A small, frail boy was hung over the lip of a well. He looked around seven… maybe older. It was hard to tell under all the bruises and the starved frame.
His body hung limp in the fist of a man built like an absolute monster—broad, towering, more monster-like than any monster he had ever seen.
"Father, please…" His voice cracked. His pale eyes flicked down into the darkness, then back up. "Please don't let go. I'll train harder. I promise."
The man's grip tightened, lifting him higher. His feet kicked weakly in the air; it was more instinct than strength.
A rush of cold air drifted up from below, damp and foul, brushing against his face like something alive. For a moment, it felt like jaws waiting to snap shut around him.
"Hiss."
The sound echoed from the darkness below.
His eyes drifted toward the sound. Nothing. Just a black pit staring back at him.
The hissing rose again—somewhere below—slithering up the stone walls with the cold air until it felt like it coiled around his throat.
His eyes widened, legs kicking at nothing.
A burst of strength he didn't know he had shot through him, sharp and desperate, the kind that only comes when terror makes promises your body can't keep.
His breaths turned ragged. The words scraped out, thin and shaking.
"Please… Father… I promise I'll never lose again."
He forced himself to look up.
His father's eyes stared back—flat, hollow, like nothing lived behind them anymore.
That look made him feel… small. Disposable. Like a broken tool someone finally decided to toss out.
His chest tightened until it hurt. He stopped kicking. His arms hung limp, barely attached to him anymore.
In this clan, mercy wasn't a concept. Kids weren't raised—they were forged, beaten, sharpened until something gave.
"You've shamed me for the last time," his father said, his voice steady as steel. "You lost to someone two years younger than you. You lost to a child."
The words dropped like stones into deep water. No emotion. No hesitation. Like he was stating a fact, not sentencing his own son.
Shiro looked down, unable to meet his gaze anymore.
"I… I'm sorry," he whispered.
He hoped the apology would matter; that somewhere behind those cold eyes, there was still a shred of love.
After all, he had the face of the son his father actually cared about.
That should count for something… right?
And it didn't. His father didn't blink, not even once.
"You should have died that day."
The words hit harder than any beating. His brain was too worn out to make sense of them before the hand around his collar loosened.
He dropped him.
He fell as wind rushed past him, clawing at his tattered clothes, burning his eyes. The hissing below grew louder, rising with the cold that seeped into his bones.
He twisted in the air, looking up.
His father stood at the rim of the well, staring down at him—distant, motionless, as if watching a stranger.
Shiro reached out, his hand trembling, hoping—just for a heartbeat—that his father would pull him back up.
But the man's expression shifted, dark. He turned away.
Like Shiro had never existed.
Cold air curled around him. The hiss thickened, climbed up the walls, coiling toward him.
He stopped fighting. His limbs went limp. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
For a brief, weak moment, a thought surfaced—
A pathetic thought flickered—
'Why me…'
Then he hit the ground. Hard. His entire spine felt like it snapped in half. The breath punched out of him, leaving him gasping like a fish out of water.
He tried to scream—but just like everyone in his life—his voice bailed on him too.
A silent chuckle slipped past his lips.
'How can this get any worse?'
"Hissss."
The sound rolled through the darkness, wrapping around him like a song—if songs were made of nightmares.
He chuckled again.
'Oh yeah. Forgot.'
He searched his mind for a memory, some flicker of warmth or happiness he could hold on to.
Nothing.
Just pain. And more pain. With a generous side of suffering.
A bitter thought surfaced.
'Why was he treated like a son… while I—'
He remembered watching from the side as his brother sat beside their father, their mother training, staying in the main house, eating warm meals.
Meanwhile, he slept alone in the small storage room, ate scraps, learned to hide and endure pain.
They shared the same face. The same blood.
'Oh right…' he thought bitterly. 'But I tried. That should count for something… right?'
Another hiss slithered through the darkness, scales dragging over stone.
He shut his eyes, letting the cold seep through his skin.
'Guess I just drew the short stick.'
His voice was silent, but the laugh inside him cracked anyway—dry, humorless.
'Lucky me.'
He lay there like wounded prey waiting to be devoured.
Something cold slid across his leg.
Then over his ribs.
Scales scraped his skin, slow and hungry, until the weight pressed against his shoulder and crept toward his throat.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His body had just… given up.
Before he could make peace with himself, those impatient bastards dug their fangs into his neck. His body jerked violently—like someone had hooked him up to a lightning rod.
Without thinking, his hands shot up and clamped around the snake's head. His fingers dug into its jaw as he tried to pry it open.
The serpent writhed, its tail whipping against his chest hard enough to bruise. Its fangs clamped tighter, venom burning under his skin like liquid fire.
He gritted his teeth and pulled—hard.
The snake tore free, one fang ripping out of his neck with a sharp sting. Hot blood spilled down his collar, thick and sticky.
He didn't hesitate. With a shaking breath, he pressed its skull between his fingers and squeezed until something inside cracked.
'Yeah… that's for biting me too hard. And for not making my death quick and painless.'
The crack echoed in the dark. The tiniest victory of his life.
But the poison was already spreading.
In this well, the clan kept most of their venomous snakes. They were bred to carry poison so potent that a single drop could kill any wild monsters.
As the venom spread, his body started to burn, muscles tearing apart. Sweat beaded across his brow, sliding down in thin streams. His organs faltered, breaking down little by little.
'So this is how it ends?'
His lungs convulsed, dragging in nothing but silence—like drowning on dry land.
For a moment, he lay there like a broken puppet. He blinked up at the darkness, waiting—almost hoping—for this miserable life to finally end. Warm red slid down his cheeks like tears.
Another snake struck his leg. Then another. One latched onto his shoulder. Something sharp dug into his wrist.
It didn't stop. Those little buggers kept biting.
His breath turned slow and shallow. The air tasted wet and metallic. His limbs felt heavier with every heartbeat. His fingers twitched once, then went still.
The pain built until his thoughts blurred.
A strangled sound ripped out of him before he even realized he was screaming. He kept screaming until his throat tore, until his voice came apart in broken shards.
"Father… please." His voice cracked, thin and desperate. "Mother… please… it hurts."
Only silence answered him back. Thick and cold.
He stared upward, searching for any movement above—light, a shadow, a hand reaching down. Anything.
Nothing.
Even through the agony, his hand lifted instinctively, reaching up, as if some part of him still believed someone would save him.
But the edge of the well stayed black. Unmoving. Empty.
The last spark inside him flickered… then died.
'Figures,' he thought weakly.
'Maybe this is for the best… I can finally let go. I'm so tired, tired of trying to survive.'
He closed his eyes.
A memory flickered—one he didn't even know he had.
Arms carrying him, a man running through the night, wind cold against his face. He couldn't make out the man's features, no matter how hard he tried.
He reached instinctively… but his hand was tiny. A baby's hand.
'What…? Is this what people mean when they say your life flashes before your eyes?'
Then a voice—soft, faint, impossibly distant:
"Shiro… our precious baby boy."
His eyes snapped open.
A breath tore into his lungs, raw and sudden, flooding him with energy.
'I want to live.'
'No… I have to live.'
With everything he had left, the words scraped out of him:
"Damn you… damn you all."
A ragged laugh slipped free, broken around the edges. Tears smeared streaks of crimson across his pale skin.
The hope that had died moments ago ignited again—not warmth, not comfort, but pure, burning rage.
"You better pray I don't survive this," he whispered, teeth grinding. "Because if I do… I'll make you all pay a hundredfold."
Hatred lit his eyes from within.
"I don't need any of you," he hissed. "Never have. Never will."
His fingers twitched, almost on instinct, reaching for something—anything—to hold on to.
"This family," he spat.
A snake slithered across his palm. Small, cold, slick with venom.
He curled his fingers around it.
"I renounce you all," he muttered, and bit down hard. Bone cracked between his teeth. The metallic taste of iron spilled into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat.
He spat it out instantly.
'Disgusting.'
His eyes burned; tears blurred with blood until everything swam red.
Another serpent writhed in his grip. He yanked it close and sank his teeth into its head.
This one tasted worse—rot and metal—but he forced it down. His body lurched, trying to reject it, but he swallowed again, letting raw instinct drown everything else out.
"I've been through worse," he whispered, his voice breaking into a thin laugh. "If I'm going to die… then I'm dragging you bastards with me."
He bit and tore until his body gave out and his heart stuttered.
The snakes kept biting. Over and over.
Then—
A heartbeat. Another.
Snakes covered him, coiled, piled, smothering him.
He clawed at them, ripping one from his face, then another, dragging in a ragged breath that tasted like blood and venom.
'Not yet.'
He needed to move—or else.
His eyes darted around until he spotted a narrow hole in the wall. He didn't know how, but suddenly he could see everything clearly. With the scraps of energy left in his body, he dragged himself toward it.
He gritted his teeth and shoved his body into the tiny opening. Stone scraped his skin raw. After a struggle, he slipped through and collapsed on the cold floor.
He opened his mouth wide, desperate for air. Instead, heat flared beneath his skin, boiling through his veins.
He dropped to all fours and vomited.
Thick clots of blood splattered against the stone. His body seized. He slammed his arm down to brace himself as another spasm ripped through him.
He bent forward again, but nothing came. There was nothing left—just the sickening feeling that if he pushed any harder, something vital might spill out instead.
Strength drained out of him in slow fragments.
The dark crept in. His eyelids sagged.
A thought struck him with fresh panic:
'If I fall asleep… I don't think I can ever wake up.'
His throat cracked open with effort.
"Please…"
But his body didn't care.
His face dropped onto the stone with a soft thud.