Allen took a moment to calm his turbulent emotions from crying, gently stifling his sobs. Though he tried hard, it backfired—the more he fought for control, the less he had.

He’d had enough; everything seemed poised to drive him mad. He longed to confide in someone reliable, someone who’d make him feel safe. Now, the world felt like demons, claws stretching from darkness to tear him apart. Yet Allen clutched one hand tightly—Luna’s. A faint warmth seeped from her palm through his sweat-drenched fingers.

That hand gave him immense security. Like a beacon in a shadowed corner, it was warm and comforting.

“It started when I was very, very young…” Allen stammered, his voice lost and distant, as if dredging up old memories.

“When I was tiny, I was all alone…”

“You mean… you’re an orphan?” Luna interrupted.

“Well… not exactly… not entirely…” Allen choked out, fighting tears.

“I’m not an orphan… but in a way, I am. I came from a single-parent home…”

The story… went like this…

Nineteen years ago…

When I was very small, I noticed that no matter how I invited my brothers to play, they’d always avoid me. Young as I was, I didn’t understand why. Still, I’d trail after them, happy just to watch from afar.

I wanted to join them, to play ball together. But they’d always walk away without a word. I couldn’t grasp why they hated me so.

Back then, my biggest wish on Ice Festival night wasn’t a normal gift like other kids. I wanted something special yet simple: to kick a ball once with my two brothers. Such an easy wish. Yet it never came true.

I didn’t understand why Father ignored me too, like the brothers. He treated me like a ghost, never caring if I lived or died. But he gave me the same comforts as them—anything I asked servants for, I got. That’s how I survived.

I never knew why Father and my brothers glared at me. We were family…

Until one day, I think I understood…

It was a gray, rainy morning. Servants woke me early—I didn’t know why, only that Father ordered it. As the third son, I obeyed. They dressed me in a formal black suit and led me deep into the garden woods.

Father, my brothers, and a crowd of butlers and maids stood there, all in black, gathered around a short tombstone…

“It was engraved with ‘Gloria’…”

“The owner… I suppose she was your mother?” Luna pieced it together from his words.

“Yes… a woman to hate…”

The modest memorial ended with the priests’ chanting.

Then I saw stern Father shed tears.

My brothers burst into loud sobs.

Only I…

Stood frozen alone… unsure what to do… Should I be glad or sad? I had no memory of this woman named Gloria… Childishly, I stood stubbornly firm.

I murmured to my brothers, “Don’t cry… don’t cry…”

That afternoon… a light rain fell…

My two brothers grabbed me roughly, lifting and dragging me to the wine cellar…

“You monster! Don’t you know what you’ve done!” Alex, my eldest brother, yelled. With those words, he slapped my face hard.

“I… don’t know,” I sobbed honestly, childlike truth in my voice.

“Oh, you’re… honest!” Without warning, Alex slapped me again.

The sharp pain and force knocked me to the ground.

Alex wasn’t done. He pinned me down, yanking my face up. He roared,

“Do you know? It’s all your fault! You ruined our family, you jinx! This bad luck charm! Why were you even born!” He punched my cheeks wildly as he screamed.

“I don’t understand… why hit me…!” I shot back defiantly.

“You! Because of you, Charlotte and I lost our mother to childbirth! Why did you come into this world!”

“Mother died… because of me…?”

Was it me…?

Because of me…?

Because… me…?

“Yes, you! Why don’t you just die!”

“Why! Why do you look so much like Mom! You’re mocking us!”

Alex kept punching my face. My head spun, but the sweet, sticky blood on my lips kept me from passing out. He beat me for a long time…

Time blurred. Half-conscious, I saw Alex and Charlotte crawl out the cellar’s only exit. A crisp click echoed—Charlotte had locked the door. They meant to trap me inside…

After that, I passed out from the beating… Hours or days later, I woke to utter darkness…

Pitch black. Nothing visible. I huddled in a corner, shivering from cold.

A child’s imagination runs wild… In the dark, I saw monsters of my own making. I don’t know how I survived two days and nights in that cellar… Only that when I neared breaking point, someone opened the door.

My personal maid…

In the whole mansion… only she noticed I was missing.

When they carried me to Father, he said nothing. Just ordered servants to tend my wounds and take me to my room.

Of course… my two brothers… faced no punishment…

The next day, they “visited” me. After fake concern, they shooed servants out and whispered low,

“If you value your life, never show your face again.”

“Or next time we see you, it’s back to the cellar…”

They left laughing after those words…

I grew terrified of darkness, truly believing they’d lock me away forever. So I wrapped myself in blankets, never leaving my room again.

My room had everything—bathroom, toilet… I began a long “self-preservation.”

Food came via servants. When bored, I had them fetch books from the mansion library. That became my routine…

My hair grew wild from neglect, making me look like a savage. For ease, I had servants bring a comb. I’d tidy it while reading.

Then one day, Father suddenly remembered me… Maybe just boredom. He came…

Perhaps my brothers were right—I did look too much like Mother. Seeing me, long-haired and curled under blankets with a book, Father broke down like a child. He knelt by the bed,

Weakly crying,

“Gloria… I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“It’s all my fault! Forgive me!”

I froze, unsure how to respond.

After that, Father never visited my room again.

Days or months later—I lost track—

A white-haired, bearded old man entered my room.

“You… Allen?” he asked kindly, smiling.

I nodded, then shook my head, fearing he was sent by my brothers to “remove” me.

“Don’t fear… I’m Michelangelo. A… well… teacher. Yes, a teacher,” he said gently, stroking his beard.

I nodded again, then shook my head—nodding for understanding, shaking for confusion.

“Hmm… Have you heard of Anli, my child?” he smiled.

I nodded. Anli, the dragon-slaying hero. Legends said he bore god-chosen power, saving the land under divine grace. A hero adored by all—at least, that’s what my myth books claimed.

“Want to be a hero like Anli?” he asked warmly.

I nodded.

“Then come with me now. Your father agreed,” he said, smiling.

He draped a red-black blanket, emblazoned with a golden griffin crest, over my head. I grabbed a few books from my bedside and followed him out—out of my room, out of the mansion, to Gryffindor Academy.

“That’s… my childhood story…” Allen whispered softly.

His hands gripped Luna’s tightly, refusing to let her go.