Death.
What is death?
For some, it's terrifying, an inevitable horror they desperately wish to delay. A dark oblivion awaiting the forgotten and insignificant, reserved only for those whose existence mattered little to the world.
But for Trafalgar du Morgain, death felt strangely comforting—almost ideal.
Cold rain sliced through the darkness, tracing pale, bruised skin like icy fingers. Trafalgar lay broken and motionless beneath the relentless downpour, his body a battered ruin illuminated faintly by moonlight. His ocean-blue eyes stared blankly upward, reflecting the pale glow above, as his jet-black hair blended with the darkness around him, matching his fate.
After death, there was only the unknown, a silent void untouched by suffering or disdain.
He had always known this day would arrive. Always.
Nineteen miserable years spent crawling through life, unseen, unheard—a shadow drifting among the living. Now, here at the end, everything he'd known was reduced to mud, blood, and the bitter embrace of the cold.
A feeble spark of resistance stirred within Trafalgar, driving him to attempt one final, desperate effort. He pushed against the ground weakly, trembling fingers clawing uselessly at the mud beneath him. His body betrayed him instantly, collapsing into the wet earth with a sickening splash.
His fingertips twitched in helpless rage as his strength faded, slipping rapidly toward oblivion.
"Dammit…" he coughed bitterly, tasting copper and despair in equal measure. "I'm really going to die…"
The words escaped from him, brittle and broken, but filled with absolute certainty. Death lingered at the edges of his fading senses, an unwelcome yet strangely comforting visitor. Trafalgar's teeth clenched as he cursed silently, resentful toward the cursed bloodline he'd inherited—a bloodline that had rendered him weak, worthless, and doomed him from the start.
"My body was doomed from the beginning," he muttered grimly, his vision clouding as darkness crept inward. "I've wasted nineteen years… all for nothing."
Bitterness tightened his throat, choking him more violently than the blood pooling in his mouth. Rejection and contempt—those were his oldest companions, never once leaving his side. Adopted but never loved. Tolerated but never accepted. A bastard whose very existence stained a proud lineage.
He closed his eyes briefly, listening as his heartbeat faded to a soft whisper, each pulse weaker than the last. A quiet, hollow laugh slipped past his lips, harsh yet resigned.
"So this is how Trafalgar du Morgain dies," he whispered hoarsely, the relentless rain drowning out his voice. "Unwanted, unacknowledged… and completely forgotten."
His voice trailed off into silence, lost beneath the storm, as death's cold embrace finally closed around him.
Darkness spread across his mind, but it brought no comfort—only memories sharp enough to tear open old wounds. Fragments of cruelty surfaced, vivid, relentless, replaying before Trafalgar's fading consciousness.
He was eight, standing awkwardly before a hall filled with noble guests, all elegantly dressed in silk and velvet. The chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the prestigious gathering. Trafalgar felt painfully out of place, small and vulnerable under their scrutinizing stares.
His eldest brother, Alveric, approached with confidence, eyes coldly glittering with malice. With a single swift motion, he slapped away the small wooden sword Trafalgar held, sending it clattering loudly across the marble floor.
"Look at him," Alveric sneered, loud enough for all the guests to hear. "This pathetic excuse for a Morgain can't even hold his weapon properly. What a disgrace."
Mocking laughter echoed through the hall, piercing deep into Trafalgar's chest. Shame burned fiercely within him, his face flushed hot with humiliation as he trembled in silence, eyes fixed downward to hide his tears.
The scene twisted and faded, replaced by another cruel fragment.
Lady Serentha stood above him, her sharp, unfeeling gaze cutting deeper than any blade. Trafalgar had been twelve, his body bruised and battered after yet another failed training session. Her voice, smooth as ice and colder still, resonated in his memory:
"You can't even harness mana," she hissed disdainfully, each word dripping contempt. "You're utterly useless, Trafalgar. You disgrace this family simply by existing."
Her words sliced through him, more agonizing than any physical pain he'd ever endured.
Another shift—this time it was his father, Valtair du Morgain. He stood at the end of the training grounds, observing with eyes colder than winter itself. Trafalgar, aged fifteen now, lay face-down in the dirt, breathless and exhausted after hours of desperate attempts to summon even the faintest spark of magic.
But Valtair's expression never changed—not anger, not disappointment, just endless indifference. The silence was louder than any rebuke, a clear statement of Trafalgar's insignificance.
'All my life, I fought just to be enough,' Trafalgar thought bitterly, heart clenching in anguish, 'only to realize I never could be.'
Memories cascaded faster, blurred images of endless training sessions filled with sweat, tears, and blood. Days and nights spent pushing beyond exhaustion, muscles screaming for mercy that never came. Without mana, without strength, without purpose, every effort had crumbled into meaningless dust.
In the final moments of fading consciousness, Trafalgar understood with harrowing clarity:
He was never meant to succeed. He was born broken, unwanted—a cruel joke fate had played, mocking him with false hope.
His very existence was a curse, and the world had made sure he would never forget it.
Rain continued its merciless assault, washing away blood and mud alike, revealing the faintly glowing mark carved deep into Trafalgar's chest. The mark pulsed weakly, its crimson hue dimming slowly, mirroring his fading heartbeat. Each faint throb sent dull agony spreading throughout his battered frame, a cruel reminder of the curse he bore since the day he was found.
His fingers traced the edges of the curse unconsciously, trembling against his icy skin. The twisted rune had been burned into his flesh, dark and sinister—proof of his doomed existence. He'd always known it was more than just a symbol; it was the reason he could never summon mana, the reason his body was slowly dying from within.
'This curse,' he thought bitterly, 'it didn't just steal my mana—it stole my life... slowly killing me.'
The truth of it was clear now, in the quiet clarity of his final moments. The Morgains—his supposed family—had always known. They knew the curse would one day consume him, knew he was destined for this agonizing end. Yet they'd stood by, indifferent, watching him fight battles he couldn't possibly win. No one had ever tried to help. No one had offered comfort or mercy.
'They knew from the start this day would come,' he thought, anguish twisting within his chest alongside bitter resentment. 'But they just stood aside and watched. After all, I was never truly one of them.'
A wave of confusion swept through him as another painful memory surfaced—the story he'd been told countless times. He'd been abandoned as an infant, a nameless child wrapped in rags, left on the doorstep of the Morgain family's grand estate. It was there that Valtair du Morgain, the proud and ruthless patriarch, found him.
Yet Valtair had adopted him. He could have left Trafalgar to the mercy of fate, yet he chose not to. For nineteen years, Trafalgar had carried that unanswered question, gnawing relentlessly at his soul.
'Why? Why did Valtair keep me, if only to let me suffer?' he asked himself, the question like poison in his veins. 'He could've abandoned me, just like whoever left me at his door. Why did he bring me into this family just to watch me fail?'
His breathing grew shallower, each inhalation weaker than the last, each heartbeat slower. The cursed mark flickered one final time before dimming completely, leaving behind nothing but cold, dead flesh and unanswered questions.
Trafalgar's eyes began to drift shut, his vision dimming beneath heavy eyelids. Slowly, the relentless rain eased into a gentle drizzle, each droplet soft, almost comforting, caressing his battered skin like a mournful farewell.
He lay there in bitter silence, the irony of his fate sinking deeply into his soul. Nineteen years of struggle, pain, and unfulfilled yearning—all coming down to this quiet, solitary end. No mourners. No family weeping at his side. Not even the whispered prayers reserved for the forgotten souls of the world.
He was alone. Truly, utterly alone.
'Did anyone ever love me?' he wondered weakly. 'Will anyone even remember that I once lived?'
A sad smile twisted faintly at the corners of his mouth, a cold realization settling in.
"Not even a grave will carry my name," he whispered hoarsely, his voice blending seamlessly with the misty drizzle. "I'll vanish as if I never existed at all."
His consciousness faded further, drifting toward the eternal darkness that awaited. His heartbeat slowed to a fragile whisper, fading into the gentle hum of the falling rain.
His breathing gradually ceased, each shallow breath weaker than the last until finally, it stopped altogether.
His ocean-blue eyes dimmed slowly, their faint glow swallowed by darkness. The cursed mark upon his chest, once a burning testament of his torment, now lay quiet and lifeless, devoid of any lingering spark.
Silence enveloped him entirely, a stillness so profound and absolute, he felt suspended in emptiness. Yet, just before his consciousness fully sank into oblivion, something shifted deep within him—a strange sensation, warm and soothing, unlike anything he'd ever known.
'What…?' Trafalgar's fading mind stirred weakly, confusion blending with a surprising sense of peace. 'Is this… death?'
There was no answer, only the gentle embrace of comforting darkness welcoming him home.