...Caught by a very troublesome person.
As Leston's fist drove into Oliver's stomach, a nauseating wave of agony surged up from his gut, curling into his chest. His throat burned with the taste of acid, and his vision blurred as if the world itself rejected his presence. His body instinctively curled inward, arms wrapping around his midsection in a desperate attempt to contain the pain. But Leston only chuckled at the sight.
"That was for disrespecting your elder brother in public," Leston sneered.
Before Oliver could recover, Leston grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against the cold marble floor. A sharp burst of pain exploded across his skull, white spots flashing in his vision, as blood burst from his nose.
"And that," Leston continued, his voice thick with cruelty, "was for trying to set me up with that noble woman. She was as ugly as your weak, white haired, dead mother."
Oliver barely heard him over the deafening pulse in his ears. The pain from his nose was a terrible ache, and that first punch had lodged itself deep in his stomach, a festering wound that made every breath an ordeal. It felt as though his insides threatened to spill out through his mouth. He gasped for air, but none came. He had felt this before. Many times.
In his past life, Leston had enjoyed bullying him—a sport as natural to him as breathing. But Oliver knew this hatred was more than simple cruelty. It was bloodline-deep.
Leston's mother came from a unique tribe known for their venomous bloodline, their beauty and pride reflected in their shimmering skin. But despite that, Richie von Rich had never favored her much. Even when he was supposed to visit his other wives, the rumors whispered that he always found his way to Oliver's mother's chambers instead.
That resentment had festered, passed from mother to son. But Oliver's existence alone was enough to fuel Leston's rage.
A noble royal like Riche Vin Rich had married a commoner woman. The shame of it was unbearable in a world where bloodline determined one's worth. And for that, Oliver was a stain. A disgrace.
His older sister Velma had at least shown potential. She had awakened a portion of her bloodline at the age of five, and during the last event that showed the heirs capabilities, she had shown promise. It was for this reason that she had won certain respect with the others. Just enough to be considered by other noble families. But Oliver? He was as useless as they came. A failure even the soldiers gossiped about in hushed circles.
So, naturally, they despised him.
A sharp kick to his ribs ripped him from his thoughts. A sickening crack echoed in his ears, followed by an unbearable burning pain in his side. He might have broken something.
He gasped, his hands flailing involuntarily as he struggled for air. His fingers brushed against Leston's leg—an accident, a mere twitch of pain—but that alone sent a spark of irritation through his stepbrother.
Leston's eyes darkened. "Did you just touch me?" he hissed before driving his foot into Oliver's stomach once more.
This time, Oliver choked on his breath, the taste of blood rising in his throat.
Leston leaned down, studying him with sadistic amusement. His lips curled in a cruel smile, his eyes shining with the deep, sick comfort of putting someone beneath him.
"You're lucky your sister is still around," he whispered. "But the moment Velma marries into the Bolton family, you should leave. Because if you don't, I'll make your life a living hell."
He straightened up, turning as if he were done, as if Oliver wasn't even worth finishing off. But then, he paused, glancing back with a smirk.
"Although, from the looks of it, the Boltons might reject Velma too. Just like the others." His voice was taunting. "After all, my mother has made sure of it. One day, even Velma will crawl in the dirt just like you. A maggot."
The words echoed in Oliver's skull, pressing down like a heavy weight. Something inside him snapped.
His fingers twitched, then moved. They suddenly closed around Leston's ankle.
Leston turned sharply, disbelief flickering across his face. And then he saw it—Oliver, beaten, struggling, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth—staring at him with something far stronger than hatred.
Resolve.
Through gritted teeth, Oliver struggled as he raised his head to force the words out. "Stay away from Velma."
Leston's amusement vanished, replaced by something darker. Anger. Threatened pride.
"Seems like you need another lesson," he growled. Aether flickered across his body in fine red dust, crackling with restrained power.
Oliver knew he couldn't win in a straight fight. Not yet. But he didn't need to win. He just needed an opening.
As Leston reached for him, Oliver mustered every ounce of strength left in his battered body and kicked. His foot shot up, striking between Leston's legs.
The reaction was instant. A strangled grunt, followed by a staggered breath as Leston's body curled inward instinctively. Pain—sharp and deep—crippled him for just a second.
It was all Oliver needed.
Summoning the last of his strength, he drove both feet against Leston's chest, pushing himself backward into the nearest vent. He barely managed to twist his body inside before Leston's furious snarl echoed behind him.
"You bastard!" Leston roared, his voice dripping with rage. "I swear I'll kill you for this!"
Oliver didn't stop. His ribs screamed in protest, his vision blurred from exhaustion, but he crawled. One hand after another, deeper into the darkness of the vents.
He could still hear Leston's shouts behind him. But for the first time in two lifetimes, he had fought back.
And he had won—at least the illusion of it. It was not much, but considering what he had suffered at Leston's hands, it felt refreshing. Which of course, was a contrast to the jolt of pain that swarm through his body as a result of the rush into the vent. Every movement saw that his wounded rib cage sent waves of pain to his brain, like waters continually hitting the shores of a beach. And so as...