For an indefinite time, Mirac remained on his knees.
The silence of the cell was broken only by his ragged breathing, coming in bursts like the wheezing of a wounded animal.
Then, finally, the tears began to fall.
Slow. Heavy. Scorching. Drops of salt carving invisible tracks into his skin, dragging with them shreds of innocence, trust, and love.
He curled into himself, his shoulders hunched under a weight that was not just pain, but an even more atrocious realization: that he was alone.
'We are no longer your family…'
Those words still echoed in his head, hammering away at any remaining hope.
He clutched his arm to his chest in a desperate attempt to contain the emptiness expanding inside him, devouring his stomach.
The cell seemed to shrink, the walls closing in like jaws ready to crush him.
The memory of their faces—his mother staring at him with hatred, his father impassive as a statue of ice, his sisters looking away—merged with older images: hands caressing him, shared laughter, hugs, kisses…
All of it, gone forever in the span of a single night.
"I-I can't believe it…"
A sob escaped him, broken, followed by a muffled whimper.
He bent forward, his forehead striking the stone floor.
The physical pain was a relief compared to his torn soul.
"It's not fair…" he whispered, his fingers clawing at the ground. "It's not my fault…"
No. Of course not!
The blame lay with whoever had sent that damn letter…
But not just them!
The real blame lay with whoever had started this whole disaster!
With whoever had branded him as a Chaotic…
With the mysterious entity that had condemned him to an Anomalous Syntony…
And so, ultimately, the fault was its alone: Math itself!
"It's your fault…" he hissed, his glassy eyes staring into the void. "Yes, it's all your fault…!"
The sound of his voice crashed into the silence, reverberating through the shadows of the cell like an echo of madness.
"Damn you…"
A tremor began in his fingers, traveled up his arm, and finally erupted into a violent shudder that shook his entire body.
Despair cracked, and beneath it, anger boiled—thick and incandescent like lava beneath the ice.
"DAMN YOU!" he suddenly roared, his voice a cavernous cry bouncing off the walls.
He sprang to his feet. His legs wobbled, but he didn't stop.
The tears dried almost instantly, as if the fury coursing through his veins had burned away every trace of his grief.
"It's all your fault, Math!" he snarled, clenching his fist until his knuckles cracked.
Without a second thought, he hurled himself at the wall opposite the door, his arm outstretched, the strike charged with every ounce of rage in his body.
Thud.
The first punch struck the wall with a dull thud. The skin on his knuckles split against the rough stone, but he didn't seem to notice.
Thud.
The second punch was harder.
Thud.
The third, even more. Devastating!
Thud!
On the fourth blow, blood spattered everywhere, staining the stone a deep crimson.
"It's your fault and your stupid Syntony!" he shouted, each word punctuated by an ever-fiercer punch.
The punches grew more violent, more erratic. Fragments of skin remained trapped in the cracks of the stone.
The pain was distant, blurred by the adrenaline and the blind fury coursing through his body.
"Why did you choose me?!" he sobbed, breathless. "Why me?! Come on, tell me!"
A final, strangled scream tore from his throat.
But then, his body gave in.
He collapsed, falling onto his right side, his palm against the ground, struggling to breathe.
His hand was a mask of torn flesh, the exposed tendons pulsing with every heartbeat. Blood dripped slowly, tracing senseless patterns on the floor.
Then, little by little, the anger dissolved, leaving behind an abyssal emptiness, an oppressive silence so heavy that even the act of standing felt impossible.
Trembling, Mirac dragged himself to the darkest corner of the cell, an instinctive, animalistic reflex to seek shelter where the shadows could swallow him. The straw pricked his skin through his clothes, but it was an insignificant discomfort compared to the torment raging inside him.
He curled into himself, knees drawn to his chest, forehead resting on the only arm he had—his right one.
The wounds on his hand throbbed, but the real pain was elsewhere: in his chest, where his heart—that organ too human, too fragile—seemed to have turned into a stone.
"Why did you ruin this life too?!" Mirac sobbed between words. "Why can't I live like everyone else?!"
The sentence caught in his throat.
"I never asked for much!" he murmured, his voice breaking. "All I ever wanted… was just… a normal life…"
He closed his eyes, imagining himself sinking into the straw, slipping through the stone, dissolving into a place where neither Math nor pain could reach him.
In the darkness, as the blood from his wounds slowly dried, a thought flashed through Mirac's mind—one that, at the same moment, stirred within Vector's spirit:
'But maybe… this isn't really your fault, Math…'
His muscles gradually relaxed, his eyelids lowered halfway—his breath still uneven.
'Maybe… the problem is ME…!'
A shiver ran down his spine as the pain in his hand dulled, replaced by a creeping numbness.
And as his eyelids finally closed, his last thought faded into the void, fragile as a whisper:
"Maybe… I just simply don't deserve… to be happy in life…"
* * *
{ 3 DAYS LATER… }
Three days…
Seventy-two hours…
Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes…
Thanks to his ability "Immaterial Clock," Mirac hadn't lost track of how much time had passed since his imprisonment—even though, by now, the very concept of time had lost all meaning for him.
After venting his rage with a flurry of punches against the wall, Mirac had remained there, motionless, lying on the ground in the farthest corner of the cell.
Since then, he hadn't moved.
He hadn't spoken.
He hadn't cried.
He had done absolutely nothing.
In that existential void, there was no one to comfort him or stay by his side…
No sound, except the irregular rhythm of his breath—labored and deep—and the faint crackling of the wood burning in the torches…
No light, except the faint glow of the two torches hanging on either side of the door…
No warmth, except for the faint heat his own body produced in a futile attempt to fight off the cold seeping into his bones…
There was nothing.
But above all, there was no food!
Since he had been locked up, no one had brought him anything to eat, and every so often, his stomach growled to remind him of that fact.
So, he had tried to at least quench his thirst by approaching the rusty faucet jutting out from the wall. But when he had turned the knob with trembling fingers, not a single drop of water fell.
Inevitably, day by day, Mirac felt his strength leaving him, growing weaker and more drained with each passing moment.
His lips, cracked and coated with a thin white film, bled at the corners. The skin on his face, pale and stretched tightly over his protruding cheekbones, looked like dried parchment.
His heart pounded in his temples, a furious drum amplifying the dull pain in his forehead.
At first, Mirac thought they had simply forgotten about him—and, therefore, about bringing him something to eat.
But as the days passed, a more unsettling suspicion crept into his mind: perhaps, his family simply believed that feeding him was pointless now.
After all, if his so-called "Divine Blessing" had already saved him from the poison, then it should have kept him alive even without food or water.
But… did he really have a Divine Blessing?
His first resurrection had been nothing more than reincarnation: he had died in his previous world as Vector and awakened in the body of Prince Mirac. However, no one could have known that, which was why everyone believed he had come back to life after his cardiac arrest thanks to a Divine Miracle from Mother Nature.
And now, after having "risen" once again—surviving even the poison—it was only natural that King Arthur and the rest of the family had changed their minds, believing that the first time, it hadn't been just a Divine Miracle that brought him back to life, but that Mother Nature had granted him an actual Divine Blessing.
Even Mirac himself hadn't been able to come up with another explanation for how he had survived the poison. As absurd as it sounded, the only plausible theory seemed to be exactly that: a Divine Blessing.
However, after accepting this theory as truth, Mirac didn't waste another second dwelling on it.
He didn't want to.
He had no interest in unraveling the mystery of his inexplicable resurrection.
Nor did he care to find out whether he truly had a Divine Blessing.
Not even to uncover who had told his family about his Chaotic nature!
By now, nothing mattered to him anymore…
The only truth that really mattered to him now, was the one that kept echoing in his mind:
'It's exactly like my past life…'
Living in solitude...
Sleeping on the ground, without food or water…
With no one by his side…
Waiting patiently for the end of his miserable existence…
Nothing that Mirac hadn't already experienced in his previous life.
And the awareness of having once again been condemned by fate to the same cruel fate consumed him more than hunger and thirst.
His eyelids weighed down on him like sheets of lead, but he dared not close them: every time he did, he saw again the cold eyes of those who had tried to kill him that night.
So, forced to keep them open, his dull and sunken eyes stared at the crack in the wall across from the door, right where he had thrown himself in a fit of rage—and where now his blood, drying, had left brownish streaks, the same color as his split knuckles.
He no longer remembered how many times he had stared at that crack…
He didn't even know why he was doing it now!
Perhaps to remind himself of when he still had the strength to release his anger. Anger that, by now, had been extinguished.
He inhaled slowly.
The air scraped his lungs like sandpaper.
'Maybe I should try to get some sleep…'
With this thought, Mirac closed his eyes, defying the memory of the icy stares that were waiting for him behind his eyelids.
Perhaps sleep could erase everything, if only he stopped fighting.
Surrendering to exhaustion was so easy: all he had to do was let his body, already so close to collapse, sink into the floor like a sack of bones…
But then, suddenly, just as he felt his mind shutting down and his body giving in to sleep, Mirac heard a sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
At first, he thought it was the beating of his heart, a distant drum pounding in his temples.
But the noise grew clearer, more real.
It was footsteps: rhythmic steps in the hallway!
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The prisoner stiffened.
'Could it be…?!'
Mirac had no doubt: it was definitely someone from his family!
Or rather, from those he could once call that…
At the thought, a shiver ran down his spine, but he didn't move.
What did it matter anymore?
Probably, bitterly reflected Mirac, they had simply remembered to feed him.
That steady step wasn't a sign of affection, but the cold announcement of someone about to deliver the leftovers from dinner.
After all, prisoners don't get warm meals, nor any kind of consideration. Just crumbs, like those thrown to stray dogs before slamming the door in their faces.
'By now, I'm just a stranger to them…'
At some point, the footsteps stopped in front of the cell.
Mirac remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the crack in the wall, on that dried red that reminded him of how fragile the flesh was.
For a long, endless moment, only silence reigned.
Mirac expected to hear the voice of one of his sisters, or perhaps his mother.
But what echoed between the walls didn't belong to any of them:
"Young Prince, are you well? Can you hear me?"
At that moment, Mirac felt his heart stop, suspended between one beat and the next.
'This voice…!'
He flinched, his fingers tightening on the pile of rotten straw beneath him.
An irregular breath escaped his lips, like the wings of a moth in agony.
With effort, he tore his gaze away from the crack in the wall and slowly lifted his head.
The barred porthole in the door was small, just enough to glimpse the outside.
And right there, framed by the metal bars, he saw a face he never would have expected to see in that place.
First, he noticed the black hood, from which strands of fiery red hair protruded.
Then, rectangular glasses outlining dark, attentive eyes, burning with something that was neither fear nor pity… but a determination that felt strangely familiar to him.
Mirac's eyes and mouth opened wide.
His vocal cords contracted, the muscles in his neck stiffened in an instinctive block—for endless seconds, the sound remained buried under the weight of astonishment.
But then, when the knot in his throat loosened with a shudder, his voice came out faint, trembling:
"C-Carmen?"
The pupils, clouded by dehydration, contracted with difficulty in the dim light.
"I-Is it really you, Carmen?"
In reality, Mirac didn't need an answer: the torch the servant was holding was enough to clearly outline her features.
It was then that the boy caught a glimmer in her eyes, while a bitter smile curved her lips.
The metal bars creaked under Carmen's fingers' pressure, her knuckles turning white from the effort as she leaned towards the inside of the cell.
"Yes, it's me," replied the woman with red hair. "Forgive me for the delay, young Prince."
Mirac blinked rapidly, incredulous, as if to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
"W-Why... Why are you here?" he stammered.
Carmen didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes quickly slid over his wounds, the bloody hand, the corpse-like pallor.
A muscle twitched along her jaw, as if she were holding back from saying something inappropriate…
"A lot has happened, young Prince," she finally murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "After your disappearance, the King mobilized most of the castle guards to find you. In this way, the news spread quickly throughout the kingdom, and now everyone is looking for you. Meanwhile, despite the disappearance of his son, the King—accompanied by Grand Knight Leonard and the Seven Infernal Knights—did not hesitate and left this morning for the Sacred Region, where this year's World Conference will take place. I have patiently waited for this moment to be able to reach you. Without this opportunity, I would never have made it. That's why it took me so long."
Mirac took a deep breath.
The relief of seeing her again mixed with a sense of unease that stirred in his chest.
"No, Carmen… there's no need… You don't have to risk your life for me anymore…" he said, his voice cracked. "There's a very good reason why I ended up in here… And that reason is-"
Mirac was about to reveal the truth…
To confess that he was a Chaotic!
But then, a thought sparked in his mind…
"Wait…!"
His eyes narrowed. His heart started pounding faster.
"Carmen… Why are you here?"
To this question, she did not hesitate for a moment:
"Is it not obvious, young Prince? I came here to save you!" she exclaimed, with a decisive tone. "But apparently, it won't be that easy. This door is enchanted with powerful Fire Runes. Without the key or without deactivating the runes first, I'm afraid I won't be able to help yo-"
"No."
Mirac's tone grew sharper, his voice trembling with something he still couldn't name.
"You misunderstood my question, Carmen… What I meant to say is… How are you here?"
A heavy silence settled between them.
"For all this time…" Mirac licked his lips, dry from the effort, "I thought they had poisoned you along with me that night… I thought you were dead! But apparently, that's not the case…"
His eyes grew more focused, his mind working frantically.
"Also, now that I think about it… we had promised each other that day to meet at midnight in my room… and then go search for whoever was spying on Michelle… So tell me this: why didn't you show up?"
Carmen remained silent—her full lips pressed into a thin line.
"And that's not all…" Mirac continued, the rhythm of his words becoming more insistent. "Just now, you said you waited for King Arthur to leave for the Sacred Region before coming here to 'save me'… Because you didn't want to risk him discovering you, right? But the only logical explanation for such caution is that you already knew it was him who had imprisoned me in this cell! And, consequently, you were already aware that it was him—along with my mother and my three sisters—who had poisoned me…"
The shadow of the torch flickered on Carmen's face, revealing an expression so rigid it seemed carved from stone.
"But once again, this silence of yours makes me think that what I'm saying is the truth…"
Slowly, with a visible effort, Mirac lifted himself off the ground, leaning against the damp wall.
"You already knew everything… Maybe even before they put their plan into action to finish me off…"
The blood froze in his veins.
"Is that why you didn't come to my room that night anymore? Because you already knew they would come to make sure the poison worked? But how could you have known? Only someone who had warned them beforehand about my secret could have predicted it… Or rather, only the mysterious sender of the letter…"
At that point, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked together perfectly, turning every suspicion into certainty.
"Carmen… don't tell me that…" he murmured, taking a shaky step toward her. "Was it you… who wrote the letter to my father?!"
Faced with that question, a long silence stretched between them.
Time seemed to stand still.
Carmen lowered her gaze slightly. Her fingers detached from the bars, falling limply like dead leaves.
But finally, raising her gaze, with the intense eyes that defined her in the most serious moments, she answered the question:
"Yes, young Prince… It was ME."