Ingnall Frey had always been different, but as a child, it took him years to truly understand just how wide the gap between himself and others was.
That realization didn't come easy, mostly because no one ever gave it to him straight.
Still, the feeling of being an outsider had always been there, lingering like a shadow since the earliest days he could remember.
While the other kids basked in the warmth of parental affection and enjoyed peaceful lives, Frey alone was drowning in a daily hell that couldn't have been more different.
He'd figured out, at least, that it had something to do with his appearance—silver hair, blood-red eyes. Not a trait from either of his so-called parents. Something that made him stick out like a sore thumb.
And while that wasn't something he could control, his parents made sure to punish him for it anyway. No hesitation. No mercy. Just relentless, routine abuse, like it was second nature to them.
Their relationship was a complete shitshow. His mother hated his father with a burning passion, constantly screaming that she'd never cheated, while his father, spiteful bastard that he was, refused to believe a word of it.
He was convinced she'd taken another man's seed into her cunt and birthed a bastard that didn't belong to him. Whether that was true or not, even Frey didn't know. But it was clear his old man believed it, and that was all that mattered.
Honestly, it was a miracle they hadn't torn each other apart or divorced. Maybe they didn't because they both needed something to take their rage out on—and Frey was the perfect fucking punching bag.
The scapegoat. The curse they could blame for their own miserable existence. He was convenient. A walking, breathing stress relief doll. Beating their son gave them just enough mental breathing room to keep pretending they could survive together.
In a twisted way, he was the "lubricant" that kept their fucked-up marriage running—not that Frey ever asked for that role, or felt any pride in playing it. Add to that his freakishly perfect face—sharp jawline, symmetrical features, that kind of dangerous beauty that people didn't admire… they envied.
People hated looking at him. Jealousy burned in their eyes. Not just his parents, but everyone around him.
Anyway... Back to the main point.
Just because the other kids lived peaceful lives didn't mean their lives were easy. Far from it. The country they were born in was dirt-poor.
Technically, it was only the commoners—the scum below the royal family—who had to live like rats, starving and struggling to survive.
Even a kid like Frey understood it was all because of the Heavenly Tribute. The World Nobles demanded it, and the country bled its people dry to deliver.
So yeah, even young kids had to work. Child labor was normal. But Frey, He was forced to work before he even knew how to count. That shit wasn't just harsh, it was criminal.
But to his parents, he wasn't even a person. Just a mistake. A stain. A bastard born from some imagined affair. They didn't want him in the house. Didn't want to see his face. Didn't want him in their fucking line of sight.
So they threw him out. Literally. When he was home, they shoved him into a moldy, cramped storage room—called it his "bedroom." Told him not to make a sound. If he wasn't out working, pissing, or wiping down his body with a wet rag they called a "shower," he wasn't allowed to leave that space.
Not even to breathe fresh air.
And when he did work, every single Berry he earned was snatched away. The food they gave him? Laughable. Shit, dog food might've been better. Cold soup made from vegetable scraps, bread so dry and moldy it crumbled like ash in his hands, sometimes they even told him to dig through the trash behind restaurants to "find his own meal." Like he was a fucking animal.
And he was treated like one. The townsfolk despised him. If they saw him scavenging, they'd throw rocks, beat him with sticks—same way they'd chase off a mangy stray.
Actually, even a stray might get tossed a bone now and then. Frey didn't even get that. Parents would pull their children away at the sight of him, hiding their faces like he was a disease. Their glares screamed, "Get lost, freak."
Call it discrimination. Call it whatever the hell you want. At the end of the day, humans needed someone to look down on. In a kingdom choking on poverty, Frey was the perfect target—rock-bottom filth for them to spit on, so they could feel just a little better about themselves.
And yeah, he never consciously thought all that. But somewhere deep down, he knew. Knew it wouldn't change. Knew fighting back was pointless. Because in this world, giving up was survival.
Still, it wasn't just his inhuman appearance that freaked people out.
There was something else, something wrong with him.
Even with that garbage diet and brutal labor, Frey never got sick. Never passed out from starvation. He should've been skin and bones, dead before ten. But he wasn't.
His body was strong—too strong. Without any training, without even trying, he'd grown lean, muscular… powerful. His physical strength and stamina easily outclassed every other kid in town. Even adults.
He did the backbreaking labor nobody else wanted, carried crates heavy enough to crush a lesser brat, worked longer than anyone else—and not once did he pant or complain.
His face stayed like an iron mask, only the glisten of sweat giving away any sign he was even human. That emotionless endurance freaked people the fuck out.
But the weirdness didn't stop there.
His instincts were... unnatural. That's how the villagers saw it, anyway. Every time the street bad boys tried to ambush him with a stone, thinking it'd be hilarious to peg the "devil spawn," the rock missed.
Every time. No matter how many they threw, no matter how well they aimed, the stones never landed.
It was like he could see the future.
Even sneak attacks from behind corners or rooftops were worthless. Frey would dodge before the ambusher even made a move. It wasn't that he reacted fast—no, it was like he knew. As if he could sense the presence of a person even when they were completely hidden.
Eventually, the other kids got pissed enough to gang up on him, thinking maybe numbers would do the trick. They'd circle around, cut off any escape, then rush him all at once. It should've worked.
Hell, even he thought it might finally hurt.
But it didn't.
Frey never cried. Never screamed. Never even winced. Instead, the ones hitting him were the ones getting fucked up—knuckles swelling, fingers cracking, tears rolling down their cheeks as pain exploded through their hands like they'd punched solid steel.
And every time, the same thing happened.
The part of Frey's body they struck would turn pitch black—not bruised, but as if it had been dipped in obsidian, gleaming and dark.
Not after they hit him—before. As if his skin hardened the moment before impact, reacting to the danger like it had a mind of its own.
Even animals seemed to know better.
One time a stray mutt tried to go for him—maybe smelling the filth, maybe just bored. Frey didn't run. Didn't move. He just glared. One sharp, cutting look—and the dog went limp, mouth foaming as it hit the ground like it had been struck by lightning.
Sometimes, that same thing happened with kids, too.
Frey didn't know what the hell was going on. Nobody told him anything. No one cared enough to explain.