RAGNA POV...
Their mother had died only a few months after giving birth to them, and Reiner spoke of it in a tone that tried to remain steady but still carried a faint fracture beneath the surface, explaining how their father, bound by a love that had not faded with her passing, poured all of that devotion into the two of them as though raising them carefully might somehow compensate for the absence that had hollowed their home.
For a time, they had lived like normal children—privileged enough to eat well, educated enough to be noticed, sheltered enough to believe the world was something stable. But the moment they accepted what they called the System Grimoire evolution, everything shifted with a finality that left no room for denial. The same servants who once smiled began to avert their eyes. Neighbors who used to greet them started whispering behind closed doors. The word demon followed them more persistently than their own names, spoken with contempt, suspicion, and a certainty that made defending themselves meaningless.
Only their father stood between them and the growing hostility.
He shielded them from accusations, dismissed rumors with the authority of a baron, and endured the subtle isolation that came with protecting sons branded as cursed.
Then he died in battle.
Reiner did not describe the battle itself. He only described what came after.
Their stepmother, who had never truly hidden her distaste, wasted no time in reshaping the narrative. The cursed children had brought misfortune upon the house. The demonic children had tainted their father’s fate. The cursed children were the reason he no longer returned.
And just like that, blame became verdict.
They were expelled from the kingdom under the guise of preserving family honor. No trial. No inheritance. No allies willing to speak on their behalf.
They had two elder aunts and an elder uncle—siblings their father had once been close to—who lived in the Northern Zone with their parents. But after the exile, no word ever reached them. Whether those relatives turned away in fear or were silenced by convenience, Reiner did not know.
Their family had been a Tier One baron household—not wealthy, but stable, surviving off a handful of ports and scattered lands. After their father’s death, all properties were seized by their stepmother, who later married their uncle, consolidating power neatly enough that no one dared question the sequence of events.
For hours, Reiner summarized their lives as though flipping through pages of a book he had already memorized. He spoke of sleeping in abandoned corners, of hunger that sharpened their senses, of the humiliation of begging in places where they had once ridden in carriages.
I listened quietly.
At first, I couldn’t tell whether they were telling the truth or simply weaving a story to earn my sympathy. Everything they said had the shape of tragedy, and tragedy was easy to fabricate when survival demanded alliances.
But as I observed them more closely, something became clear.
Reiner’s usual cheerful, slightly unsettling energy was dimmed—not gone, but thinner. Matthew’s aloof expression seemed less indifferent and more carefully arranged. It wasn’t that they were exaggerating their pain.
It was that they were containing it.
They wore their smiles like armor, not because they enjoyed pretending, but because if they allowed themselves to sit fully inside their grief, they might never climb back out.
When I thought about it that way, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what they had endured.
Cursed children in this world were not myths told for entertainment. They were warnings whispered to children at night. Harbingers of calamity. Symbols of corruption. Even villagers who had never seen one believed in them with unwavering certainty.
If two children were labeled as such, they would not have playmates. They would not have protectors. Doors would close before they knocked. People would cross the street rather than share the same path.
And curses—spoken openly or muttered under breath—would follow them everywhere.
I could picture it without effort.
There must have been nights when they cried quietly, when despair pressed heavily enough that even the thought of ending everything seemed like a form of relief. Yet they survived. Not because the world was kind, but because they refused to collapse under its cruelty.
A weak person blames the world for every misfortune. A strong-willed one learns to endure it.
That seemed to be their belief.
Luck determined birth—whether one arrived with silver spoons or empty hands. Resentment changed nothing. So instead of drowning in self-pity, they chose to move forward, to work harder, to remain absurdly positive even when circumstances mocked that optimism.
Perhaps that was why they had approached me in the first place.
They must have seen something familiar in my silence.
"Hey... man," Reiner said eventually, his voice quieter than usual. "I’m sorry about earlier. I thought maybe you were like us—a possessor of a System Grimoire. But I guess I was wrong. Not all Cursed children have one."
His words struck me harder than I expected.
So other demons possessed systems?
That single realization cut through my lingering detachment and sharpened my focus.
Until now, I had assumed my system was unique—or at least rare beyond measure. But if what he said was true, then the existence of such grimoires wasn’t limited to me.
Unlike everything else he had said, this was the first thing that truly captured my attention.
Reiner’s deep brown eyes studied me carefully. Matthew remained silent, but his gaze was equally observant. They were measuring my reaction, waiting for a crack.
"It’s fine," I replied evenly. "But I don’t own any grimoire system. I don’t even know what that means."
The lie left my mouth smoothly, my expression unchanged.
After that, the tension in their faces eased. The curiosity that had flickered in their eyes dimmed, satisfied for now. Whether they believed me completely or simply chose not to push further, I couldn’t tell.
The conversation drifted again.
Reiner gradually regained his usual energy, describing the places they had wandered after exile and the strange incidents they experienced even during captivity. His sadness receded behind his habitual exuberance, and occasionally he would laugh at his own jokes—sometimes so hard it echoed awkwardly in the wooden carriage.
Berthold would shake his head, though I noticed the faintest upward curve at the corner of his lips.
At some point, I realized the camp had grown quiet.
The murmurs outside had faded. The carriage no longer vibrated with distant movement. We looked around and found that we were the only ones still awake.
Without noticing, we had spoken through the evening and into night.
Reiner stretched and let out a low whistle.
"Seems like we got carried away."
After a brief farewell, the two brothers returned to their sleeping quarters.
I remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the dim interior of the carriage, replaying their words in my mind.
Other Cursed chily with systems.
If that was true, then this world was far more complicated than I had assumed.
And far more dangerous.