Foresight taxes the brain to a brutal degree.

Among the O’n with weaker abilities, simply reading a week ahead would lay them up sick for days; one who read a year ahead suffered a vicious headache for nearly a month.

Just as some humans are born with perfect pitch while others are tone-deaf, so it is with the O’n: some have strong foresight, while others can barely read what’s to come—hardly deserving to be called “holders of foresight” at all.

Even so, foresight is vital to the O’n’s survival.

To keep the family’s enterprises on track, they must read future trends. If the business takes a heavy loss, the O’n lose money—their means of protecting their existence.

Therefore the O’n appoint the strongest among them as head of house, hand over all management rights, and charge that head with the duty to protect the rest.

Caesar was the child of the previous heads.

His mother—the former head—was exceptionally powerful, able not only to read the near future but, at times, pivotal events years ahead. Because of that, Caesar was born under a mountain of expectation as her successor.

As everyone hoped, Caesar’s ability was outstanding. At just four years old he asked, “Alejandro will be absent a month from now. But what is a compound fracture?”

If reading a month ahead didn’t even make him blink, surely he could read a year, ten years ahead.

So said the elders, swelling with expectation.

Of course, Caesar did not always oblige those hopes. His power was undeniably strong—arguably the strongest of any O’n yet born.

But his temperament was a problem.

“He’s unusually compassionate. Any other one of us wouldn’t care if a dog was in the road.”

“Did he get hit by a car trying to save a wild animal? He said he’d seen himself hit starting a week ago. And he still stepped into the road? Not very efficient.”

Because they possess foresight, O’n maintain a baseline wariness toward all non-kin. As a small-numbered species, they tend to close ranks.

Caesar was not typical. He was curious about other species, and even felt for them. So even when he foresaw injury, he would stick his head into danger for another life.

They quickly lost interest in a child with great power but, to them, no sense.

Right around when the elders stopped saying, “Let’s make Caesar the next head,” his cousin Hades began to shine in the management classes.

“He looks very suitable to be the next head.”

“His ability is decent, too.”

“His social skills are developing well.”

“Above all, he’s cautious.”

“He doesn’t cut his own flesh out of pity for others.”

From that day, the “next head” tag slid from Caesar to Hades.

When the attention orbiting Caesar turned and settled on him, Hades felt a rush of euphoria. Yet beneath it ran a fear: Caesar could still take it back.

Someday he’ll try to steal my seat.

A dread that was half hunch, half omen pressed on his shoulders.

From then on Hades trained obsessively. Caesar, for his part, had no interest in the headship and simply grew up as an ordinary child.

Hades’s unease came wearing human skin when they were in middle school.

“They say K was badly hurt.”

“Knew it. The kid’s had no fear since he was little.”

“Right. Even knowing he’ll be hurt, his curiosity wins. Thank goodness our Pluto and Terra aren’t like that.”

“We’re lucky both are cautious.”

“You two are your parents’ pride.”

It was odd that no one had foreseen he would be injured, but no one in the family questioned it.

First, because all attention had already left Caesar. No O’n is so meddlesome as to check the path of someone they don’t care about.

Second, because Caesar had always been a moth to a flame—charging in despite the danger.

Hades thought the same.

It’s here. He brought this on himself with that restless way of acting.

If it were me, I wouldn’t have done something so stupid. Caesar was a fool who couldn’t dodge tragedy.

With thoughts as arrogant and juvenile as any child’s, he arrived at the hospital room—

—and faced a Caesar turned monster.

Just days ago they’d said he was nothing but tall for his age, still a pure kid.

Now, the Caesar who had lost an eye was suddenly an adult.

Not merely “quieter” or “calmer.” The flow of his thinking had changed. He read other people’s expressions with sharp speed. And it had taken only a handful of days.

“It was my mistake. I should’ve known when the bullet didn’t fire that something was wrong, but I kept pulling the trigger. I handled it immaturely.”

“At least getting hurt settled you down. Sounds like you learned something.”

“They say big accidents teach big lessons. I guess I’m one of those cases.”

That wasn’t all.

Though he had lost one foresight, somehow he could now see farther.

He could use foresight again and again without tiring. Sometimes he’d casually state things decades ahead—his sight reached that far.

What would have put Hades in the hospital with a high fever for weeks, Caesar did without batting an eye.

As if erasing his weaknesses weren’t enough, he took his strengths and sharpened them.

“In that case, how about we reinstate Caesar as heir to the headship?”

Just as they’d once chorused for Hades, the elders quickly swung to the new current.

“Hades is an excellent talent, yes, but Caesar is still the elder’s firstborn.”

“It would be a waste to leave that level of ability unused.”

“The plan was to make Hades head and seat Caesar as his deputy. At this rate, Caesar could handle all operations alone.”

“Then shall we bring him back to the classes?”

“Yes. Let’s see if Caesar follows well.”

Hades’s shapeless dread became real.

An unexpected “accident” he hadn’t confirmed with foresight. For humans, who grow used to dozens or hundreds of such turns, this would be nothing. For the O’n, such accidents are near-cataclysms.

Panicking, Hades fled the elders and hid somewhere deserted.

The emergency stair he found hadn’t been used in ages; it was eerie and filthy. He didn’t care. He slumped on the steps and stared into nothing.

Am I discarded?

Is my usefulness over?

Just as he sank into gloom, the door opened again. Caesar stepped out, a mug in one hand.

He sat beside the sunken Hades and handed him a warm drink—milk heated with a few spoonfuls of sugar.

“Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Hades felt no gratitude. He felt shame—at being pitied by the “idiot” Caesar.

He neither took the mug nor answered, and silence stretched. At last Caesar spoke, his face as blank as wax.

“Is the headship that precious to you?”

“…”

“Then take it. I’ll say I won’t do the heir training.”

The indifferent voice drilled into Hades’s ear.

“Whether I have it or you have it, not much changes.”

“You…”

“It means nothing to me. So the one who wants it should have it.”

Like tossing a coin to a beggar. Like flicking a breadcrumb to an ant. No attachment in him at all.

Then what does that make me—the one who lost sleep and clawed and fretted for that seat you can take or leave? What does that make all my effort for something you can’t be bothered to hold?

A surge of hurt rose.

Before he knew it, Hades grabbed Caesar’s throat and squeezed. That pity burned and shamed him so much that he wanted Caesar to hurt as much as he did. A child’s hands clamped so hard the veins stood out on the backs of them.

If he thrashes on the edge of suffocation, I’ll let go then.

Just until I see the face in pain—just that far, then I release.

He was riding that cruel thrill when it happened.

The one silver eye that remained rolled to fix on him.

A smile bloomed at Caesar’s mouth.

“Are you going to kill me?”

His voice came ragged from the pressure on his throat, yet he smiled as if it were nothing.

“It’s fine. I’m already tired.”

“…”

“I don’t even know what number this is anymore. At first I think I used to count. I think I even kept a journal.”

His face was reddening fit to burst.

His pupils were unfocusing from lack of air.

Yet Caesar looked more serene than anyone.

“I’m bored now. None of it matters… Dying or living—same thing.”

Only then did the strength leak from Hades’s grip.

He understood, instinctively.

That’s not my brother.

This was not the brother he knew.

Something unknown had come wearing his brother’s skin.

It felt like ducking to pick up a dropped pencil and, in that instant, meeting the eyes of a monster under the desk.

Hades screamed without meaning to and bolted from the stairwell.

He left behind the very body he had, moments ago, cornered as if to kill.

Chapter 37

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