The bodyguard reached Gorak and, with a casual flick, threw the child forward by the collar.
The small body rolled several times across the floor before coming to a stop, lying face-up directly in front of Gorak's chair.
The child made no attempt to rise. He stayed exactly where he fell, staring up at Gorak with empty eyes.
Old bruises and marks already covered his skin—evidence of previous mistreatment—and now fresh ones bloomed from the rough handling. When he hit the ground, a sharp cracking sound echoed through the room; his elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, the damage invisible from the outside but unmistakable to everyone who heard it.
Yet the child didn't make a sound. His expression never flickered. He simply kept staring at Gorak.
Seeing that the boy didn't react even after such pain, Gorak's lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. He leaned forward, locking eyes with the child, and spoke softly:
"Looks like your temper has died down quite a bit."
"But…"
On that single word, Gorak suddenly raised his foot and delivered a light but deliberate kick to the child's face. The boy's head snapped to the side and stayed there.
Still, no cry. No sound at all. Words had long since lost any meaning for him.
From this new angle, the child could see his principal and teachers—heads still bowed, faces etched with the same helpless pity they had worn every time before. Once, he had begged them. He had tried every plea, every desperate method he knew, hoping someone—anyone—would step forward and help.
But no one ever did.
Their expressions remained unchanged: distant pity, nothing more. No move to intervene. No spark of courage.
Slowly, his own voice had faded away too. Eventually he stopped trying altogether. He understood now—there was no point.
Gorak finished his sentence, voice calm and cold:
"How dare you not answer me in today's class?"
"You think, you can get away by disrespecting me, just because you are inside eternal ascendancy?"
With that, he rose from the chair and stepped forward. Reaching down, he seized the child by one ear and lifted him cleanly off the ground.
The boy's ears were already in terrible condition—old cuts still raw and red. Gorak's thumb pressed directly into one of those open wounds as he held him suspended.
Gorak paid no attention to the damage he was causing. He simply lifted the child higher, holding him suspended by that single damaged ear.
This was only possible because Gorak had practiced breathing techniques—otherwise, lifting even a small child's full weight by nothing but the ear with one hand effortlessly would be physically impossible.
This time, the child reacted instinctively. He tried desperately to suppress his instincts, to stay silent and still—but the pain was too sharp, too overwhelming. He couldn't win against it.
His small hands shot up on pure reflex, clawing weakly at Gorak's wrist in a futile attempt to stop the thumb from grinding into the raw, open cut.
His tears had long since dried up; there was nothing left to cry. His face had settled into a permanent dull, gloomy mask—emotionless, hollow.
Only his body still registered pain. Mentally, he had gone completely numb long ago, no longer capable of feeling anything beyond the physical.
He already understood the truth with perfect clarity: no one could help him. Not the principal, not the teachers, not the school staff—and certainly not his parents.
Previously, He had tried to jump from the school rooftop—thinking that if he died, Gorak would finally leave his family alone, he will not be interested in harming them after he died. But Gorak's men had caught him mid-leap and dragged him back.
Gorak had leaned in close that day, voice low and venomous:
"If you ever try that again, your whole family dies with you. And not quickly. I'll make sure every one of them suffers far worse than you ever could."
After that, Gorak had taken them.
His parents. His two younger brothers. All of them vanished into Gorak's grip overnight. Their lives now hung on whatever whim crossed his mind.
Because of that, the boy never spoke their names. Never mentioned family. Never even looked like he remembered they existed.
He just endured.
Took every beating in silence.
If he tried to end it, His family would pay in blood.
If he tried to ask for help, Gorak's men would intercept him before the first word left his mouth. And even kills the person whom he tried to ask for help.
So bit by bit he hollowed out.
Not because he chose to become empty, but because hope had been beaten out of him until nothing remained.
Now, in the present moment—Gorak's eyes narrowed as the boy's trembling fingers brushed against his sleeve, reaching instinctively for something, anything.
Gorak recoiled like he'd been touched by rot.
"You filth—how dare you lay a finger on me!"
He jerked his hand away, snapped his fingers at one of the men.
"Water. Now."
A bottle was handed over instantly. Gorak poured it over his palm, scrubbing furiously as if the brief contact had stained him, then flung the bottle aside.
He turned to two of his men.
"You two. Slap some sense into him."
They moved without hesitation.
One grabbed the boy by the hair and yanked his head back. The other started open-handed slaps—hard, rhythmic, cracking across both cheeks. Enough force to split lips and make an adult sob.
But the boy's face stayed blank. No flinch. No tears. No sound.
Gorak's expression darkened.
"Why isn't this filth reacting? Why isn't he crying?" His voice rose, incredulous and furious. "He made my own son cry once. He should be weeping. He should be begging!"
He waved at the other two men still standing by.
"Hey—you two. Go."
They joined in without a word.
One drove a fist deep into the boy's stomach, folding him forward. The other pressed cruelly on the older bruises—grinding knuckles into purple-yellow marks until fresh pain bloomed.
For the first time, the boy reacted.
A small, involuntary twitch. His hands jerked up to shield himself.
The man behind him seized both wrists in an iron grip and slammed a palm against the back of the boy's head.
"Stay. Still."
Gorak watched, chest rising and falling, unsatisfied.
Even the child pain refused to give him the reaction he craved.