บท 11: Chapter 11: A Clear Mind
Margot Blackthorn—this body's aunt.
From the memories I had inherited, I knew how she had lured Eliot into the forest under false pretenses, only to toss him into that ditch as if he were nothing more than a nuisance. The boy had despised her, his heart filled with a hatred that ran deep, burning with the betrayal. But that wasn't me. Hatred, anger—these were emotions that clouded judgment, emotions that Leon Winter never had the luxury to entertain.
In my last life, I could count on one hand the times I truly felt those emotions. They were obstacles, distractions from the bigger picture. Emotions like hatred and anger were powerful, yes, but they were also volatile, unpredictable, and they tended to blind people to what truly mattered. They consumed energy that could be better used elsewhere. If I had let hatred fuel my decisions, I would've never achieved all that I did.
I understood something about the world that many failed to grasp: anger doesn't change anything, it only traps you in the past. The more you cling to it, the less you can focus on your goals. It's a prison of the mind, and in that prison, people make mistakes. They strike out blindly, ruining their own chances of success. I had no time for such mistakes.
In truth, I had never hated anyone in my previous life. Not even Sebastian Vettel, the man who had stabbed me in the heart. To hate him would have been pointless, a waste of energy. Besides, I could hardly blame him—after all, I was responsible for countless deaths, the destruction of entire kingdoms. I was the villain in many people's eyes, and I accepted that. To hate Sebastian for killing me would have been hypocritical.
It wasn't personal. None of it was.
I didn't burn cities and overthrow rulers out of hatred, anger or personal enjoyment, I did it because it was necessary for the world I envisioned. A new order, one free from the constraints of the old ways. In pursuit of that, I had been called many things—tyrant, monster, murderer—but none of those titles held any meaning for me. They were just words. The people who used them didn't understand what it meant to reshape the world.
So no, I didn't hate Sebastian. I didn't even hate the world for what it had become. Anger, hatred, even fear—those emotions had no place in my life. I had abandoned them long ago. But even though I had let go of such things, I couldn't deny that this body I now inhabited still clung to them.
Eliot Blackthorn's memories were filled with bitterness and rage toward Margot. His aunt, who had betrayed him so thoroughly, left scars too deep for him to ever forgive. And while I could control this body, suppress those emotions, they still lingered, festering beneath the surface. That was why Margot Blackthorn had to be dealt with.
Not because I hated her—far from it. I didn't care about her in the least. But as long as she lived, she would be a reminder of this body's past. A source of resentment that could potentially break through my control, tying me to Eliot's old grievances. I needed clarity, free from distractions. Margot was a distraction.
People often mistake my actions for vengeance, but I've never been a man driven by such shallow motivations. Revenge is for those who have nothing else, those who cannot see beyond their immediate suffering. I had goals, ambitions that stretched far beyond any one person or personal slight. Margot was simply part of the process. Clean and necessary.
In my past life, satisfaction came from the path I walked, from pushing forward toward my objectives. Happiness, joy—those emotions had long eluded me, not because I couldn't feel them, but because my satisfaction came from a different place. My satisfaction was in progress, in moving ever closer to my vision. That was my singular focus.
This is why I had to eliminate Margot Blackthorn. Not out of revenge, not out of anger, but because she was an obstacle. And obstacles, no matter how trivial they may seem, must be dealt for the sake of progress.
I took a deep breath, feeling the calm resolve settle over me once more. I didn't hate her. But this body—Eliot's body—couldn't let go of its emotions. As long as Margot lived, that emotional weight would linger. It was a loose end, and I had never been one to leave loose ends behind.
This wasn't personal. It was just necessary.
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