Kallen wouldn't deceive himself by claiming Atticus had left no impression on him. While the effect was barely worth mentioning, it was still worth its weight in gold.
There were truths Atticus had forced him to acknowledge, things Kallen had long buried beneath layers upon layers of his cold heart.
His earlier display of emotional turmoil hadn't been entirely false, though exaggerated to a large degree. And yet, from something that should have been inconsequential, he found himself confronting a reality he had tried to deny.
A piece of his past had decided to rear its head today.
Two entirely distinct but eerily similar words, blending together in his mind, layering atop one another like the steps of a staircase leading to something beyond.
"The way you handle a bow... it's like it was made for you. If only you could awaken your core, everyone would see just how terrifying you could be. Even this big brother of yours might have to step down as the best marksman. That would be embarrassing, right?"
Atticus' voice echoed in his mind, looping endlessly, each repetition layering atop another set of words, words spoken by someone else, in a different time, in a different life.
"Your success and achievements all point to the fact that this was destined for you. If only you didn't seek your own interests, if only you could tame your pride and rebellious nature, you'd have become even more of a monster than you already are.
"Even I am jealous of you. Despite the fact that, aside from the combat training we all received, you've had nothing from the clan, you still remain hot on my heels.
"The clan even believes I can't take you on alone and sent an entire league with me to put you down, lest I lose my life. And they weren't wrong. One man put an end to fifty elite assassins, and even I, am on my last legs. You're strong, Caleb. But not strong enough to fight the clan."
The voice, the memory, everything was clear as day. A black-haired man, handsome yet weary, stood before him, words dripping with a mixture of admiration and finality. Those were the last words he heard before he had died.
The images intertwined, past and present merging until there was no distinction between them.
And then, Kallen spoke to himself.
"I wasn't strong enough then.... And I'm still not strong enough now."
It was a jarring realization.
However, another set of words from Atticus reaffirmed his belief, even if that hadn't been Atticus' intention... or at least, not entirely.
"You still have so much you can do. If fate tries to toy with you, you take the reins. You control your destiny."
The words resounded like war drums, each beat hammering into his heart, forcing his mind into a state of absolute stillness. Like an undisturbed lake, his thoughts settled.
The value of those words could only be appreciated by him, because it had grounded his focus on something he already knew but had just been shoving sideways, and masking beneath a layer of absolute confidence.
His patience was wearing thin. The desire to awaken gnawed at him, nearly overriding his decision to delay it until his experiment either failed or bore fruit.
The constant speculation, the whispered questions, and the way people blamed it on fate or called it a curse only made things worse.
It was laughable, but it was annoying.
But beyond that, he had realized something else.
He, too, had refining to do. His temperament, his emotions—his very essence needed tempering like a blade in a forge.
"Every day, we walk and push toward the fleeting goal of perfection. But is there truly such a thing as perfection?"
His musings echoed in the silence, blending with the sound of his own measured footsteps along the grand halls of the Crimson Castle.
If there were other sounds, maybe whispers of servants, the distant hum of the machines, he had long tuned them out. At this moment, only one voice mattered.
His own.
"I will take fate into my own hands. And this time, I'll be strong enough."
Back on Earth, he had failed. He had never lived on his own terms. A lifetime spent in service to a family of blood and death; a life not his own. A lineage of assassins and mercenaries.
A whole lifetime of killing.
He hadn't hated it; in fact, he had relished it. But the problem was choice. He had never chosen that life; it had been chosen for him. His fate had belonged to another.
That was slavery.
That was not the life he had wanted.
And yet, he had been too weak to escape it. Too weak to reach for the dreams that had burned within him. And so he had died, chasing freedom he could never grasp.
This time, he would be strong enough.
Strong enough to never lower his head.
Strong enough to never be a slave.
Strong enough to live rather than simply survive.
Powerful enough to carve his own path and follow it to the bitter end.
And this time, he wouldn't fail.
And he wouldn't die.
Survival? No. That wasn't enough.
He would live.
"No matter what it takes... Even if I be a demon, I'd be a happy and smiling demon."
Something shifted deep within him; a change so foundational that it would not be known, not seen, not understood for a long time. But it was there.
And when it finally surfaced, the world would likely tremble.
His footsteps, deep and unhurried, echoed with a rhythmic cadence, each step resonating through the vast halls like the measured toll of a bell.
The blue glow of the sun, streaming through grand windows and open hallways, cast an ethereal light upon him. It gilded the edges of his figure, as if sculpting him from divinity itself.
The light kissed his crimson hair, setting it ablaze with brilliance, while the barely noticeable streaks of silver caught and refracted the glow, shimmering with a quiet, almost celestial luster.
The walls, adorned in shades of deep crimson, and the towering pillars of the grand castle did not diminish his presence. Instead, they exalted it—magnifying his majesty, as if the very foundations of this ancestral stronghold recognized him.
It was like a painting in motion, of a young emperor bathed in radiance.
Or perhaps a young god, stepping forth from legends.
Even the shadows, long and dark, seemed to bend and bow in reverence as he walked absentmindedly.
His once glassy and completely reflective eyes, now held a glint of defiance. The uncertainty that had once lurked within him had burned away... or rather dealt with for now, leaving only reassurance.
A complete, unwavering confidence, and an unshakable trust in himself. In his eyes, there was certainty.
The eyes were truly the windows to the soul.