Michael remembered very little about his childhood. Though he did recall staring at the floating clouds out of the window as his father preached about the goddess and her faithful servants.
A holy servant. Him.
Why didn't he like his parents? He wasn't sure.
In the family portrait of three, the others' faces had been burned away — only his own remained intact.
This was one of his favorites, actually.
Even now, whenever he passed through the halls, he always paused to glance at those charred faces.
They died when he was quite young, or rather, it was the orders from the royal that forced the couple onto the battlefield.
His father was one of the best mana users, and his mother was a guild master.
But the thing was, when he saw their corpses wrapped in the coffins, there was no grief or hatred in his heart.
Even when Darius Rael Dakhelm marched at the front wearing a crown of victory, Michael didn't feel happiness.
