Sacral Clone stepped into view the view of car owner, the rescued child held securely in one arm.
Seeing the baby in the man's line of sight and the impossibly calm, handsome figure before him, the driver's face turned ashen. "G‑God?" he stammered. "Are you God? I—I was wrong! I won't do anything bad again, I'll raise the child, please don't punish me, please—"
Sacral Clone simply looked at him, expression unreadable.
One question formed in his mind as he studied the man's eyes and the way he flinched. "Is he your child?" he asked, voice low and heavy, like thunder rumbling behind clouds.
Sweat exploded across the man's skin. Every instinct screamed that lying would mean death. "Y‑yes! Yes, he's my child," he blurted out.
"Then why did you throw him away and drive off?" Sacral Clone asked.
The man opened his mouth, closed it, then finally forced the words out. "My wife ran away after giving birth to him. I took care of him for a year, but… I have a new girlfriend now. She doesn't want this child. So I… I was just getting rid of him."
Sacral Clone's gaze hardened. "If you didn't want to raise him, you could have taken him to an orphanage instead of abandoning him in the wilderness," he said.
The man swallowed. "My girlfriend said she doesn't want any competition for her future child. If I go to an orphanage, they'll record my details. And if I left him there secretly, there are cameras everywhere—they'd track me down."
Sacral Clone studied his face and the twitch of his eyes.
The man was telling the truth—at least the part that mattered. "Do you have anyone else to care for you?" Sacral Clone asked quietly. "Parents? Family?"
"No," the man answered, without hesitation.
The word had barely left his mouth before his body began to crumble. In the next instant, there was nothing left of him at all.
Sacral Clone turned away, the child still in his arms, and in a single blink he and the baby vanished from the surface and reappeared deep underground.
He felt no guilt. The decision had been made the moment he examined the child. The small body was covered in scars and bruises, old and new. The child was frighteningly light; bones showed through thin skin, and it was clear he had not eaten properly for days. No one needed to tell Sacral Clone who had been responsible.
Any hesitation he might have felt died when he realised there was no one who would mourn that man—not a wife, not parents, not even the child he had tried to throw away.
Ending such a life felt less like murder and more like sweeping away something rotten.
He briefly considered tracking down the girlfriend who had encouraged this, then dismissed the thought.
He disliked unnecessary trouble and endless killing. Today's act was a line in the sand, not a habit he wished to cultivate.
Looking down at the child, he gently channelled healing energy through the tiny body, soothing the swelling and closing the deeper bruises. "Little one," he said softly, "you've suffered enough. From now on, you'll live comfortably and safely."
Sacral Clone still could not fully understand how anyone could treat a one‑year‑old like this—starving him, beating him, abandoning him in the wild.
Compared to this child, his own past life suddenly felt almost fortunate. And he knew there were many more children in the world with similar or worse fates.
In that moment, he made a quiet decision. He could not change the nature of all humanity, and he would never promise something he could not guarantee.
But he would do everything in his power to reduce this kind of cruelty wherever his reach extended.
Those who insisted on trampling the weak, even after being given a chance, would be erased without mercy.
Ankit's nature was peaceful; he did not like fighting or killing. But Sacral Clone understood one thing very clearly: once someone crossed the line Ankit drew in his heart—especially when it came to family or children—the response would be absolute.
When Sacral Clone re‑entered the fortress, he activated the Mindlink Whisper Technique, sending out a brief spiritual pulse that spread through the stone like a ripple.
Each family member suddenly felt a soft whisper appear directly in their mind—not sound, but meaning: Kitchen. Now.
The technique simply rode the sound element already present in the air, folding his intent into the natural vibrations of the environment until the message settled, intact, in the minds of those he focused on.
He stepped into the kitchen and moved with unexpected care, heating a pot of milk on the stove.
The baby in his arms did not cry or fuss; instead, he slept with his head resting against Sacral Clone's chest, breathing slow and even.