Shadow over the Ruins of Solera

Every heir to a prestigious family — like mine — is assigned a personal guard from the Animos class.

A child raised not for their own life, but to serve another's; shaped from the beginning to be a shadow — to follow, to protect, and to obey without question.

Often, the guard is a constant companion, or even a living shield on the battlefield… especially if their master — unlucky as I was — happens to be an Animus as well.

The lucky ones, on the other hand, live lives closer to privileged service:

Trained attendants, raised to assist, protect, and fulfill every need — yet far less capable than the elite combat-class guards assigned to Animus heirs destined for places where survival isn't guaranteed.

And their loyalty?

It's not a choice.

It's enforced — by the implantation of a special living organism, a parasitic micro-creature linked to an internal command system.

If the guard rebels or poses any threat to their master, the system is activated.

The organism detonates the guard's heart instantly.

Precisely.

No delay, no survival.

And if the master doesn't wish to kill — merely "remind" the guard of their place — the system can be used to induce a level of pain so excruciating, it borders on the inhuman.

In this system, authority doesn't need to raise its voice.

It simply needs to hold the trigger.

Honestly?

It may sound like slavery — and it is slavery,

wrapped in the illusion of consent.

Because there are always those whom circumstance has coerced —

or worse, for whom circumstance was meticulously designed —

so that every road leads only to the cage.

That's the true genius of social corruption:

to shape the shackle in the image of choice.

And Fox… he was the living embodiment of that paradox:

A slave, dressed in the title of "guardian."

From my perspective… I never truly saw myself as his master.

He was a fate — inevitable and unwanted — forced upon me. Just like the Serum.

Both clung to me, against my will.

I had tried, many times, to grant him his freedom.

I wanted to sever the bond that tied him to me.

But he always refused.

Always — and fiercely.

He would laugh, bitter and sharp, and say:

"I'll free myself when I choose to… not when you think you're offering me something."

In other words?

If he ever chose to break free, it wouldn't be out of gratitude — but by force, if he overpowered the binding law…

Or — the worse possibility — by betrayal.

And while betrayal may seem unthinkable now… with that family?

Nothing is off the table.

From the outside, I might appear in control…

But ever since our childhood, he never acknowledged me as a "master."

He was a subordinate who lacked nearly every trait of one.

More rival than servant — blunt, insolent, sarcastic… and stronger than me, with a brutal edge that couldn't be ignored.

That's why I always felt like a cat holding a tiger by the leash — deluded into thinking I owned it.

And because of that…

I never treated him like a superior would.

I never gave orders.

Never enforced punishments.

Never activated the device.

Not even once did I use that commanding tone the others so easily wielded.

The complete opposite of my grandfather and father — both known for their iron discipline and instinctive authority.

On the other hand, Fox's grandfather and father were the picture of loyalty and restraint toward them.

A natural hierarchy: the strict master, the devoted follower.

But for us?

The only accurate word is dysfunction.

I never used my authority over him.

And he?

He simply did whatever he pleased.

Maybe that's why…

He's the only person who still has the nerve to mock me —

Even now,

At the very bottom of my disgrace and rage.

"Sir?"

His usual, mocking tone snapped me out of my haze.

"What's with that dazed look? Is this… what they call post-traumatic shock?"

I blinked, turning my gaze toward him.

He'd just walked in, shut the door behind him, and now stood there with that familiar, impassive air.

His face calm… and his gaze, as always, indifferent.

He studied me more closely than usual — which meant something, coming from him.

Because he noticed — and it was rare of him — that I was

silent in a way that was unlike me.

Still, I said nothing. Not a word in response to his biting sarcasm.

That alone was enough to make him take a step closer.

He waved a hand in front of my face.

"Hey... hello? Do you know who I am?"

He was a little shorter than me — the one and only thing I had over him. Literally.

I let out a long, shaky breath, and said in a cracked, uncertain voice:

"Fox Theospan… right?"

He frowned, clearly confused.

"…You're unsure? Should I go check the brains of the medical team responsible for your treatment?"

He said it — as usual — with that brutal nonchalance.

And with that smile… the one that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or issuing a threat.

Like his words were just small talk.

Casual wickedness.

Sometimes, I honestly wondered:

Did the Serum affect personality traits?

Maybe some came out of enhancement as half-humans… or half-demons.

I walked past him in silence — just standing had become a burden I could no longer afford to resist.

I sat on the edge of the bed, clutched at the edges of the white robe draped over me, then said,

"Fox Theospan… could you bring me something to eat?"

He looked at me for a moment, then stepped a little closer and said, his voice calm but laced with mockery,

"What's with all the formality… for a lowly servant like me?"

A bitter smile slipped from me. Of course, I didn't usually speak to him like that.

Someone who's lived by your side since childhood doesn't get addressed with such sterile politeness.

But I had to phrase it that way — otherwise, he'd answer with something like: "Get it yourself," or "Not my job," or worse: "Who do you think I am? Go fetch it yourself."

I had to make him believe I was pathetic enough that he'd bring food without resistance.

"Oh, poor little master," he said coldly, watching me.

"You seem… not quite yourself today."

He was right. I wasn't okay.

How could I be okay after everything I'd done? After everything I'd lost?

After tearing my future apart with my own hands?

I slowly lay back, letting out a heavy sigh, then mumbled in a quiet voice — as if admitting the truth for the first time:

"It's obvious. I'm not okay. Not even close."

I closed my eyes.

"It feels like a mountain has collapsed on top of me."

The corners of his lips curled into a smile, but it never reached those frozen eyes of his.

He crossed his arms and nodded, assessing the scene with the amused detachment of someone who finds misery... entertaining.

"Yeah," he said. "That last hit from Kairon? Looked like it hurt."

Was he enjoying this? Watching me like this?

Maybe. Or maybe he simply had nothing better to do than stand there and witness my downfall.

I answered him, keeping up my practiced indifference:

"He was… unbelievably strong."

He stared at me for a moment, something flickering strangely in his eyes…

Did I just see his pupils dilate?

Maybe I was imagining things.