Eternal Malediction (RE)

Why do I keep fighting when I already know the outcome?

The thought lingered quietly in Kieran’s mind as he stared at the fractured stone ceiling above him.

Every battle he fought, every step forward he took, every impossible wall standing in front of him he had to get over. Somewhere deep down, he always understood the truth before anyone else did.

People who stood so far above everyone around them that effort itself began to lose meaning in comparison, and Roy was one of those people, and Kieran knew it, and so were Graham and maybe his sister and the other people in Nova in Veil.

He has known it for a long time now, not because Roy said it, not because he acted superior, but because of the gap between them that he can sense. That unbearable, silent gap that revealed itself little by little every single time they stood side by side.

Roy adapted faster. Thought faster. Moved faster. Understood things that others couldn’t even perceive yet, and the worst part? He made it look effortless.

Kieran closed his eyes slowly. Then why do I still try?

Why keep chasing something he could never truly reach? Why continue walking a path that always seemed to end with him staring at someone else’s back?

Because somewhere inside him, buried underneath all the restraint, all the discipline, all the exhaustion... There was still hope.

A small fragile glimmer.

Pathetic, maybe.

Hope that one day his effort would matter. Hope that persistence could somehow bridge a gap that talent created even if logic told him otherwise. Even if reality kept proving otherwise.

He still wanted to believe.

Because if he stopped believing that... Then what was left? The truth was that he didn’t hate losing nearly as much as he hated being unnecessary.

That feeling. Standing beside monsters pretending to be human and realising you contribute nothing they couldn’t already do better.

That was the feeling he couldn’t stand.

And because of that... He built walls. Carefully and deliberately. A version of himself people could understand easily. Calm, reliable and composed.

Strong enough that nobody looked too closely.

It was easier that way, and people liked certainty; people trusted someone who looked like they always had control over themselves. So, Kieran learnt young that hesitation should stay hidden. Fear should stay hidden. Weakness should stay hidden.

Not because someone taught him directly but because the world rewarded masks more than honesty.

The moment people saw uncertainty in you, they treated you differently. More cautious and more distant and sometimes pitying.

Kieran hated pity more than anything. So, he sharpened himself into something useful. Something dependable.

Even if it meant nobody truly knew him. Even if it meant conversations always stayed surface level. Even if it meant he sometimes felt completely isolated standing in rooms full of people.

At least isolation was predictable.

People couldn’t reject parts of you they never got to see. The irony was that he understood exactly what he was doing to himself.

That was the frustrating part.

He knew the walls were there, knew why they existed and knew they kept people away. And still... He couldn’t lower them because lowering them meant risk. It meant trusting people with parts of himself he wasn’t sure they would accept.

The exhausted parts. The insecure parts. The jealous parts.

The parts of him that looked at someone like Roy and quietly wondered if effort alone would ever truly matter.

Would anyone accept me if they saw all of it?

He didn’t know and honestly... He wasn’t sure he believed they would.

Maybe that was why he kept fighting. Not for victory. Not even to surpass anyone.

But to justify his existence beside people greater than him, to prove that he deserved to stand there too.

Even if he had to bleed for it. Even if the path never truly led anywhere.

Because stopping?

Stopping would mean accepting that the distance between him and people like Roy could never be crossed, and Kieran wasn’t ready to accept that.

Not yet, at least.