Chapter 2. Homecoming

A mournful creak echoed as the warped wooden door swung inward.

“Finally,” Rayden murmured, his voice absorbed by the silence within. “I’m home.”

The scent of old timber and settled dust greeted him like a ghost, instantly conjuring the memory that time could not erase: his father, lying in a pool of blood right on this very threshold. A fresh wave of cold fury, directed at the Bramasta family and the traitor Hery, burned hot in his chest.

After returning to Malora City, Rayden had learned that the Bramastas had tried to sell his family home long ago. But no one would buy it. The locals claimed it was haunted. That lingering darkness had become his good fortune, allowing him to purchase it back.

The acquisition was made possible by a black card with no limit—a token of immense gratitude from a former disciple of the Village of Deities, whom Rayden had helped persuade Master Sena to teach a secret sword technique. Rayden had been skeptical of the card's power at first, but when the purchase of his ancestral home went through without a single obstacle, all his doubts vanished.

“I need a shower,” he muttered to himself.

He stepped inside, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Who would dare break into a house steeped in such a dark history?

Entering his old room, Rayden dropped a shopping bag filled with new clothes onto the bed and headed for the adjoining bathroom. Minutes later, he emerged, a simple white towel knotted around his waist. Steam clung to the air around him, and droplets of water traced paths from his damp hair down his chiseled chest.

He stared into the mirror, his expression hardening, his jaw tight.

And then—

CRASH!

The sound of his bedroom door being forced open triggered a decade of conditioning. In a blur of motion, his body reacted on pure instinct. He pivoted away from any potential line of attack, then lunged, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He slammed the intruder against the wall, his hand clamping around their throat with disciplined force.

He was a predator, coiled and ready, his eyes sharp with lethal alertness. His only covering was the white towel, now dripping water onto the dusty floorboards.

But as his gaze focused on the person pinned beneath him, his brow furrowed.

A woman.

Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and terror, her hands clawing uselessly at his grip as she fought for air.

“Wh-What are…?” she choked out, her voice strangled by the pressure on her neck.

Rayden didn't move. His opponent was a woman, but his vigilance, honed by masters of life and death, remained absolute. His gaze was like ice, completely untroubled by his own state of undress.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice cold enough to freeze the steam in the air.

The woman’s panicked eyes darted between his face and his bare, glistening torso. She was trapped in a nightmare, caught between a mortal threat and the startling intimacy of their situation.

“Answer me,” Rayden hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Who are you, and how did you get into this house?”

She opened her mouth, but only frantic gasps escaped. Her struggles grew more desperate, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as her body trembled under his unyielding strength.

“P-please… let me go… I’m not a threat…” she managed to whisper, her voice a hoarse rasp.

Rayden held her for a moment longer, searching her eyes for any sign of deceit. He found none. Only pure, undiluted fear. With a final, sharp assessment, he released his grip. As she slumped against the wall, coughing and gasping for breath, his eyes caught a detail. A tiny, dark mole on her left temple.

A memory pierced through the decade of rage and training.

“Mireya?” Rayden breathed, the name barely audible.

The woman’s head snapped up. She was Mireya Arsana, daughter of the very Aunt Diana his mother had been so close to.

Her eyes widened further in disbelief, her breathing still ragged. “How… how do you know my name?” Then, her brain finally registered the full scene—the man before her was wearing nothing but a towel. A deep blush flooded her cheeks and she spun around, covering her face with both hands.

“Mireya, it’s me,” Rayden said plainly. “Rayden.”

Mireya froze, slowly lowering her hands from her face. “That’s impossible,” she whispered to his back. “Rayden died ten years ago!”

“If I were dead, how could I be standing here now?” He turned her around to face him, a small, wry smile touching his lips.

Their eyes met in a heavy, charged silence.

Mireya took a stumbling step back, her eyes scanning him. This man was a stranger—taller, broader, with a warrior’s build and long hair that framed a face carved from hard experience. Nothing remained of the boy she once knew.

“Is it really you, Ray?” she asked, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You’re… alive?”

He gave a slow nod, then took a step closer. His gaze softened, but it was filled with questions. “What are you doing in this house?”

Mireya opened her mouth, then stopped. “I… wait a minute!” Her eyes dropped to the damp towel clinging precariously to his hips. Her face turned crimson again.

“Ray, could you… could you please put some clothes on?!” she yelped, turning away and hiding her face once more.

Rayden watched her for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“My apologies,” he said, his tone casual as he turned towards the wardrobe. “I was focused on the question.”

While he dressed, Mireya kept her back to him, trying to calm the chaotic drumming of her heart. Her mind was reeling, not just from Rayden's impossible return, but from his unnerving composure. He acted as if being nearly naked in front of a woman was the most normal thing in the world.

“Done,” he said. He was beside her again. “Now, why are you here?”

Taking a deep breath, Mireya turned to face him. “I was looking for Raelyn’s doll. She’s been asking for it constantly lately.”

“Raelyn?” The name caught in Rayden’s throat. His composure finally cracked. “Raelyn is alive?”

Mireya nodded slowly.

“Where is she?” he demanded, the question sharp and immediate. The cold fury in his eyes was momentarily replaced by a desperate, fragile hope. The first part of his mission was within reach.

“She’s… she’s at my house,” Mireya stammered, intimidated by his sudden intensity.

Rayden fell silent, his gaze boring into her as if to ensure he wasn’t dreaming. A heavy, hopeful breath escaped his lips.

“Take me to her,” he said, his voice softer now, but with an undercurrent of unbreakable resolve. “I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay.”

Mireya hesitated, but the raw sincerity in his eyes was undeniable. She nodded. “Of course. But… Ray, how are you in this house? How did you get in?”

Rayden raised an eyebrow. “I bought it.”

Her jaw dropped. “You bought it? But… how?”

He was about to answer, his mouth already open, when a loud voice boomed from outside.

“Mr. Kartadewa! Are you in there?!”

A slow, cold smile spread across Rayden’s lips. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived. Mireya, however, went pale with recognition.

“Ray, we have to run!” she said urgently, instinctively moving towards a dusty wheelchair folded in the corner of the room.

Rayden put a calm hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Why?”

“I know that voice. That’s Lazren Bramasta, the youngest son! His family is the one that—”

“Then what’s the problem?” Rayden cut her off, his voice chillingly serene.

Before Mireya could argue, a figure appeared in the bedroom doorway. A young man dressed in an expensive suit, a wide, practiced smile on his face.

“Mr. Kartadewa! Ah, so you are here. I can’t imagine what grand business you’ve conducted with my father for him to send me to meet you personally in this old relic of a house,” Lazren said, his tone slick and condescending.

Rayden slowly turned his head to face the newcomer. His smile was a thin, cold line, and a murderous aura began to bleed into his gaze.

So, he thought, this is the youngest son of the family that slaughtered mine.