When The System Spoils You For No Reason-Chapter 58 - Fifty Eight

"A lesson without pain is meaningless. That’s because no one can gain without sacrificing something." — Edward Elric

---

Zeke opened his eyes to white. Not the white of a ceiling or a wall—the white of nothing. A void stretched endlessly in every direction, featureless and silent, as if the concept of distance had been stripped away and discarded.

He stood alone, the sound of his own breathing the only proof he still existed.

What trial has the Tower thrown at me?

This was supposed to be the first floor. The easiest one. The tutorial level where newbies learned the ropes.

This didn’t look like a tutorial.

When he got out—if he got out—he and Anton were going to have a very long, very pointed conversation about what "beginner-friendly" actually meant.

"Zero?" His voice fell flat into the void, absorbed without even the courtesy of an echo.

Silence answered him. Not the comfortable silence of an empty room, but the oppressive, suffocating silence of complete absence.

That was wrong. Zero always answered.

"Status." Zeke spoke the command aloud, an edge of irritation creeping into his tone.

Nothing happened. No golden interface materialized. No familiar screens with numbers and skills.

Did the Tower suppress SAGE?

The realization settled over him like cold water. Just stepping through the entrance had severed his connection.

He let out a long breath and looked around at the endless white expanse. His hands found their way into his pockets—or tried to. He glanced down. His trench coat was gone. His usual outfit had been replaced with simple, nondescript clothing that felt wrong against his skin.

"This is boring," he muttered to the void.

He didn’t like walking. Walking implied effort, purpose, a destination worth reaching. But floating wasn’t an option without his Free Flier trait, and standing here staring at nothing wasn’t going to solve anything.

So he started walking.

Maybe he’d find something informative.

Or at least something less white.

---

Time passed. Or it didn’t. There was no way to tell.

Zeke had no watch, no sun, no shadow, no hunger pangs to mark the hours. Just the rhythmic sound of his own footsteps on nothing.

He’d tried counting seconds at first, making a game of it, but gave up when he realized he had no idea if he was counting accurately.

It’s been a long time, he thought, though "long" felt meaningless here.

The white void remained unchanged. No landmarks. No variations. For all he knew, he’d been walking in circles—or standing still while the void rotated beneath him.

He’d noted a few things, though. Observations to keep his mind occupied.

His supernatural strength was gone. Completely. He’d tested it by trying to punch with the force he was accustomed to and nearly wrenched his shoulder. He was back to baseline human.

But his stamina felt infinite. He’d been walking for what had to be hours—days?—without rest, and the only exhaustion he felt was mental. A creeping, gnawing fatigue that pressed against the inside of his skull.

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t felt hungry. Hadn’t needed to relieve himself or sleep.

Only his strength had been reverted. Everything else hovered in some strange limbo.

Why?

---

More time passed. Longer than before. The mental exhaustion had grown teeth.

Zeke wondered, with the detached curiosity of someone going slightly mad, how novelkiss protagonists managed their training montages in hyperbolic time chambers without losing their minds.

There’s no way it’s normal, he thought. Maybe I could have done it if I had my full abilities. My Perception stat. My mental traits.

Was he powerless because the Tower had blocked SAGE? That seemed both likely and unlikely. SAGE should have come from something cosmic, something beyond the Tower’s reach.

But even the richest man in the world still had to obey the laws of the country he lived in.

So maybe SAGE was just... complying.

But what’s the aim of this punishment?

The question had been circling in his mind for what felt like eternity. Was this a test? A trial? Or just the Tower’s way of saying "welcome, please suffer"?

---

"Long live the Tower!" Zeke’s voice cracked slightly as he shouted into the void, arms spread wide in mock reverence. "I’ve learned my lesson! Please let me go!"

Silence answered. The void remained unmoved.

He hadn’t learned anything, of course. He didn’t even know what lesson he was supposed to be learning.

Wait. Can the Tower read my mind?

The thought hit him with uncomfortable clarity.

If you can, he projected mentally, I didn’t mean it. I’ve truly learned my lesson. Whatever it is. I’m very sorry.

Still nothing.

Zeke sighed and kept walking.

He did have an idea what the aim might be, though. A creeping suspicion worming its way forward with each endless step.

Which made him wonder: even if he learned the lesson, would he actually change? Would he want to change?

Not that he was imperfect, of course. He was the most complete human there was.

The thought made him pause mid-step.

Since when have I had this much pride? he wondered. Since when have I let it out so unbridled?

He’d always believed people should become better than their previous selves with each passing moment. Continuous improvement.

But he was too lazy to embrace his own motto. He preferred unprepared growth—the kind that came from crisis, from being thrown into impossible situations and forced to adapt or break.

If you couldn’t become worse or better from a situation, then the situation was useless.

So, Tower, why did it want him to be better?

Was he a special case? Or was this just the trial everyone faced on the first floor—endless white nothing until you cracked or evolved?

---

The room materialized around Michael like a memory given form—soft afternoon light filtering through lace curtains, the faint scent of lavender and antiseptic, the quiet hum of medical equipment beside a too-familiar bed.

His breath caught.

This... This is mother’s room.

The realization struck him with physical force, his chest constricting. His hand reached out instinctively, fingers trembling as they touched the wooden doorframe, needing to confirm its solidity.

How is that possible?

The numbers ran through his mind with automatic precision: she died when he was seven. Seventeen years, four months, sixteen days ago.

She’s dead.

The words echoed in his skull, factual and final. Yet here she was—or here he was, in this moment that shouldn’t exist.

Did I go back in time?

His pulse quickened, a sensation so foreign it took him a moment to identify it. His heart—that mechanical pump—was hammering against his ribs with urgent, irregular beats.

Does the Tower have that ability?

Questions cascaded. Illusions, yes. Memory constructs, certainly. But this felt real. The worn pattern on the quilt, the slight squeak of floorboards, the dust particles catching light—every detail was perfect.

Wait.

His breathing had become shallow, rapid. His palms were damp. His thoughts, usually ordered in neat parallel streams, were colliding, fracturing.

Is this panic?

The word felt alien. Panic: acute stress response, rapid heartbeat, difficulty breathing, sense of impending doom—

He was checking off symptoms even as his body betrayed him with their presence.

How am I panicking?

The absurdity crashed over him. He didn’t do panic. He was the calm in every storm.

How do I even know which emotion I’m feeling?

But he did know. Somehow, impossibly, he could identify the tight knot of anxiety in his gut, separate it from the sharp spike of fear in his chest, distinguish both from the deeper, heavier weight of something that felt like grief.

Am I feeling emotions?

"Hahaha."

The sound erupted from his throat unbidden—a laugh, genuine and startled. His hand flew to his mouth. His shoulders shook, but not from the mechanical mimicry he’d perfected.

This was real.

A laugh?

He could feel the smile pulling at his face, not the careful construction he usually wore but something spontaneous, something that hurt in its sincerity.

Another wave rolled through him—lighter than the panic, warmer. His chest expanded, his breathing eased slightly.

Happiness is... Happy?

The grammatical error in his own thoughts should have bothered him. It didn’t. Nothing about this made sense, but for the first time in his existence, Michael found he didn’t care about sense.

His expression shifted, the smile fading as his analytical mind reasserted itself. His jaw tightened, his stance straightening.

No, regardless of my emotions, I have to find out what situation this is.

"Dear?"

The voice pierced through his internal analysis like a blade made of sound. Soft, slightly strained, achingly familiar—a voice he’d heard only in recordings for two decades.

Michael’s head snapped toward the bed.

She was there. Propped against pillows, thin beneath the covers, with that patient smile she’d always worn.

"What are you standing there for? Are you sad?" Her voice carried that particular gentle reproach she’d used when he’d do something she found concerning. "Mommy’s not going anywhere. Be strong. Mommy’s going to be fine."

Her hand lifted from the quilt, pale fingers extending toward him.

"Come to mommy."

Mother?

The word formed in his mind without permission, carrying weight he’d never assigned to it before.

Ah, yes. I found myself in mother’s room.

The observation dropped into place with eerie calm. His gaze swept the room again—the equipment, the positioned pillows, the light.

Is this around the time when mother died?

The timeline aligned with mechanical precision. The equipment was the model used in her final weeks. Her appearance matched the photographs from that period.

Michael’s feet moved without conscious command, carrying him across the worn carpet toward the bed. Each step felt weighted, significant.

"Child, don’t cry."

The words registered half a second before he felt the wetness on his cheeks—warm, tracking slowly down his face. His hand rose automatically, fingers touching the moisture.

Water. Salt. Tears.

I’m crying?

"Be strong. You’re a man. You have to be strong for your mommy." Her voice continued its gentle litany. "And like I said, nothing’s going to happen to your mommy."

That’s a lie.

The truth settled in his chest like a stone. She would die. In this timeline or that timeline, in memory or reality—she would die. Had died. Was dying.

You die.

Another tear fell, then another. His breathing hitched—a sharp, involuntary intake of air.

You leave me alone for years to come.

The loneliness hadn’t registered before. Alone was just a state of being. But now, with these strange, overwhelming feelings, he could suddenly perceive the shape of all those years—the vast, echoing emptiness.

This is odd.

Michael’s vision blurred as more tears welled up, his throat tightening with pressure that felt both foreign and ancient.

A tear dropped from his cheek.

He watched it fall, tracking its trajectory with the same fascination he’d once applied to observing chemical reactions. Except this reaction was happening in him.

Emotions?

The confirmation rang through him. Not simulation, not mimicry. Real emotions, messy and uncontrolled and utterly destabilizing.

Yes, I did feel it earlier.

The panic, the surprise, the strange bubbling sensation he’d identified as happiness—they were all real. His trait hadn’t protected him here.

Is this how I should have felt as a child?

The question carried new weight now, grief edging into it. This crushing sensation, this tightness, these useless tears—this was what normal children felt when their mothers were dying.

This is... sad.

The word felt inadequate, too small. It was uncomfortable and heavy and made breathing difficult. Yet beneath the discomfort was something else—something that felt almost like relief.

It’s an uncomfortable, yet comfortable feeling.

The contradiction made perfect sense now. The sadness hurt, yes, but it also meant something. It proved something. After decades of perfect emptiness, he was finally, impossibly, human enough to grieve.

Back then I just stood looking at her.

The memory rose unbidden—seven-year-old Michael, standing exactly where he stood now, watching his mother with clinical detachment. Recording her vitals with his gaze.

I couldn’t understand why she said the things she said.

Her reassurances had seemed illogical. She was dying; that was observable fact. Why deny it?

To me, she just laid down, and denied the inevitable.

Which had been puzzling in its inefficiency. Denial changed nothing.

She was sick after birthing me, so her death had been finalized since my birth.

The doctors had been quite clear. Complications from his delivery had triggered the cascade.

I knew that. I had heard the doctors after all.

But knowing hadn’t meant anything. It was just data.

This is how I should have felt.

The realization cut through him with surprising clarity. This—this overwhelming flood—was the normal, expected, human response.

This raw, disgusting emotion.

’Disgusting’ rose automatically, though even as he thought it, he recognized it as wrong. Not disgusting. Just... intense. Uncontrolled. Real.

This is the reaction my mother deserved.

The guilt crashed over him then—proper guilt, not intellectual acknowledgment but actual, crushing remorse. She had deserved this from him when it mattered. Instead, she’d gotten his blank, analytical stare.

From birth I have been unable to feel any emotion.

The trait had manifested early. While other infants cried and laughed, Michael had been... quiet. Observant. Empty.

I don’t even feel pain, emotional or physical.

Tests had confirmed it. Scraped knees drew blood but no tears.

I was dubbed a monster by maids, children my age.

The word had been whispered, at first. Then spoken plainly. Monster. Demon child. Wrong.

Even by my father.

That one had been the most puzzling. His father, who understood logic and control—even he had looked at his son and seen something fundamentally broken.

Only my mother—

Michael’s thoughts fractured as his gaze fixed on her, really seeing her for perhaps the first time.

The woman from whose loins I sprung from.

The clinical phrasing felt wrong now, inadequate.

The woman whose vitality I drained with my birth.

That hadn’t been metaphorical. The medical reports had been explicit.

The woman who I caused her inevitable death.

He had killed her. Slowly, systematically, just by existing.

Whom to me her death was a passing occasion.

He remembered the funeral. Black suit, itchy collar, people crying around him. He’d stood still, observing their grief with detached curiosity.

From my studies I know I should feel pain, I tried to simulate it, but I couldn’t.

Years of research. He’d understood pain conceptually. But understanding and feeling were entirely different things.

I had not perfected my skills back then.

The mimicry had come later, through careful observation and practice. Learning to perform humanity.

An improvement, statistically.

To think I would awaken one such trait.

The bitter irony struck him even through the emotional chaos. Of all the possible abilities, he’d awakened one that ensured he’d never feel what others felt naturally.

Michael’s knees gave out.

The collapse wasn’t dramatic—just a sudden absence of strength, his legs folding beneath him as he dropped beside the bed. His hands found the quilt, gripping the worn fabric.

And he cried.

Really cried—ugly, gasping sobs that shook his entire frame. His face buried in the quilt, shoulders heaving.

Michael cried, holding his mother in his arms.

No—not quite. His face was pressed to the bed, but her hand found his head. Thin fingers, trembling slightly, touched his hair with infinite gentleness.

She held him as well, she smiled as well.

Through his tears, Michael felt rather than saw her smile. Felt the approval radiating from her touch.

"Listen to me, dear."

"From now on, you’re to only show your true self to your father."

"Make sure to keep that part hidden. Make sure you outsmart everyone. Do not become a weakling if it’s not an act."

"And make sure you do not follow your father’s path. Escape this burden your father calls his position."

"Use your gifts to your advantage. Especially after your awakening—if you awaken a powerful ability, which I know you would, you’re my child after all—never tell anyone your true capabilities."

"You can’t make true connections, so simulate. Simulate until you break this curse."

"The first step to being human is listening to your dying mother’s wish—especially since you’re her killer."

"And the other is to follow the trend a human should follow. For you, my son—be spontaneous."

Those are the words she should have spoken to me.

But she hadn’t. In this childhood, she’d said nothing of the sort. She’d just held him, smiled, and died quietly.

Why’s she gone without any last words?

Michael’s tears renewed with fresh intensity, grief compounding as he suddenly understood what he’d lost—not just her presence but her wisdom.

Where are your instructions?

His hands gripped the quilt tighter, knuckles white.

Mother?

But even as he formed the question, he felt her hand go limp, felt the subtle change in her breathing, the shift in her presence that indicated—

What pathetic death is this?

Rage mixed with the grief now, hot and sharp. Not rage at her, but at the situation, at the Tower or whatever force had constructed this trial to show him exactly what he’d missed.

You hold your killer in an embrace then die?

His mind rebelled against the unfairness.

Because I cried, you do not give me instructions?

The injustice settled in his chest alongside the grief.

How am I to live without your guide?

Humans should listen to their mother’s guidance.

"HAAAAAA!"

The sound tore from his throat—not a word, just raw, animal grief vocalized. His fist slammed against the mattress, then again, harder.

"WAKE UP!!"

Michael’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. His hands found her shoulders, gripping too tight, shaking as though he could jostle her back into consciousness.

Michael cried out his eyes, hitting the bedside, still hiding his mother in his embrace.

No—’hiding’ wasn’t right. He was clinging, desperate and childish, his face pressed against her shoulder as his fist continued to strike the wooden bedframe with dull, rhythmic thuds.

Thud. Wake up.

Thud. Come back.

Thud. Don’t leave.

Thud. I finally—

"Get up, child. She’s gone."

The new voice cut through his grief like ice water—cold, controlled, utterly familiar in its affectless precision.

Michael’s sobs stuttered, his body going rigid.

"Stop your tears. Your mother is no longer alive to cater to your emotions."

Michael’s head turned slowly, tears still streaming, to locate the source. His father stood in the doorway, backlit and imposing—Neon, looking exactly as Michael remembered him. Expensive suit, perfect posture, face a mask of careful neutrality.

"A man of my bloodline should not display such useless emotions."

Father?

The word felt strange. In his real childhood, he’d called him "sir" or "the president" more often.

What is he saying?

But Michael knew. The same thing he’d said in the original timeline. Emotions were weakness. Control was strength.

Mother also said such a thing before she passed.

The memory rose—her words about hiding his true self, about simulation. Even in her kindness, she’d taught him to armor himself.

I see.

Clarity cut through the emotional fog with surgical precision. His analytical mind assembled the pieces.

This is the alternate happenings of me possessing emotions early on.

A thought experiment made manifest. What if seven-year-old Michael had cried? This was that timeline.

I became the opposite of... me.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. In this version, he felt. In reality, he hadn’t.

Father is still the same.

That, at least, was consistent. Neon had always been controlled, strategic, emotionally distant.

A really dysfunctional mother and father.

The assessment came without judgment. A woman who taught her emotionless child to fake feelings. A man who taught his grieving child to suppress them.

Michael’s tears were slowing now, his breathing evening out. Through the blur, he could see his father’s face more clearly—the micro-expressions he’d learned to read.

And beneath the neutral mask, he saw something he’d never noticed before.

Michael smiled.

The expression felt wrong on his tear-stained face. It wasn’t a happy smile—more a recognition of absurdity.

His smile looked forced, as he smiled through his pouring tears.

Because it was forced. Forced by the sheer surreality of the situation.

"Smiling while crying is stupid."

His father’s assessment was blunt, factual. But as Michael watched, Neon’s expression shifted—just slightly, but enough.

His father took a step into the room. Then another. His pace was measured, but there was something in his posture that hadn’t been there before—a subtle softening.

"You’re a child. Act as a child."

Michael blinked, fresh tears spilling over, but his attention was fully locked on his father now.

"That’s what your mother would have wanted."

Neon stopped beside the bed, looking down at Michael with an expression that was almost, almost gentle.

"You can cry."

Permission. Explicit permission.

"Just don’t do it too often. It makes you pitiful."

And there was the caveat.

"A child from my bloodline should not do that."

Standards. Expectations.

"But you can still grow."

A concession. A window.

"Come. Let’s prepare the rites."

His father extended a hand—not to pull Michael up, but offering it palm-up. An invitation.

This is quite weird.

Michael stared at that outstretched hand, cataloging every detail—the slight tremor in the fingers, the positioning, the gesture itself so unlike his father’s usual commands.

I know he’s acting.

Of course he was. Neon’s entire life was performance. But this performance was different.

His face shows how he’s forcing himself to cheer me.

The micro-expressions betrayed the effort—the tightness around his eyes, the minimal tension in his jaw, the way his neutral mask cracked ever so slightly.

This is probably him respecting my mother’s wish.

The pieces aligned. Her final request. And his father, in his own controlled way, was trying.

Still, I can’t help but smile.

This time the smile came easier, more natural. Through the tears, through the grief—he smiled at his father’s awkward, stiff, beautifully inadequate attempt at comfort.

Michael’s hand rose, shaking slightly, and clasped his father’s. The grip was firm, warm, real.

This is not bad.

Such an understatement. This—feeling everything, breaking down, having his father treat him like an actual grieving child—wasn’t just "not bad."

It was what he’d needed. What he’d never gotten.

I think I’ll enjoy this childhood.

The thought settled with quiet certainty. Whatever this was, he would experience it fully. Feel everything the original Michael hadn’t.

This time, mother—

He looked back at her body one last time—at the smile still fixed on her face, at the hand that had touched his hair.

I’ll be human.

A promise.

He let his father pull him up, let himself be guided toward the door, let himself continue crying because apparently, that was allowed now.

And for the first time in decades, Michael felt something that might have been hope.