Naoya Zenin lay sprawled across the front steps of the Zenin Manor, the cold marble biting into his bruised skin. The echoes of his own defeat rung louder than the night's wind, and with every shallow breath, the sharp pain in his ribs reminded him of just how far he’d fallen from his pedestal. The shadows of the trees swayed ominously, reminiscent of his own spiraling descent into isolation and regret—an isolation he had long relished but now seemed to suffocate him.

In the dim light, the moon illuminated the scene around him. His once-proud lineage now felt like an unbearable weight. Memories of his mother’s proud, sharp gaze haunted him as he recalled how she adored his prowess before the family’s twisted dynamics unraveled before him. Maki, his cousin, the embodiment of everything he had underestimated, had finally unseated him in every way—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The fight had been brutal; every strike had been executed not just with skill, but with a fury born of years.

But the climax of his downfall had occurred at the hands of his own mother. The blade had sunk deep into his back—a violent betrayal that twisted the knife deeper into the fabric of his already torn existence.

Naoya was a Zenin—there was no room for weakness, even in this moment of vulnerability.

“I don’t need saving,” he insisted weakly, and though the words felt hollow, Naoya clung to them like a lifebuoy.