The Life of Aurelius Valemont: The Replica (Part 3)
Aurelius: Age 16
I was already in the training room by 4:55 a.m.—five minutes early. But of course, Father was already there, standing like a phantom in the dark, motionless. Matthew stood beside him, silent as always, but something about his expression told me they had anticipated this move of mine. They knew I'd start arriving earlier. It's not surprising. Father's always ten steps ahead—like a monster that doesn't sleep.
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Let's go," he said without emotion.
"Go where?" I asked, but he didn't answer. He never answers unless it's convenient for him.
That's when I noticed Father's men carrying crates—blades, firearms, even explosives. Something felt off. Matthew motioned for me to follow, and I did. He opened the back of a truck and gestured for me to get in. Father stepped in beside me, and Matthew took the driver's seat.
The drive was silent. Forty-two minutes of suffocating tension. I didn't bother to ask questions. He wouldn't answer anyway.
We finally arrived. An abandoned building loomed ahead, tall and worn like a corpse of the past. The sun had just begun to rise, casting an orange glow on the shattered windows. This place reeked of dust, rust, and danger. Father stepped out first, followed by me and then Matthew.
"This will be your final lesson," Father said, his voice as sharp as the blades his men had carried. "If you pass, you'll be eligible to receive direct missions from me."
I swallowed hard. "And if I don't pass?"
He looked me dead in the eyes. "Yumi Elowen. Philip Langford. Peter Langford. Do you know what I'll do to them?"
My fists clenched at the names. My jaw locked. I noticed Matthew twitch, just barely—but enough to know the threat had struck a nerve.
"Yes, Father," I said. My voice didn't shake. It couldn't.
"Good," he replied coldly. "Here's the lesson. You are to defeat my men—without killing them. You will not be given any weapons. You will fight with your hands. If you manage to disarm them, use what you get. But remember—do not kill. That's your only limit. I'll be watching. Don't. Fail. Me."
He meant every word.
I stepped inside the building. The light was dim, the shadows long and twisting. No weapons. No allies. Only me—and whatever monsters Father had bred in here.
And then—
The whistling of blades. A dozen daggers sliced through the air from every direction. I ducked, rolled, and dodged by inches. My breath sharpened, and my senses spiked.
Gunfire erupted next. Bullets ricocheted off concrete, screaming past me.
I kept moving. Fast, low, unpredictable.
I could feel them. Thousands of them—twelve thousand, maybe more. Hidden in every floor, every room, every shadow. Trained, armed, merciless.
And I was going to beat them.
No weapons.
No mercy.
No failure.
This was my war.
And I wouldn't lose.
I crouched low, heart pounding, sweat already starting to form across my temple. The first wave had begun.
Three men rushed me with military precision—two with knives, one unarmed but heavy-footed. I feinted left, spun right, and ducked under a blade that sliced past my cheek. My hand snapped forward, striking the knife wielder in the wrist, and with a loud crack, his blade clattered to the floor. I caught it midair—but remembered the rule. No killing.
I flipped the knife in my palm and drove the handle into the man's solar plexus. He gasped and dropped. The second came in for a stab, but I grabbed his forearm, twisted, and kicked the back of his knee. His body dropped, and I flipped him over my shoulder.
The third tried to tackle me. I stepped aside, using his momentum against him. He crashed into a steel beam. Out cold.
Three down.
Hundreds—maybe thousands more.
A shout echoed above me. I looked up—another squad descending from the higher floors on ropes like shadows. Laser sights lit the walls in red.
I ran, weaving through rusted scaffolding and shattered glass. A hail of bullets followed behind me, punching holes through concrete. I ducked behind a pillar and caught my breath.
Flashback.
Mama.
I could see her face.
Bloodied. Bruised. Still smiling. Reaching toward me, crawling across the marble floor of the mansion as Father towered above her like a beast, kicking, slapping, stabbing. And still, she begged for my life.
"Aurelius, run…"
I growled under my breath. No. I wasn't going to run anymore.
I was going to survive. For her. For Yumi. For Philip and Peter.
I sprinted toward the nearest soldier. His rifle was aimed square at me—but his hesitation cost him. I swept his legs, jumped, and slammed his chest with my knee. Before he hit the ground, I disarmed him, removed the clip, and flung the empty weapon at another attacker's head. It struck with a satisfying crack.
"Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep adapting," I told myself. That's what Father taught me—and now, I'd use it against him.
More men came in groups of four. Some had stun batons. Some had ropes. One even had a taser. I used their weapons against them. I disarmed. Disabled. Crushed windpipes. Fractured bones. Never enough to kill—but enough to make them regret underestimating me.
Somewhere, high above, Father watched. Probably smirking. Testing his creation.
But I wasn't his puppet anymore.
On the third floor landing, I stood surrounded by six elite fighters. These were not amateurs. They moved with calm rhythm, eyes alert, perfectly spaced apart.
One spoke.
"Your mother screamed your name before she died, didn't she?"
My vision darkened. My breath caught.
Yumi's voice rang in my head. "Your mama was kind. Gentle. Even while dying, she begged for you…"
I stepped forward, fists clenched.
"You shouldn't have said her name."
Then I attacked.
The first went down with an elbow to the throat. The second blocked my kick but didn't see the uppercut coming. The third landed a blow on my ribs—I winced—but turned it into a shoulder throw, slamming him down.
The rest hesitated. That was their mistake.
I roared like a feral animal, unrelenting, unstoppable, until the last of them was gasping for air.
Floor by floor, room by room, I advanced through the abandoned building like a storm, gathering bruises, cuts, burns—but never stopping.
At some point I lost track of time. Blood dripped from my hands, though none of it mine. My shirt was torn. My muscles screamed. But my mind stayed sharp. Clear. Cold.
I had to survive.
Because if I didn't—Father would hurt them.
Yumi.
Philip.
Peter.
He would break them.
And that—would never happen.
The fourth floor was eerily silent.
My breathing was ragged. My arms trembled. My knuckles were bloodied. My left ankle throbbed from a twisted landing—but I pushed through. I had to. I could hear faint whispers, rustling movements ahead. They were preparing something.
A trap.
I stepped over a broken doorway. That's when I heard it.
Click.
Then—gas hissed from hidden vents.
Poison?
I immediately pulled my shirt over my nose, dropping low, sliding behind a cabinet. The gas didn't sting my lungs—it smelled like chloroform.
Sleep gas.
He wants to end this now? No…
I scrambled out just before the gas filled the hallway—and saw a figure at the end of the corridor.
Tall.
Familiar.
Matthew.
No.
It looked like Matthew.
He stood still, head lowered. Black tactical uniform. A combat blade in each hand. Eyes hidden in shadows.
He stepped forward.
I called out. "Matthew! It's me—"
He ran at me. Fast.
I barely dodged the first slash. The second blade grazed my arm. Sharp. Real. He wasn't holding back.
"This isn't real," I muttered. "He wouldn't…"
But Father's voice echoed over the building's intercom.
"You've done well, my son. But now, for your final opponent… you must face your own shadow."
I looked again. It wasn't Matthew. Not truly.
A replica. A soldier designed to mimic his techniques, his body, even his voice.
But it was enough to hurt.
The replica moved with Matthew's precision, same footwork, same sharp pivot. I defended, blocked, twisted—every strike made my muscles scream. Each clash of our limbs felt like a battle of equals.
But I knew Matthew.
I trained with him. Ate with him. Knew the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breath. And this thing—this mockery—wasn't him.
I caught an opening. A split-second flaw in the replica's foot placement. Too aggressive.
I drove my shoulder into its gut, knocking it back. Slid under its arm, grabbed a metal pipe, and slammed it into the side of its head.
The replica staggered.
I dropped the pipe. No killing.
I choked it out instead, arm wrapped around its neck until it went limp. I let its body slump to the floor.
A pause.
Then, a slow clap echoed through the chamber.
Father stepped out of the shadows on the top landing, clapping.
"Well done," he said with an icy smile. "Looks like you're ready."
I didn't say a word. My fists were clenched. My chest rose and fell.
"You've passed," he continued. "You survived 12,000 of my soldiers. Disarmed, injured, and disabled them all without killing. You even fought your closest companion in the end." He tilted his head. "Perhaps you are worthy of carrying the Valemont legacy."
I spat blood onto the floor. "I don't want your legacy."
His eyes darkened. "You don't get a choice. You were born into it."
He turned his back and began walking away.
"Your first official mission begins tomorrow," he added, not looking back. "Don't disappoint me again."
As he disappeared into the stairwell, I stood there.
Alone.
Bleeding.
Victorious.
And yet… hollow.
Matthew was the first to reach me.
He crouched down, his gloved hand gripping my arm, steadying me as I struggled to stay on my feet. My vision swam, and the adrenaline was fading fast, leaving behind aching muscles and the dull throb of bruises beneath my ribs.
"What time is it?" I asked, voice hoarse.
He checked his watch. "6:38 a.m. Lesson ended early."
Early. Right. Probably because Father saw enough.
Matthew slung my arm over his shoulder, supporting most of my weight as we made our way down the cracked stairwell. I tried not to limp, but it was impossible now. My ankle burned with every step.
Outside, the pale morning light spilled across the parking lot. Father was already waiting beside the truck, arms folded, his expression unreadable as always. His convoy of black trucks—full of his elite soldiers—stood lined up behind ours in formation, their engines humming low like a pack of sleeping wolves.
Matthew helped me into the truck's back seat while Father silently took his place beside me. He didn't say a word.
Neither did I.
Matthew climbed into the front, adjusted the mirror, and drove. The hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road filled the silence. For the next 40 minutes, no one spoke. I leaned against the cold window, trying to steady my breath, my body sore, my thoughts heavier than ever.
When we finally turned into the long estate road, lined with hedges and iron fences, the rising sun cast golden light over the towering mansion. The estate stood proud and cold, as if it hadn't missed a beat while I was inside hell.
Father's men pulled in behind us, trucks filling the circular driveway like an invasion force returning home.
I let out a long sigh, my breath fogging the glass. I was back—but I wasn't the same.
And something deep inside me knew… this was only the beginning.
Matthew, Father's ever-silent shadow, his personal bodyguard and butler, helped me all the way to the library. His arm remained firm around my waist, steadying me as my body screamed in protest with every step. My legs threatened to give in, but I refused to collapse—not in front of them.
The grand doors to the library opened, and warm sunlight spilled across the mahogany floors. Inside, Yumi rushed forward, panic rising in her voice.
"Aurelius!"
Philip and Peter were there too—Philip, the tech genius with a sharp tongue, and Peter, his grandfather and the mansion's ancient librarian, who knew far more secrets than he let on. But it was Yumi who dropped everything and reached me first. She took over instantly, guiding me toward one of the long couches by the window. She gently helped me lie back, and before I could say a word, she was dabbing at the blood on my lip and checking for bruises.
She worked in focused silence, her hands trembling slightly as she examined my injuries. But then, unexpectedly, she turned toward Matthew. Her eyes softened, and with a tender motion, she reached up and gently brushed her fingers along his cheek.
"Thank you… for bringing him back," she whispered.
Matthew, the silent wolf, usually emotionless and unreadable, froze. His stoic composure cracked for a moment—his ears turned red, and he cleared his throat, averting his gaze like a guilty schoolboy. I caught it immediately and smirked.
"Well, well. Are you two official now?" I teased, raising an eyebrow.
Yumi nearly dropped the bandage in her hands. She recoiled slightly, eyes wide, avoiding both mine and Matthew's gaze. "W-What? No—I mean—it's not like that—" she muttered, looking everywhere but at us. Her cheeks burned pink as she continued tending to my wounds, now noticeably flustered.
Matthew, trying to regain his dignity, awkwardly handed me a glass of water. "Here," he muttered.
"Thanks," I said, still grinning as I took it. "You're blushing harder than I am, and I'm the one bleeding."
Philip chuckled from the armchair, spinning a pen between his fingers. "This is more entertaining than any movie I've watched."
Peter grunted as he reorganized a stack of dusty volumes beside him. "Romance in the library… Brings back memories. If only I were young again," he mumbled with a dramatic sigh, barely glancing up from his books.
Before the banter could go further, the library doors creaked open again.
Luciana stepped in.
Her presence silenced the room.
She wore a soft cream blouse with lace accents and a flowing skirt that brushed her ankles. Her honey-gold hair was tied back loosely, her face still fresh with the youth of nineteen—but her eyes… her eyes always looked older. Haunted. Like someone who had seen too much too young.
When her gaze landed on me, sprawled on the couch with bandages around my hands and a faint bruise along my jaw, she gasped softly and rushed to my side.
"Aurelius—what did he do to you?" she asked, her voice shaking as she knelt beside me.
I looked up at her—this strange enigma of a girl who looked so much like my mother. Her bone structure, her quiet grace, even the way she frowned while worrying over me. Her personality is the best and it really worries me, she's really like becoming my mother. It was uncanny. Painful, even.
But still… comforting.
"I'm fine," I murmured, managing a small smile.
She leaned in and brushed a strand of hair from my face. "You're still my little knight, you know. Even if you're growing taller than me."
That made me chuckle a little. "I'm 5'11 now. You're still stuck at 5'4, Lady Luciana."
She rolled her eyes, then her expression turned warm again. "Still the same boy who tried to sword-fight his own shadow at age fourteen."
Behind her, Philip was clearly trying not to squirm. He shot me a warning glance, but I wasn't about to let him off that easy.
"By the way," I said, turning slightly toward her. "Philip gave you that birthday present, right? The phone hack with the royal-themed AI assistant?"
Luciana smiled, confused but pleased. "Yes. That was incredible. I had no idea who—"
"Yeah, that was him," I pointed with my chin. "He's had a crush on you since he and I were fourteen."
"Dude!" Philip hissed, nearly falling off his chair.
Peter laughed from the corner. "Forbidden love. Just like the dramas."
I leaned closer to Philip and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Duuuude, she's married to my father. In papers. She's my stepmom."
Luciana's cheeks turned red.
Philip's soul left his body for a moment.
"Can't take her, man," I added with a smirk. "Too much forbidden romance."
Yumi was hiding her face behind a medical kit, trying not to laugh.
Luciana shook her head and gently tapped my arm. "You're impossible."
"Just protective," I replied. "You're too much like my mother. I don't want to lose you too."
Her expression softened instantly, and she placed her hand over mine.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.
And for the first time that morning, something in me began to breathe again.
End of chapter 49.