The silence that followed the beast’s death was heavier than any sound, as the cold, pragmatic mind of the Grizzled Veteran evaporated like mist in the morning sun, leaving behind the raw, shivering soul of Alex Chen, trapped in the eight-year-old body of Ray Croft.
It’s over, it’s dead,
the thought offered no comfort. His hands, slick with a mixture of blood and grime, began to tremble violently. The thick branch, his improvised spear, suddenly felt impossibly heavy. It slipped from his grasp and landed with a dull thud on the damp earth. He stared at his tiny, blood-spattered fingers, a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach. He hadn’t controlled that. He had been a passenger, a terrified spectator in his own skull as a ghost from a forgotten film script moved his limbs with lethal precision.
A mask saved me.
The thought from before returned, but now it was laced with a new, sharper terror.
What happens when the mask won’t come off?
A sob, thick and ragged, finally broke free from his throat, and the world blurred through a film of tears. He was just a child. A weak, terrified child who wanted to go home, except home was a life a world away.
“Young master Ray!”
The voice cut through his panic. He flinched, scrambling backward and tripping over his own feet to land hard on the ground. Through the trees, Rina, his personal servant, was running toward him, her plain face a mask of alarm. She must have come looking for him. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: the small boy covered in filth and the corpse of the monstrous dog.
“Gods above!”
She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She didn't scream. Her gaze darted from the dead beast to him, and the horror in her eyes was swiftly replaced by a wave of pure, undiluted concern.
“Are you hurt? Did it bite you?”
she was kneeling in front of him in an instant, her hands hovering, afraid to touch him. He just shook his head, unable to form words. His throat was a knot of unshed sobs. This was the real him. Mute, pathetic, useless.
Say something, you idiot. Act normal.
He said inwardly. But there was no script for this. Rina, seeing his state, simply pulled the hem of her apron and began to gently, methodically wiped the blood from his face and hands. Her touch was firm and grounded.
“It’s alright,”
She murmured, more to herself than to him.
“You’re safe now, we’ll get you back to the keep.”
The walk back was a blur of shame. Rina didn’t press him for details, for which he was eternally grateful. She simply held his small hand, her presence a silent, sturdy shield. But the shield vanished the moment they stepped into the main hall.
His mother, Lady Eileen, let out a cry and swept him into a suffocating, lavender-scented hug that made him feel more fragile than he already did.
“Oh, my baby! My poor, sweet boy!”
His older brother, Corbin, who was standing nearby, sneered.
“Look at him, crying because he probably fell and scraped his knee.”
It was then that Lord Alistair Croft strode into the hall. His cold, assessing eyes took in Ray’s state, flickered to Rina’s grim expression, and then settled back on his youngest son.
“What is the meaning of this?”
His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. Rina bowed her head.
“My lord, there was… an incident in the woods. A fell-hound.”
The air in the hall grew still. Corbin’s sneer faltered. Even Lady Eileen’s frantic fussing ceased. Fell-hounds were not simply large wolves. They were creatures of corruption, twisted beasts that were often the first sign of the Withering Plague’s blight seeping into a region. They were unnaturally strong, vicious, and notoriously difficult to kill, even for armed men. They were omens of dark things to come. Lord Alistair’s gaze sharpened. He crouched down, forcing Ray to meet his eyes. There was no fatherly concern there, only an unnerving intensity, like a jeweler inspecting a strange new gem.
“The hound, is it dead?”
Alex managed a small, jerky nod.
“And you did this?”
He nodded again, his heart hammering against his ribs. Corbin burst out laughing, a cruel, barking sound.
“Him? Father, look at him, he’s a weakling. He probably saw a stray dog and wet himself. One of the guards must have killed it.”
Lord Alistair ignored him. His eyes remained locked on Ray, searching.
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“How?”
The single word was a death sentence. Alex’s mind went blank with panic. He had no answer.
The system did it, a ghost wore my body like a suit and killed it with a stick.
Alex thought to himself. He could feel a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. He was going to be exposed as a freak, a liar, or worse. His father’s cold disappointment was a physical weight.
“Useless,”
Alistair muttered, standing up.
“Take him away, clean him up. I will have the guards dispose of the carcass.”
Later, soaking in a tub of hot water in his room, the trembling finally subsided, replaced by a cold dread. The system’s interface remained silent in his mind, an unseen observer. He had survived, but barely. His father’s dismissal, Corbin’s contempt, it was a mirror of his deepest fears about himself. Weak. A burden.
I can’t live like this.
He thought, the water sloshing as he clenched his tiny fists.
I can’t be Alex Chen anymore, Alex is a liability, here, Alex dies.
A grim determination, an emotion he hadn’t felt in years, settled in his chest. He was an actor. He had played soldiers, spies, and kings. He had commanded armies on screen and manipulated empires from paper thrones. The terror was real, but the talent was real, too. This world was just another stage, and he refused to be heckled off of it.
That evening, he was summoned to dinner. The tension in the dining hall was thick enough to be carved with a knife. His mother kept casting worried glances at him. Corbin openly glared. But it was his father, sitting at the head of the table, who was the real threat. Lord Alistair had confirmed the kill. He had seen the juvenile fell-hound, its skull pierced by a sharpened branch. And he was no fool.
“Ray,”
His father said, his voice dangerously soft.