smile.

  It’s the smile of someone who already paid the price… before acting.

  Night falls.

  Soft snow.

  Thick silence.

  The world seems to hold its breath.

  The back door of the mansion opens carefully.

  Anastasiya and Uta move through the shadows.

  No guards.

  No noise.

  No clear destination…

  but with hope.

  Uta looks at his mother.

  For the first time, she doesn’t seem fragile.

  She seems brave.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Deep.

  Cold.

  Familiar.

  Mikhail, from the darkness:

  — I knew you’d choose the most predictable moment.

  Torches ignite.

  Soldiers emerge from everywhere.

  Armed shadows.

  Anastasiya is seized.

  Pulled away.

  Uta tries to move—

  A punch stops him.

  Another.

  Another.

  They force him to his knees.

  Mikhail walks toward him.

  Calm.

  Like inspecting cattle.

  — You’ll pay…

  — Or she will die.

  Uta knows it.

  It’s not a threat.

  It’s a sentence.

  He clenches his teeth.

  Stands.

  Attacks.

  Desperate.

  Feral.

  But there are too many.

  Narrator:

  That night…

  Uta was not a son.

  He was a punching bag.

  Blow after blow.

  Rib after rib.

  Knees in frozen mud.

  Blood in the snow.

  The moon watching.

  Silent.

  Mikhail does not intervene.

  He only watches.

  Evaluating.

  As if measuring whether the weapon still worked.

  Dawn

  The punishment ends when Uta stops getting up.

  They throw him inside.

  Like broken trash.

  He crawls.

  Breathes with difficulty.

  One thought.

  Only one.

  Mom.

  The bathroom door is ajar.

  Dripping.

  Red water.

  Anastasiya.

  In the bathtub.

  Pale.

  Still.

  Silent forever.

  A letter in her hand.

  Uta doesn’t scream.

  Not at first.

  He reads.

  With trembling hands.

  Letter

  “If the surname weighs like iron,

  do not carry it in your soul.

  If blood demands darkness,

  remember you were born facing the light.

  Do not be his reflection,

  be what he never could be.

  Love.

  Feel.

  Forgive if you can.

  And if the world forces you to fight…

  fight to protect, not to dominate.

  My child…

  do not lose yourself in the night.”

  The letter falls.

  Uta stands still.

  Empty.

  He doesn’t cry.

  He doesn’t tremble.

  He doesn’t breathe.

  And then—

  something breaks.

  Not outside.

  Inside.

  The air grows heavy.

  The candles go out.

  The windows vibrate.

  Dark Green Aura

  It spreads like swamp smoke.

  Dense.

  Ancient.

  Pain made into energy.

  The floor cracks.

  The walls groan.

  Outside, soldiers feel pressure on their chests.

  Some fall to their knees.

  Uta lifts his head.

  Eyes empty.

  But burning.

  It’s not loud fury.

  It’s limitless pain.

  His fists bleed.

  The aura twists around his body like living roots.

  And then he screams.

  Not like a child.

  Not like a soldier.

  Like a broken soul.

  — MIIIIKHAAAAIIIILLLL

  The entire mansion trembles.

  Cut.

  Smell.

  Something burning.

  — UTA-SAAAN!!

  The present snaps back.

  The kitchen.

  The warm light.

  The sound of butter sizzling.

  Uta stands in front of the pan.

  Staring at… nothing.

  The pancake is black.

  Burned.

  Beyond saving.

  Ryōna looks at him, hands on her hips.

  Flour on her cheek.

  — You’re the boss of a global criminal organization…

  — …but you can’t take care of a pancake.

  Hayate, from the table:

  — Looks like I’m not eating breakfast today.

  Uta blinks.

  Looks at the pancake.

  Looks at them.

  And suddenly—

  he laughs.

  A real laugh.

  Soft.

  Human.

  — …I’m terrible.