Setelah Reinkarnasi, Aku Tidak Lagi Menjadi Penyelamat

"The greatest battles aren't fought in the ring.

There, only the body takes the hits.

But the real wars are the ones we fight for love, for survival, for truth —

in places where there's no protective gear, and every touch can mean life or death.

And in the end, the only way to win... is to stop fighting for yourself."

The silence in the house was too loud.

The kind of silence that was never a good sign.

A thick, suffocating stillness that made your stomach twist even before the door opened.

Lennox Graves was ten years old when he learned that touch could hurt.

But that night, it wasn't only his body that bore the mark.

That night, silence taught him something else too:

that affection disguised as love was the most dangerous thing of all.

He crouched in the kitchen, his bare feet pressed against the cold tile.

The light from the hallway barely reached him—just enough to see his mother's shoes.

She had left him again and gone to work the night shift.

He already knew the choreography: the door closes, then comes the waiting.

The click. The key. The footsteps.

And then he arrived.

The sound of the key turning in the lock always seemed to last a second longer than it should have.

Lennox didn't move. His breathing slowed.

He pressed his back against the wall, like an animal that knows hiding doesn't mean safety—just time.

"LENNOX!"

The voice boomed—deep, muffled, hoarse.

His father was home.

Lennox closed his eyes. He didn't respond.

Maybe this time it wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe he'd just sit. Maybe he'd just drink.

Maybe Lennox wouldn't be the target tonight.

The footsteps began. Not hurried. Deliberate.

As if even the house itself was afraid of where the man was going.

He headed for the kitchen.

"Come out, you little rat," his father hissed, kicking a chair out of the way.

The boy's heart pounded so hard, he couldn't even hear his thoughts—only instinct.

The instinct that screamed: don't move, don't look up, don't say a word.

But the man had already seen him.

He grabbed his arm.

"What the hell are you doing on the floor, you little failure?"

Lennox didn't answer.

He just looked up.

His large, ice-blue eyes didn't beg. Didn't plead.

They just stared. Silently. Like always.

The first hit didn't crack. It was dull.

Like something thrown against a wall.

The second was louder. It hit his stomach.

The air rushed out of him.

"This crap is what you brought home? A C? A goddamn C?!"

The man's voice rose, and another blow came—this time to his ribs.

Lennox doubled over, but he didn't cry. He didn't beg. Not anymore.

"Don't you get it?! If you don't learn how to hit, you'll always be the one getting hit! Understand?!"

Another strike. This time to his thigh.

Lennox collapsed to his knees.

The cold floor hit his skin, but that was the least of the pain.

Now his father wasn't just hitting. He was kicking.

He grabbed the boy's arm and lifted him.

His feet didn't touch the floor. His ribs creaked.

"You have to be stronger, you little shit," he hissed, his face close to the boy's.

"Your body is yours. Start using it!"

The boy didn't understand what that meant.

He only knew that the world he was born into wasn't one where people hugged you when you were hurt.

It was a world where every touch promised pain.

When his father finally left him, Lennox stayed on the floor.

He didn't move. His body ached.

Every breath stabbed at his chest.

And under his ribs, something deeper had broken—not just bone, but something quiet and unseen.

The night dragged on.

Later, he stood.

Washed the blood off as best he could.

Threw the shirt in the trash.

Then sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting in his lap.

And something happened.

Something small.

He looked at his hands.

Thin, trembling fingers.

And he began to squeeze them.

One hand into the other.

Like someone trying to convince themselves they still had control over something. Anything.

That night, Lennox Graves made a decision.

He would never again let anyone touch him.

Not out of love.

Not out of anger.

Not out of sympathy.

Because touch wasn't safety.

Touch was weakness.

A crack in the armor.

And he would never allow a crack again.

That's why he loved the ring.

There, everyone knew when the hit was coming.

There were rules.

There was no trust needed.

Only one thing mattered: who stayed standing.

And if anyone ever tried to touch him, only one thought crossed his mind:

Don't touch me.