Sitting there for hours, he stared blankly at the moon outside the window.
The moon became his sole companion.
He had secretly made a wish to the moon, hoping one day he could escape and see the world beyond.
His mother seldom visited him.
She was always busy, attending various social events, representing the family to maintain appearances.
Occasionally, she’d open the door, gently stroke his hair, and whisper a few kind words.
But her eyes always carried an indescribable guilt.
Instead, his father often exploded in anger in front of him, his shouts penetrating the walls.
His father blamed him for not being talented enough, saying that as the eldest son, he should inherit the family’s glory.
But he didn’t even have the most basic talents.
Every time his father saw him curled in a corner drawing, he would sneer, "Our family produced such a useless thing like you!"
It’s said that when he was born, his mother barely survived, enduring a childbirth that lasted three full days.
The medical chamber’s alarms went off continuously, and the entire family held their breath waiting.
Everyone thought that since this child caused such great pain to the mother, he must have extraordinary talent, with boundless potential for spiritual power.
And the result?
Even in the cradle, he couldn’t stabilize the most primitive form of his Spiritual Body.
While newborns from other families showed vague butterfly outlines, he was born looking like a wriggling caterpillar, entirely grayish, without even a trace of wings.
On his full moon day, as per noble tradition, every newborn had to undergo a spiritual power test.
The ancient and intricate detector was set up in the family hall.
Blue light slowly scanned over each infant’s body.
When it was his turn, the room fell silent.
But as soon as the instrument scanned him, the data on the display suddenly collapsed, immediately followed by a piercing alarm.
The test results turned the faces of the entire family green.
In front of everyone, he genuinely turned into a little worm, constantly wriggling, curled on the silver tray.
His father turned so purple with rage that he almost lost his composure in front of the family members.
If it weren’t for his mother, who, despite her weakness, stood up and spoke for him, stabilized the situation with the support of her maternal family’s influence.
His father’s status might have been shaken right then and there.
Until his first birthday, he finally emerged as a butterfly under everyone’s watchful eyes.
At that moment, silk threads surged out of his body, layer by layer enclosing him, emerging from the cocoon seven days later.
His wings unfolded, displaying a pale golden sheen, their edges shimmering with a pearlescent glow.
They looked beautiful but were pitifully small.
Other children his age could already soar effortlessly.
But his wings barely reached half the size of others’ young butterflies.
The family members then comforted him, saying, "The child is still young; he’ll grow."
But as time passed, that promise of "growing" never came true.
Year after year, his body hardly grew.
At every family gathering, whenever the parents looked at him, they couldn’t hide the disappointment in their eyes.
Later, the family arranged for him to marry a female of civilian origin.
She was gentle and virtuous, with no background, no understanding of power schemes, only wishing to support her husband and raise children.
He held no extravagant hopes for this marriage, but deep down, he felt quite content.
At least, she genuinely smiled at him.
But as time went on, life after marriage became increasingly bitter.
She was full of emotions and intimacy, always wanting to talk to him about love and secrets, but she didn’t comprehend his world.
She didn’t understand the galaxies, butterfly shadows, loneliness, and struggles in his paintings.
She couldn’t see it clearly, nor did she want to slow down to look.
Aside from wanting children, they had little to say to each other.
She yearned for motherhood, hoping to birth children soon to "continue the bloodline" for him, while he remained silent.
He knew that his flawed Spiritual Body.
If inherited by their child, might become another tragedy.
He had also thought countless times about escaping, fleeing to the border star systems, living incognito, exchanging paintings for food.
On those sleepless nights, he even fantasized about piloting an old ship alone, disappearing into the end of stars.
But now, he found he wanted to stay, to keep vigil over her, over this home.
Perhaps it was due to her increasingly haggard eyes.
Perhaps it was due to the gentle touch she placed on his back at night.
Whenever he thought of Selene gently stroking her belly, her fingers tenderly sliding across her abdomen.
And Caleb’s barely concealed excitement, he couldn’t help but tug at the corner of his mouth.
That smile carried with it a bitterness and a hint of envy that he himself was unwilling to admit.
He envied them for being able to expect a new life without burden.
While he could only silently pray: if a child truly were to come, may they be healthy, strong, and possess the freedom to soar.
He hoped for a child too.
He longed for bloodline continuity, to be needed, to be relied upon.
But he absolutely could not accept that his child would end up like him.
Living a life of disdain and mockery, seen as a disgrace.
Oh no.
Alza suddenly felt weak in his limbs, and suddenly sank into the chair without warning.
The chair slid back slightly from the impact, leaving a shallow scratch on the floor.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes staring blankly ahead.
Upon another glance, Heath Langdon had already revealed his true form.
A palm-sized little butterfly, exuding a faint silvery-blue sheen.
That appearance should have been exquisite enough to astonish.
But at this moment, the little butterfly was furious, its wings frantically flapping, making a soft "rustling" sound.
"You stupid fox, stay away from me! Don’t come closer! No! No! No!"
It screamed while flying.
"Ah, I’ve been contaminated, I’m dirty! You scheming Beastmen, don’t think you can appease me! No way! No way! No way!"
The more the little butterfly spoke, the more agitated it became, even its flight path turned erratic.
Its spiritual power subtly fluctuated, stirring a faint airflow.
"I haven’t even entered yet, waaah—"
It suddenly let out a shrill scream, its wings fluttered violently, circling around as it flapped the air, flying out in a panic without looking back.
Leaving Alza sitting in place, his hands resting on his knees.
The room was eerily quiet, only his heavy breathing could be heard.
His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.
Was that guy... cursing at me?
Alza blinked, his brow slowly furrowing.
He recalled Heath Langdon’s hysterical manner just now, and a sense of absurdity arose in his heart.
The butterfly’s reaction was overly intense, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it just being approached a little?
Was it enough to frighten him into revealing his true form and fleeing?
Are all these males not quite right in the head?
He slowly stood up, rubbed his temples, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt.
He used to think that the Female Master was hard to serve.
But now it seems, some males aren’t any easier.
Moods unpredictable, behaviors bizarre, prone to sudden breakdowns.
Practically more fickle than unpredictable weather.
Initially, he thought Heath Langdon was relatively normal, spoke with clarity, acted calmly.
At least he didn’t, like other males, revolve around the Female Master all day, fawning and flattering.
But now, upon seeing, he’s another two-faced character.
On the surface refined and courteous, but fundamentally neurotic, blowing up over trivial matters, simply putting on airs.