Absolute Cheater

Valeris and Veyra, upon hearing Amyra's words, felt a surge of anger. They knew how much Asher had longed for this moment—to return home. He had dreamed of warmth, of recognition, of someone simply saying "Welcome back." And yet, here he was… being treated like a stranger. Like someone who didn't belong.

But they didn't protest.

Instead, they looked at Asher—and both were stunned.

It wasn't anger on his face. Not sadness. Not regret.

It was helplessness.

Unbeknownst to them, Asher had already used Absolute Appraisal on Amyra. And her thoughts had told him everything.

She doubted him he was Fake.

Not because she wanted to. But because over the years, ninety-one different people had come, each claiming to be the lost heir—Asher Magnus. Each had looked like him. Some had even mimicked his aura. And for a while, the family had dared to hope.

But every time, the Magnus Chalice had revealed the truth. Every single one was a fake.

Eventually, the family stopped hoping. They stopped greeting. They stopped believing.

That was why there was no joy on their faces.

That was why no one rushed to embrace him.

And so, Asher just shook his head softly and walked into the Grand Hall.

Inside, the atmosphere was cold and silent.

Five people were seated within:

—Arnold Magnus, his grandfather and current family head.

—Selene, his mother, who looked at him with the same cold, unreadable expression as always.

—Serena, his aunt and Selene's twin sister.

—And his two uncles, Ryder and Liam, both sitting calmly, eyes unreadable.

Arnold was the first to speak, voice level and hard. "You must be wondering why no one came to greet you. Let me tell you—there have been ninety-one fakes before you."

He raised a hand, and what appeared was horrifying—ninety-one spectral forms, each a tormented soul crying out in agony, their bodies wrapped in black flames that bled like burning blood. His grandfather's power—necromancy and Blood Ruler perfect fusion—was on full display.

"You'll kneel and beg for forgiveness for daring to deceive us," Arnold said coldly. "And I may… just this once… grant you a swift death."

But Asher only smiled. Calmly. Quietly.

"I suppose… after ninety-one fakes, it's hard to believe I'm real."

He walked past them without flinching, heading toward the far side of the hall.

There, on a raised pedestal, stood a massive golden chalice—over thirty meters tall, carved with runes and the ancestral crest of House Magnus. Its shape was imposing, noble, and ancient.

The Magnus Chalice.

A sacred artifact of the family. A relic said to reject all false bloodlines, incapable of being deceived.

Only a true heir could awaken it.

Asher reached it. Silently. Without looking back.

He bit his thumb and let a drop of his blood fall into the chalice.

For a moment… nothing happened.

Then, slowly, the golden relic glowed red, runes lighting up one by one, as a pulse echoed through the hall like a heartbeat.

The chalice shrank down—condensing into a small, gem-like orb of living blood—and floated gently into Asher's palm.

He held it quietly, turned to the others, and asked simply, "Is this enough?"

Everyone stood in shock.

And then, someone ran forward.

Selene.

His mother.

She ran, eyes wide, lips trembling, and without a word, she threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"You're alive," she whispered, crying. "You're really… alive."

Asher stood frozen.

This was the first time in his life he had ever seen his mother cry.

He didn't know what to do.

He didn't hug her back. He didn't say anything. He simply stood still.

Until finally, he pushed her away.

"What are you doing now?" he said, his voice quiet but sharp. "All those years… when I was with you, you never showed even a trace of love. And now—now you're suddenly bursting with motherly affection?"

Selene looked up at him, stunned, her tears still falling.

"Where were those tears before?" he asked. "Back then, when I was a child—when I cried myself to sleep, wondering why my mother looked at me like I was a tool instead of a son. When Emily held me while I was sick, taught me how to walk, listened to me when I was scared... Where were you?"

"I waited," he continued, each word heavy. "I waited and hoped. Maybe one day you'd call me your son. Maybe one day, you'd smile at me—not because I accomplished something useful, but just because I existed."

He stared at her, and his voice dropped lower.

"But that day never came."

Silence gripped the hall like ice.

And Selene—who had always been proud, cold, and unreadable—stood frozen in place. Her tears kept falling, but she said nothing. No denial. No excuse. No words.

Asher turned away from her.

There was no warmth in this reunion.

Perhaps if she had acted like usual, he won't ahve to shout—he might have not erupted in rage and let it all spill out. But this version of her… this sudden vulnerability… it only deepened the ache. Where was this love when he had needed it? Why now? Why only after he'd deided to ignore her and move on?

His thoughts twisted in his mind like blades, and his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

Valeris and Veyra stood silently at his side, exchanging a glance. Only now did they fully understand why Asher never spoke much of his mother. Why even when he mentioned her, there was always a pause—always something unsaid.

Now they saw it.

He hadn't been afraid of her.

He had been wounded by her in ways deeper than any enemy ever could.

And now, standing in the hall that should have been a place of celebration, all he felt was a numb kind of sorrow.

Not because he hated her.

But because… a part of him still wished she had loved him.

And now—now that she was crying, calling him her son, reaching for him like a mother who had always cared—it was too late. He couldn't accept it. He wanted to… but he couldn't. He had moved on.

Or at least, he had tried to.