Void Lord and his Harem Stars

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They would come in the afternoons or just before dusk. Always when no one else was around. One brother would slip in first with a sour smirk. Then another. Soon all five would gather like crows on a carcass. They never spoke much. Just a nod or a glance between them before fists started flying.

It was never in front of others. Not officially. Never where a noble eye might wander. But inside the cottage or behind it… where the bushes grew thick and the ground was packed with old roots, they would corner him. Laughing sometimes. Silent other times. And take turns.

After a month he learned not to scream. Not because he wanted to be brave, but because it hurt more when he did. They liked it when he made noise. It gave them something to measure. Something to chase. If he cried out, they would keep going. If he curled up quietly, they would eventually get bored.

Sometimes a servant would pass by and see. A flicker of a figure in the window. A shadow shifting behind the bushes. A thud. A grunt. The sound of something breaking.

But they looked away. Always.

He was beaten five times each day. Once by each brother. They rarely showed up together anymore. They began to space it out, like a schedule. One would visit before breakfast. Another during midday. One after sunset. Another in the middle of the night when the moon was bright and silence thick. They called it fairness. Equal turns. Equal cruelty.

Some days he could not move.

He would lie behind the cottage, curled up in the dirt, arms wrapped around his ribs. His body was bruised. His lip split. One eye swollen shut. No one came for him. No one asked if he was alright. The world kept moving. The manor lights kept burning and the Nobel parties kept happening. The servants kept walking past. Eyes down. Lips sealed.

His brothers made a game of it.

They kept a tally. Julian, always the ringleader, scratched a mark on the back of the cottage wall with a knife he had been given by their father. Every time one of them hit John, they carved a new line. By the end of the month, the wood looked like a page filled with ink. They joked about prizes. Who could come up with the best excuse. Who could make John fall to his knees first. Who could draw blood without leaving a scar.

It was a sport. He was their sport. And the worst part was not the pain. It was the silence.

The hollow quiet after they walked away. The knowledge that no one cared. That he could scream, cry, or bleed, and the world would not flinch. That the only thing waiting for him after the beatings was the same empty cottage, the same cold floor, the same grave behind the tree.

He began to wonder if the Nine Circles were not inside his heart after all. But outside. All around him. Made by the people who shared his blood.

One day he came home with blood dried across his lip and bruises lining his ribs. He lay on the cot in the corner of the cottage, eyes on the ceiling, fists clenched. The ring glowed again.

This time, the light spread across his hand. A voice stirred in the back of his mind. Not full words. Just the faintest hum. He closed his eyes.

"I haven't forgotten," he whispered. And the light faded.

By fifteen, he was taller. Although he never received proper training like his half brothers, yet his body became much stronger than them from the non stop beating, for the past three years. His eyes held a different light now. Not hope. Not pride. Something colder. Quiet and sharp like the edge of a blade kept hidden beneath cloth.

That was the year the Duke called him.

He had never heard the Duke speak to him directly before or never seen the duke face up close. Not once in fifteen years. But a messenger arrived one morning, dressed in black, and handed him a letter.

The seal was red wax. The family crest pressed into the center. John opened it with steady fingers. 

The letter says: He was to appear in the great hall before the court. Alone.

The walk through the estate was silent. Nobles watched him pass. Servants turned their heads.

He stepped into the grand hall and felt the air shift. The ceilings rose high above, supported by marble pillars etched with mana veins. Red carpets ran down the length of the room. Chandeliers floated overhead, glowing with enchanted crystals.

The Duke sat at the far end, dressed in gray silk robes lined with silver. His face was hard and unreadable.

John walked until he stood ten paces away and bowed. "Sir, You summoned me."

The Duke studied him in silence. "You have lived under this roof for fifteen years," he said. "Sheltered, Fed, Clothed. Despite your blood."

John said nothing. "You are not recognized by the world. You are not one of my heirs."

Still, he remained silent. The Duke's voice grew colder. "Your presence here breeds shame. Contempt. You are a wound the family cannot allow to fester."

He raised one hand. "You are hereby banished from the House of White. From this day forward, you are no longer welcome in these lands."

The silence in the room was absolute. John looked up. He didn't speak. Didn't beg. His heart beat once, slow and clear. The ring pulsed faintly on his hand.

He bowed once more. "Understood."

He turned and walked out. No one followed. No one stopped him. Not even Julian, who smiled from his place along the court wall.

As John stepped past the manor gates, the guards closed them behind him with a loud metallic slam.

Clang!

He didn't look back. The world beyond the gates was colder.