Betrayed, I Met The Demon Lord

Chapter 102 - The Fire Within Me; A Bet Against Fate

My name is Kota Kintaro.

"He's drowning! Come on, let's just make him faint!" The children laughed cruelly, their hands shoving my head into the river. Bystanders walked by—some glanced, most didn't. None stopped to help.

By the time I got home, night had already fallen. Water dripped from my hair, my soaked clothes clinging to my skin. I trudged through the door, dragging myself inside.

"You piece of shit, you're late again... Do you hate me that much?" my mother snapped, her bottle clutched tightly in one hand. She didn't even look at me, didn't notice the water pooling at my feet or the bruises swelling on my face.

I knew she didn't actually worry about me. She'd say the same thing whether I was on time, early, or late—bullies or no bullies. And it never stopped there.

"You know what, I fucking hate you too, alright!?" she spat through gritted teeth. "I WAS the one who GOT STUCK raising you!!"

"I'm the ONE WHO HAS TO PAY FOR YOUR SCHOOL! And you live here for free, or I'd be labeled a bad mother! YOU THINK THAT'S FAIR!? You fucking leech... draining my life like some monster!"

"IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!" she screamed, her words slurred but sharp.

She'd say things like this almost every day, drunk and seething.

She wasn't wrong. She was a shitty mother, but she wasn't wrong. I was getting beaten up daily, my grades were abysmal, and I had no friends. No reputation. Nothing.

Sometimes, I'd catch her watching Korean dramas—those perfect-looking teens caring for their mothers. She'd cry at those shows, tears streaming down her face as if mourning something she'd never have.

It was obvious—she hated me. Yearning and begging for a life that didn't include me.

One day, my mother screamed that she disowned me as I walked through the door, her voice shaking with rage.

"You're not my son anymore!" she shouted. "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!!!" She hurled utensils at me.

I silently went back to my room. She never followed through on her words, but it felt inevitable that her misery would push her to say something like that eventually. Maybe I felt something in that moment. Maybe I didn't. I just shrugged it off as another one of her drunken tirades.

She was always working, and when she wasn't, she was drinking. She clung to her bottle like a mother might cling to her child. It was as if she actively chose that bottle over me, pouring all her attention into it—the attention I wanted—

Never mind.

She used to be kinder—warm, I think. Sometimes, I'd dream about the way she was before, though those memories have blurred over time. Was it ever real? If it was, I think her kindness came from my father's presence—at least, until he took his own life. His note blamed work, the crushing weight of expectations.

I understood him a few years later, after living with my mother. She expects the perfect son, someone I'm just unable to become. She expects a person that isn't me—some good-looking actor who never gets angry, always smiles, and doesn't burden her with anything. Someone who struggles for her, no matter what.

That's why I understood her too. The love of her life was gone—the one who struggled every day to make ends meet, the one who made her smile. And all she was left with was... me. Someone who just didn't want to struggle for her; or to maintain his image; or for anything that is outside of my computer.

I guess she wasn't wrong about me being a bad son after all.

Either way—shitty kids, a shitty mother... and shitty me. That was my life.