Grey walked down the corridor, each step deliberate despite the pain radiating through his body. His shoulder throbbed where it had been dislocated, and sharp stabs of agony flared with every breath—likely from cracked ribs.
Blood still trickled from his nose, staining the pristine marble floor beneath him.
Yet his stride never wavered.
The Ravenwood estate stretched around him, grand and suffocating—a gilded cage he had finally broken free from.
"So this is what mana is capable of..."
The thought lingered, bitter and exhilarating.
He had known, from the memory he inherited, that the strong in this world were beyond human.
But feeling it firsthand—being crushed under the weight of Lucien's aura like an insect beneath a boot—was something else entirely.
It wasn't just power.
It was dominance.
The absolute, unassailable authority of those who wielded mana over those who didn't.
And in that moment..
He had felt insignificant.
Powerless.
Yet—he felt no despair.
Something else stirred within him instead.
Excitement.
Because if they could reach such heights…
Then so could he.
His earlier actions—they hadn't been impulsive, nor out of his arrogance. They had been calculated.
Purposeful.
A performance crafted with two objectives.
First, To experience the mana firsthand.
And it had worked.
Lucien's display had confirmed what Grey already suspected—that without mana, he would always be at the mercy of those who possessed it.
No amount of skill, Scheme, Or tactical brilliance could bridge that gap.
'Absolute power rendered all else meaningless.'
The thought should have filled him with despair.
Instead, it ignited something darker.
Hunger.
Grey's fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he walked. The pain was grounding. Necessary.
He had achieved his first objective - experiencing mana firsthand. Now came the second, more critical goal.
Freedom
The realization had settled in his bones like frost from the very first moment he inherited his memories - he was fundamentally different from the original Grey.
Not just in strength or will, but in the very way he inhabited this body.
It was only a matter of time before someone noticed.
Before Lucien's razor-sharp instincts or Liana's piercing perception dissected the unnatural shift in his behavior.
It was inevitable.
That was why he had chosen madness as his mask.
"It's not as if I couldn't pretend to be him,"
Grey mused, wiping blood from his split lip with deliberate slowness.
He could have pretended.
If he wished, he could have perfectly mimicked the original Grey's mannerisms - the stuttering speech, the downcast eyes, the pathetic desperation for validation.
But to what end?
To spend every moment carefully constructing a facade?
To stifle his instincts for the sake of maintaining a role?
To rot in this gilded prison, constantly watching for suspicious glances?
No.
Freedom was worth more than safety.
The hollow security this mansion offered—the illusion of protection behind velvet drapes and marble walls—meant nothing to him now.
He didn't need it.
Grey reached his chambers, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a final thud. The room was cold, untouched—a hollow space that had never been his. Only now, as he stood on the precipice of exile, did it feel like his own.
He exhaled sharply, blood dripping from his chin onto the polished floor.
"Dislocated shoulder. Two, maybe three fractured ribs. Internal bruising."
The injuries were severe for a normal man.
But Grey was no stranger to pain. Pain had long since ceased to frighten him.
His fingers curled around his dislocated shoulder, pressing against the swollen joint.
His breath steadied.
Then—
CRACK.
A grunt escaped his lips as he forced the bone back into place. Fire lanced through his nerves, but his expression remained unchanged.
"Good."
Now, the ribs.
He peeled off his ruined shirt, revealing the darkening bruises along his torso. Each breath was a knife twisting between his ribs, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
With methodical precision, he retrieved a roll of bandages from the drawer—he knew exactly where to find them. The memory wasn't his, but it lived in this body now, etched into muscle and mind.
He wound the fabric tightly around his torso, binding the fractures just enough to keep them stable. Every movement was controlled, mechanical—an exercise in discipline, not comfort.
"This body is weak."
The realization wasn't new, but it was undeniable now.
His muscles trembled under strain.
His bones creaked under pressure.
Even holding a sword—something he had mastered in another life—felt unstable in this form.
"But weakness can be fixed."
And he would fix it.
No matter what it took.