Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 154: The Memories of the Past

Riven knew that Ronan said he did not need any excuse to search and investigate the elders. But Riven had other plans in mind.

Ronan wasn’t Soren.

Soren would have no qualms being called a tyrant.

In fact, Soren would probably welcome it.

He would throw the title around like a badge of honour, basking in the fear and respect it would bring.

But Ronan wasn’t like that.

Ronan cared.

He cared about his people. About how they saw him. About the future, they could build together.

He didn’t want to rule by fear. He didn’t want to stomp down on others just because he had the power to do so.

His method would not yield a result that Ronan would like.

If they started arresting and interrogating elders without clear proof, even if it was legally justified, it would look bad.

It would make Ronan seem like he was grabbing power for himself, even though the power was his to begin with. Riven understood that Ronan was trying his best to break a cycle, and he wanted to help.

If Julius opened his mouth—

And if Riven could get him to talk—

Then they could get something far more valuable than vague suspicions.

They could get names.

Concrete, undeniable names of the elders who were plotting rebellion.

A clear list.

Evidence.

Something Ronan could act on without looking like a dictator.

Something that would allow him to clean house properly, without risking the loyalty of the few elders who still stood by him.

Because surely, surely not every elder was involved.

Surely, in the entire council, there were still a few loyal ones left. freewёbnoνel.com

Right?

He had to believe that.

Not everyone could have been corrupted.

Not everyone could have turned against the Alpha just because they were greedy or scared.

There had to be a handful, at least, who still believed in Ronan’s leadership, in the future they were trying to build.

Riven took a deep breath, steadying himself.

He needed to be smart about this.

If he went to Julius, it would anger Ronan, but this was something Riven wanted to do as the alpha’s mate. Not just sit by and wait for things to happen, it was never his style.

As for his safety, Riven was not worried in the slightest.

Julius might have been a lunatic, but Riven was stronger now. Much stronger.

Back then, when he had been weak, helpless, and desperate, Julius was frightening but not anymore.

Riven had the Alpha’s power bolstering him, flowing through his veins. He had strength, speed, resilience—he was not the same defenceless boy he used to be.

If Julius tried anything funny, Riven was more than capable of handling it.

No, fear had nothing to do with it.

It was disgust.

Pure, deep, bone-deep disgust.

The very idea of having to interact with Julius made his skin crawl. It made his stomach twist unpleasantly, as if he had eaten something rotten.

He wasn’t afraid of Julius. He just didn’t want to deal with him.

If there was anything, or anyone, he still felt a lingering fear toward, it was his father.

But that fear was different.

It was something ingrained in every inch of him, something Riven’s memories taught him... Fear. That was what he was taught. His father was no less than trash.

Riven’s memories of his father were like a venomous spider web that would only hurt him if he confronted them.

There had never been a moment of warmth between them, no fleeting touches of affection, no soft looks or gentle words. From as far back as he could remember, his father’s gaze had been cold, filled with a deep-seated resentment that Riven never truly understood as a child.

At first, he had thought he must have done something wrong.

Maybe if he behaved better, studied harder, stood straighter, obeyed his every word, maybe then his father would look at him differently.

Maybe then he would earn even a crumb of approval.

But no matter what Riven did, it was never enough.

It took years for him to realise that it had never been about his actions. His very existence was the offence.

Riven didn’t resemble his father.

Not enough.

Instead, the mirror showed him a stranger’s reflection—high cheekbones, soft features, eyes that held a glimmer of something his father hated.

Riven had never known his mother, she had died when he was still an infant. He had never seen her face, never felt her arms around him. There was no portrait of her, his father never talked about her and forbade anyone from doing so as well.

But when he stared into the mirror, he imagined she must have looked something like him.

Riven learned early that punishments in his household were not simple reprimands.

They were lessons carved into flesh and mind.

If he faltered during training, he was forced to kneel for hours on stone floors until his knees bled. If he spoke out of turn or displeased his father in some unknowable way, he was whipped—not once, but over and over until the pain blurred into numbness and his world narrowed to the sound of his own shallow breathing.

Sometimes it wasn’t even physical.

Sometimes it was the silence.

The cold, suffocating silence where he was deliberately ignored, treated as if he didn’t exist at all. Days could pass without a single word directed his way.

As a child, he used to beg for scraps of attention, even if it came in the form of anger.

Anything was better than being invisible.

But even that desperate hope was eventually beaten out of him.

He learned to endure without protest.

Still, on some foolish nights, he would stand before the cracked mirror in his room, tracing his own face with trembling fingers, wondering.

Was this what she looked like?

Did she have the same mouth? The same eyes?

Would she have smiled at me?

Those thoughts were dangerous. Hope was dangerous.

Riven hated going through the original Riven’s memories for this reason, the pain it brought upon him gave him nightmares.