The Tyrannical Wolf King's Contract Bride-Chapter 30: The Wolf King’s Childhood
Jasper’s POV
"I dreamed of fifteen years ago," I said slowly, each word feeling as if it were being wrung from the depths of my soul. "In the Stone Prison in the Forbidden Forest, the female priestess who saved me..."
Lila froze.
"She..." I took a deep breath, my gaze slowly drifting down from her face to her flat stomach. "She was pregnant at the time."
Lila’s breath hitched, her pupils dilating in shock. She stared at me, her lips slightly parted, but no sound came out.
’The silver-eyed woman who saved me in the Stone Prison in the Forbidden Forest was her mother. And the child in her womb... that was this stubborn yet fragile little architect right in front of me.’
’The realization made my heart clench, aching and burning all at once. I wanted to tell her everything, to meld her into my very bones so she would never be harmed again. But I knew this wasn’t the time. She needed the truth, not my emotions.’
So, I suppressed the surging tide of emotion and let the dust-covered memories churn in my mind, trying to make sense of this long-running game of chess.
Our clan is not the stuff of legend—not the bloodthirsty beasts who feast on raw flesh. Long before the smog of the Industrial Revolution had cleared, the Werewolves had already secretly integrated into human society. We started companies, built hospitals, and even participated in municipal governance. On the surface, we were lawyers, doctors, architects; in the shadows, we followed laws far older and stricter than any human code. At the heart of this order is the Wolf King. The throne is not won through political elections; it is decided by bloodline. Only one with the blood of the most powerful Royal Descendant flowing through their veins can bear that heavy burden.
However, even the most powerful king needs a check on his power. Thus, the Elder Council was formed—a group of old-timers who have lived for centuries. Their duty isn’t to rule, but to pull the king back if he strays from the path. They are the anchor that prevents the great ship of power from capsizing in a storm of desire.
In this system, as precise as a clockwork machine, the Priest was a long-forgotten gear. They held no power, yet they were the lubricant that kept the entire machine running. They could soothe a berserk Royal Descendant, communicate with the Moon God, and pray for the clan’s fortune. But the Priest bloodline was as elusive as moonlight. A century could pass without one appearing, or one might be quietly born on some rainy night. By the time I was born, the legends of the Priests had long since become mere campfire stories.
And I, as the Wolf King’s only son, should have been the favored child of destiny. But my mother was an ordinary human woman. She was gentle but fragile, and the moment I came into this world, she left it forever.
My father never mentioned her in my presence, but I knew that he kept a silver ring locked away in his study—it was his only personal possession. He loved her, but because of her death, he held an unspeakable distance from me.
He taught me swordsmanship, law, and how to be a worthy heir, but he never once gave me a hug. I revered him; in my heart, he was the most powerful Wolf King. But in the dead of night, the ache of being unloved would seep into my bones like the silent, cold wind from the North Tower’s window.
The Great Elder is my father’s younger brother and my uncle in name. He and his son, Derek, are the most fervent believers in "blood purity." In their eyes, I, an heir with mixed human blood, am a blasphemy against the thousand-year glory of the Wolf Clan. Although my father was the Wolf King, he was deeply bound by tradition. He loved me, yet he had doubts about my ability to bear the weight of the throne. And so, my childhood memories are not of a prince’s honor, but of endless cold shoulders and cruel treatment.
My room was cramped, and in the winter, the cold wind would slip through the cracks in the window, cutting my face like a knife. The food they brought was always cold, with a layer of congealed grease floating on the soup, and the bread was hard enough to chip a tooth. My clothes were always a size too small, the sleeves and cuffs too short, revealing wrists and ankles red from the cold. The guards looked at me with unconcealed contempt, as if I were a mistake that shouldn’t exist. And Derek was the enforcer of all this malice.
He was fifteen at the time, already a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and eyes as sharp as a hawk’s. He never hit me himself—that was too crude and left too much evidence. His methods were more insidious and far more effective. When I walked past the training grounds, he would deliberately release the oppressive aura of a full-grown Werewolf. That invisible force felt like a mountain pressing down on my spine, making every step feel like I was walking on knife points. The air was squeezed from my lungs, my vision swimming with black spots, but I had to keep my back straight and shuffle forward, one step at a time. I knew that if I fell, he would laugh, and his laughter would attract more onlookers and more humiliation.
"Look," he would say to his cronies in that lazy, mocking tone, his voice low but loud enough for everyone around to hear. "Our little prince can’t even stand straight. A good-for-nothing like him is supposed to inherit the throne? The only thing flowing through his veins is filthy human blood."
More often, it happened late at night. They would corner me in the hallway on my way back to my room, surrounding me like a pack of hyenas that had scented blood. They wouldn’t leave any obvious marks; they just flayed me alive, again and again, with their words. Someone would "accidentally" bump into me, making me fall onto the cold stone floor. Someone else would put salt in my water, leaving me thirsty all night. These things were insignificant on their own, but day after day, they were enough to wear a child’s spirit down to a raw, gaping wound.
"Your mom was a filthy human who couldn’t even give birth right. She deserved to die!"
"You have dirty blood running through you. You’ve defiled the honor of the Hale family."
"One day, you’ll be ’purified,’ just like getting rid of a sick dog."
’I never talked back, and I never cried. Tears were a sign of weakness, and I couldn’t afford to be weak. I would dig my nails into my palms, using the sharp sting of pain to force myself to stay clear-headed. I knew that if I showed the slightest sign of breaking, they would only get worse. I also knew my father was watching. He was testing me, seeing if I was worthy of that throne. His silent observation was both a crushing pressure and my only source of support.’
In the winter when I was ten, I fell ill. I had a fever that wouldn’t break and my body was burning up, but no one paid me any mind. They said a Royal Descendant shouldn’t be so fragile. I lay in bed, my consciousness fading, feeling like I was about to die. That night, the beast within me awoke. The pain was indescribable.
My bones were rearranging themselves, making sickening CRACKING sounds. My muscles tore, and it felt like countless snakes were slithering under my skin. A power so savage it bordered on absolute madness rampaged through my veins, burning away all reason. I couldn’t stop myself from roaring, the sound shattering the windowpane. The guards rushed in, trying to chain me down, but I broke free with ease. Like a true wild animal, I burst out of the room and ran for the Forbidden Forest.
