Raised From The Wild-Chapter 441: The Fragile Psyche

The throne room shattered around her like a broken mirror, but the fragments didn’t disappear—they swirled back together, reshaping, reforming.

This time, Amaya stood in the Lireyan Alpha University gardens.

The familiar roses and lilies were there, but their fragrance was gone. The vibrant blossoms were blackened, brittle, as if poisoned. And among the dead flowers stood Julienne Green, her best friend in school.

Julienne, with her arms crossed, smirked coldly. Her once-kind eyes were like shards of glass.

"You’re stubborn," Julienne sneered. "Even when everyone sees the truth, you cling to lies. "You are so shameless and disgusting. Who would undress and jump into a pond in front of so many people?" She spat. "Why can’t you admit it? You were never loved. Never wanted because you are a shame to Lireya."

Amaya’s breathing faltered. Her chest felt heavier than before, and her head clouded. The fragments of warmth she clung to earlier—the laughter under the stars, her father’s embrace—grew dim, slipping through her fingers like water.

No... hold on. Don’t let go. Don’t let them win.

But her strength was waning. Each word spoken by the woman she thought was her friend was like a hook digging deeper into her mind. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the blackened grass.

From behind the one-way glass, Ayns leaned forward eagerly."She’s cracking. Do you see? The illusion repairs itself because she can’t fight it for long."

Tayn’s smile was wolfish. "Good. Let her suffer. Let her feel her loved one’s hatred until it becomes her reality. Once she accepts it, her spirit will belong to us."

Amaya pressed her palms against her ears again, trembling, her tears hot and unrelenting.

"I... I know who I am," she whispered hoarsely. "I know my family and friends love me."

But even as she said the words, her conviction faltered. Doubt coiled inside her like a venomous serpent, whispering, What if you’re wrong? What if it was all a lie?

The lush gardens began to twist. Roses withered into ash, the marble fountains cracked and bled black water. The voices of her family rose around her—not as individuals now, but as a chorus of scorn.

Her mother’s figure appeared suddenly among the wilted roses. The queen’s face was beautiful, radiant—but her voice was sharp enough to cut bone.

"You shame me. You shame us all. Why do you think I favored your siblings? Why do you think we never chose you for responsibility? Because you were weak. Because you are unworthy of the crown."

Amaya gasped, her body trembling uncontrollably. It was her Mommy, Danaya’s face, the same face from the painting, where she was looking down from the sky, watching over her.

But now, her eyes were full of hatred. And beside her was her Daddy Ibrahim, who looked the same as the portrait she painted for the museum. His eyes were even colder, and Amaya felt a chill envelop her being. Behind them were her pets, her friends, Khalil, Strata, and Kong. They were growling at her as if she was their enemy.

Her chest burned as if her heart was being torn apart from within.

No... no... this isn’t real...

"You are our burden, our shame. We hate you!"

"Growl!"

Amaya clutched her head, her body trembling violently. Her breaths came ragged and shallow. Her own voice—once so steady—was nothing but a whisper, broken.

"Stop... stop it..."

Her vision blurred. Her strength waned. The memories she had held onto with such ferocity now slipped, fragile as smoke.

And for the first time since her capture, the unthinkable happened—Amaya’s eyes dimmed with surrender.

In the observation room, Ayns’ and Tayn’s laughter filled the air. "Yes! That’s it! Break, little princess. Break and be reborn in our hands."

But even as Amaya’s consciousness began to drown in despair, somewhere far above the ground, the Mercury T02 sliced through the clouds at breakneck speed.

Marx sat rigid in his seat, jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Every fiber of his being screamed that time was running out.

The radio crackled with Ren’s voice. "Uncle, her signal’s fading. We’re losing her!"

Marx’s fists clenched on his lap. In the last hour, he managed to activate a backup of Exzee embedded within Amaya’s body, at the place least expected, under her armpit. It was a chip made using the same material as the flesh and couldn’t be determined, no matter how advanced the scan technology was.

But he was too far to receive the signal, so he diverted it to Amaya’s lab at Maharlika Palace.

Ren’s voice followed, strained and sharp. "We’re tracking fluctuations in her neural patterns—it looks like some kind of forced memory manipulation. If they break her, she might never come back."

Marx’s jaw clenched. His voice was low, lethal. "Then we’ll make damn sure they don’t break her."

He took control from his co-pilot. He pushed the throttle forward. The jet screamed, cutting the remaining one-hour flight into something shorter, riskier. Warning alarms lit up the dashboard, but Marx ignored them. Time was bleeding away.

Underground

Amaya lifted her head weakly. The illusion of her father towered above her, gaze filled with disgust. She could no longer discern if it was Ibrahim or Ibarra.

"You are no daughter of mine," Ibrahim’s voice thundered once more.

Her lips quivered. Tears blurred her sight. For the briefest moment, she believed it. The strength she had clung to—her memories of warmth, of laughter—slipped into doubt.

Maybe they never loved her. Maybe she was a mistake.

Her body shook. A sob escaped her lips.

"Yes... yes..." Ayns whispered, watching the feed. "She’s breaking."

Tayn’s smile widened. "The princess of Lireya, shattered before us. History will remember this moment."

In the skies

Ava’s voice was tight with fear. "Uncle Marx, her heartbeat’s irregular. If they push her any further—"

"Hold on," Marx interrupted, eyes burning with fury. "Just hold on, Aya. I’m coming."

The jet engines roared louder, pushing past safety limits. Marx’s mind was already racing ahead, plotting infiltration routes, recalling every detail Ren and Ava had sent. The closer he drew to the borders of the three kingdoms, the sharper the storm in his chest became.

Underground

Amaya’s hands were raised—weakly, desperately—to sit up straighter. Her body shook. Her mind was a battlefield of shadows.

The voices of her captors hissed at the edges of her thoughts. Unworthy. Unloved. Forgotten.

Her lips quivered as she whispered back, almost as if to herself:"...I am Amaya... First Princess of Lireya, daughter of Ibrahim and Danaya."

It wasn’t much. A thread. A whisper of defiance. But it was still there.

And somewhere, though she could not hear it yet, the sound of roaring engines cut closer to Lireya’s heart.