Reborn As An Extra : I'm gonna mess up everything

Micheal Winters

But it wasn't just the mana that caught her attention. In one of his armored arms, the man cradled a newborn child. The other arm gripped a sword that was partially buried in the ground. 

Maruti's stomach tightened as she realized something was wrong. The newborn wasn't alive. Its tiny body was golden, shimmering like a statue crafted from solid gold. It looked delicate yet unnatural, as though it had been frozen in time. 

"Is he the reason behind all this mess?" Maruti asked, her voice trembling slightly. 

Esdeath nodded, a sly smile forming on her lips. "I'd say so. But since your tiny brain probably can't keep up, let me spell it out for you from the beginning." 

Maruti scowled but kept her eyes fixed on the eerie sight in front of her, waiting for the story Esdeath was about to share. 

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If one day, you were to die because someone took your life, many would gather at your funeral. They would surround your lifeless body, tears streaming down their faces. 

But... were those tears truly for you? 

The harsh truth is, no. 

Your friends would cry, but their sorrow stems from losing the joy and laughter you brought into their lives. It's not about you; it's about the emptiness they now feel. 

Your brother might shed tears, but beneath those tears, a twisted thought may linger—relief or greed. After all, your share of the property or inheritance now belongs to him. 

If you were married, your wife would cry too, her wails filling the room. Yet, part of her anguish might come from fear—fear of how she'll manage without you, how she'll provide for herself without begging for help. 

Others might weep for debts you haven't paid or for promises you left unfulfilled. 

People cry, yes. But their tears have reasons tied to their own losses, their own pain. 

"Everyone is crying over you, but no one is crying for you." 

No one... except one person. 

Your mother. 

She is the only one whose tears flow from the purest grief, without selfishness, without ulterior motives. Her heart breaks not for what she's lost but for the loss of *you*. Her child. Her son. For her, no other reason is needed. 

But... there's one more. 

In a quiet corner, a figure sits still, not shedding a single tear. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight with suppressed fury. His eyes, dry of tears, burn with a deep, searing bloodlust. 

This man doesn't mourn the way others do. His sorrow transforms into something sharper, something darker—anger, hatred, and an insatiable hunger for vengeance. 

He doesn't cry because he doesn't have time to. He is consumed by a singular purpose. 

To avenge you. To bring justice to your soul. To ensure the one who took your life pays for their crime. 

This man is different. While the others cry and move on, he won't rest. He won't stop. Not until he avenges you and everything your family has lost. 

His silence speaks louder than any tear.–Yes this man is none other than–Father.

Something similar had happened to the kneeling dead man before Esdeath and Maruti. He wasn't just a warrior or some nameless figure; he was a true man—a father. 

His name was Michael Winters, a man whose life had once been simple yet filled with happiness. He lived quietly with his parents, his loving wife, and their precious daughter, only two months old. None of them were Awakened; they didn't have powers or great wealth, but they didn't need those things. They had each other, and that was enough.