Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Eight Damn Years

I ran back to my room.

My brain wasn’t braining. My thoughts weren’t thoughting. Everything was a mess inside my skull.

’Okay. Okay. Calm down, Zarix. No wait. Am I still Zarix? Who the fuck am I?’

I needed to see myself. Needed to confirm what I was dealing with.

My eyes scanned the room and landed on some glassy decorations. Fancy vases. Polished ornaments. Rich people stuff. I grabbed one and angled it toward my face.

A child stared back at me.

White hair with a slight blue tint. Sky blue eyes. Soft, round, childish features.

And my ears.

Pointed.

Not fully pointed like that elf woman I saw getting violated. But slightly. Just enough to notice.

’Half elf?’

I was more confused than ever. A half elf child in a medieval fantasy world.

Before I could spiral further, the door opened.

I spun around.

A woman stepped in.

The same elf woman. The one who was on all fours. The one with whip marks on her back and ass. The one being used as a footstool.

She looked at me.

And smiled.

She walked over and patted my cheek gently. Her touch was soft. Warm.

“Eren, is something wrong?”

’Eren?’

Her voice. There was something in it. Something I couldn’t identify at first.

Motherly.

It sounded motherly.

I panicked.

“No. Nothing’s wrong.”

She tilted her head, studying my face. Then nodded.

“Then let’s sleep. It’s already late.”

She walked toward the bed. And in that moment, I saw them again. The marks on her thighs under her night gown. Red. Fresh. Painful.

Her steps were careful. Slow. Each movement carried a hidden wince.

But her smile never faded.

She was hiding everything behind that smile.

She climbed onto the bed and patted the space beside her.

“Did you have a nightmare? Are you scared?” Her voice was gentle. Soothing. “Come here, sweetie. Mama will help you feel better.”

My mind froze.

’Mama?’

’She’s my… no way.’

’I’m the son of a concubine who just got humiliated?’

My body moved on its own. My soul was still petrified, but my legs carried me to the bed.

I laid down beside her.

Then she hugged me.

And something broke inside me.

Not in a bad way. In a way I’d never experienced before.

Warmth.

Not the warmth of lust. Not the heat of arousal. Not the excitement of seeing skin.

This was different.

Foreign.

I had never felt this in my previous life. No one had ever held me like this. No one had ever made me feel… safe.

“It’s okay, Eren.”

Her voice was soft. But I could hear the cracks in it. The pain hidden beneath.

“As long as I’m with you, no one will harm you. I’ll make sure of that.”

’You’re the one being harmed.’

’You’re the one suffering.’

’And you’re worried about me?’

My hand moved on instinct. I wrapped my arms around her and held on.

Tighter.

Tighter.

For the first time in my life, I felt tears forming in my eyes.

They didn’t fall. But they were there. Burning. Threatening to spill.

All because of this woman. This stranger who was now my mother. Her pain. Her love. Her warmth.

Everything crashed into me at once.

I grabbed her tighter and closed my eyes.

And for the first time in forever, I slept peacefully.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time passed.

Eight years.

Eight years of absolute hell.

I was eighteen now.

I stood in the training grounds, gripping a custom made war axe. Heavy. Brutal. Forged by my own hands over the years.

The thought of dying visited me every single day.

But I couldn’t die yet.

Not until I freed her. Not until I saved my mother from this nightmare.

Well, that’s the noble part of my story.

The pathetic part?

I was stuck in that cursed novel.

“The One Who Was Summoned.”

The same garbage I threw in my cum tissue trash can. The same worldbuilding nightmare that killed my dick before the plane did.

And now I was living in it.

My superpower was sealed. And no, I don’t mean the magic of this world. I mean my true power. My greatest skill. My SSS Rank ability.

Ultimate Gooner.

Gone.

Dead.

For eight years, I hadn’t felt a single urge. Hadn’t gotten hard once. My beast was in eternal hibernation, and no amount of naked elves or milfs could wake him up.

The curse was real. And I was its victim.

But forget my dick for a moment. Let me explain this stupid world.

This place didn’t have those fancy skills where some chosen one shoots fireballs from his palm or summons lightning from the sky.

Here, people were weak. Same as Earth. Physically, they were nothing special.

But they had QUOR cores.

Think of it like a mana core, except it doesn’t release energy outward. It stores energy inside. And that energy is used for one thing.

Summoning.

When you summon, your QUOR empties based on how powerful your summon is. The summon doesn’t need continuous feeding. They just obey until they’re defeated or dismissed.

Simple enough, right?

Here’s where it gets stupid.

Summons weren’t beasts. Weren’t monsters. Weren’t dragons or devils or any of that cool stuff.

They were dead people.

Ancestors.

When someone dies in this world, their spirit wanders around for centuries. They absorb power from the era they observe. They awakens skills. Affinities. Abilities.

But they lose their memories. Their emotions. Their personalities.

They become puppets. Mindless tools waiting to be bonded.

Well, most of them.

The higher ranked summons retain fragments. Memories. Feelings. Ego.

And that’s where the real problem starts.

Bonding with a summon wasn’t easy. The whole “you look cool, I’ll serve you” scenario was rare. Almost nonexistent.

For powerful summons with attitude and pride? The chances were negative.

Some summons bonded through bloodline. They helped their descendants without even knowing why. Instinct. Genetics. Whatever.

But for eighty percent of the population? They got their summons from family.

Parents. Siblings. or even Children, only real blood.

Summons could be transferred through rituals. Passed down like heirlooms.

And this created the golden spoon cycle.

Rich families hoarded summons. Dozens of them. Generations of power stacked on top of each other.

Same as every world. The wealthy dominated. The powerful stayed powerful. The weak stayed fucked.

And me?

I was part of the Astrea clan.

The greatest clan in the Norvia Empire. The rulers of this entire country.

My father was from a branch family. A baron. Lord of some backwater village.

Sounds decent, right?

Wrong.

I was in the greatest clan and didn’t have a single summon.

Not one.

No summon was attracted to me. My family didn’t give me one. My luck was nonexistent.

My mother offered hers. A weak, practically useless summon. But I refused. Again and again.

She needed it more than I did.

So here I was. A member of the most powerful bloodline in the empire. Training with a war axe like some primitive caveman.

Physical combat was considered stupid in this world. Pointless. Why train your body when your summon does the fighting?

But I had no choice.

For eight years, I trained my muscles. Built my strength. Forged my weapon.

All for one goal.

Kill that bastard father. Kill his bitch sister in law. Kill his scheming mother.

Free mine.

My mother was a warrior.

Weak by this world’s standards, but a warrior nonetheless.

I learned the truth over the years. Pieced it together from conversations. Observations. Overheard whispers.

She was forced into this marriage. A trade. A transaction between families.

She endured the hell of this household for one reason.

Me.

She lived for me. Suffered for me. Smiled for me.

And why couldn’t she fight back?

The clan’s law.

In the Astrea bloodline, the person with the highest QUOR capacity became the dominant figure. The head of the household.

Anyone could challenge the current head within the family. If your QUOR was greater, you won. Simple.

The proof?

The Hands from Hell.

Shadowy appendages that rose from below and declared the victor. They wrapped around the winner and acknowledged their supremacy.

But challenging came with risks.

Disobeying a supreme order meant punishment. The Hands would suffocate you. Crush you. Use magic to torture you into submission.

My father was weak. Pathetic, even. But his QUOR was higher than my mother’s or anyone else in the family.

So she endured.

His sister in law was the real snake. Her husband died years ago. Her daughter was powerful. With proper scheming, she could overthrow my father and take control with her.

But she wasn’t ready yet. So instead, she whispered poison into his ear. Manipulated him. Turned him against my weak mother for entertainment and mainly striping of privileges of me and her.

My grandmother was in on it too. The old hag enjoyed watching my mother suffer.

Their entertainment. Their bonding activity. Torturing the anomaly. The weak elf who didn’t belong between humans.

I gripped my axe tighter.

Eight years of watching. Eight years of listening. Eight years of clenching my fists and doing nothing.

Today felt different.

I walked through the halls toward my room. The manor was quiet. Too quiet.

Then I heard it.

That sound.

The sound I’d heard hundreds of times. The sound that made my blood boil every single night.

SLAP.

“Mmph…!”

I followed the noise. My footsteps were silent. My grip on the axe was white knuckled.

I reached the door. Slightly open.

I peeked inside.

My mother.

Naked.

On her knees.

My father’s sister stood over her, one foot raised. She grabbed my mother’s hair and yanked her head back.

Then shoved her foot into my mother’s mouth.

“Clean it properly, knife ear.”

My veins popped.

My vision turned red.

Eight years. Eight fucking years of this.

I was done.

I knew I would die for what I was about to do. I knew they would kill me the moment I acted.

But I didn’t care anymore.

I would leave permanent damage. I would make them suffer. Even if it was the last thing I did.

My hand moved to force the door open.

And then.

My vision blurred.

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