Prince Alhazen, after nearly dying at birth when his body was forced to absorb S's energy, grew up relatively normal—if one considers it "normal" to be raised as a soldier by one's own father.
Prince was not raised with love or affection. From the moment he was born, he appeared beside his father in the news. The fact that Alhazen was now a single father—after imposing two months of national mourning for his wife's death—greatly boosted his popularity. As his son grew, the boy was given countless titles: "The Perfect Child," "The Model Student," "The Future of Lirium." Always disciplined, always top of his class, with carefully curated friendships among the children of Lirium's most powerful families—he had everything: power, wealth, and fame. But in truth, he had nothing.
Inside the Alhazen household, since the age of five, Prince had known only one thing: training. From early childhood, he was trained by soldiers of the Order of the Black Mantle, handpicked by his father. At seven years old, S was "ordered" to train Prince—though, of course, S never did anything the traditional way.
"HAHAHAHAHA! Alright, listen up, you little piece of shit," S barked. "Your daddy told me I have to train you, but I don't give a damn." His grin widened grotesquely. "You're just the pathetic trash that couldn't handle ALL MY POWER!" he shouted, laughing up at the ceiling of the underground training chamber.
"S… you know perfectly well I don't care about that," Prince replied with the maturity of someone who shouldn't have possessed it at his age. "If my father commanded it, you'll do it. Or would you rather be executed for disobeying him?" he added, smiling coldly.
S erupted into laughter again. "HAHAHAHAHA! Brat, I couldn't care less about your daddy or your precious family. If I don't want to, I won't." Still laughing, he tossed something toward the boy. "Here—take this and we're done. Consider my job finished."
It was a black leather notebook. Inside were pages filled with impossible, inhuman routines—tasks no child, no human could survive. Scrawled among the drills were phrases like:
"If you die, you're worthless."
"My shit stinks less than you."
"YOU ARE USELESS."
"Will this really help me…?" Prince began to ask, but S was already gone.
"DAMN YOU, YOU MONSTER!" the boy screamed, hurling the notebook across the room. "YOU'LL SEE—WHEN I'M HEAD OF THIS FAMILY, I'LL MAKE YOU MY DOG AND FORCE YOU TO LICK MY FEET! HEAR ME, MONSTER!?" he yelled, trembling with fury—then picked the book up again, opened it, and began to train.
Some of the "exercises" were:
• Run barefoot over rusted nails; if you fall, start again.
• Hold your breath at 200 meters underwater for two days; if you fail, go 100 meters deeper and last one day longer.
• Swim with piranhas and sharks while covered in open wounds; if you die, you owe me a million Fracs.
• Lift 800 kilos while climbing from the lowest level of your "pathetic house" to the roof—100 repetitions; if you fall, start again.
There were hundreds more, each with a single purpose: to mold Prince's body into something beyond perfection.
He grew up without the real presence of his father—except when appearing on television or at public events. A few months after beginning the training routine (which he followed religiously), his Elyth awakened.
It happened when both of his leg bones shattered as he tried to climb the first step while carrying 800 kilos. Minutes later, his body healed completely. So he tried again. This time, his body endured the weight.
Yes—his Elyth, the miraculous trait that defined humanity itself, had finally awakened.
Elyth: Adaptability.