The Duke's youngest son is so Unbearable

---

"Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely…"

Man, these words are simple yet very true. The one who said these words must have really been… "corrupted," hehe.

Does power corrupt? Maybe. But why? Is it power's very nature to corrupt?

If that's true, does that mean everyone who has power is… corrupted? And if they are, then how much? Partially, slightly, or fully?

Who, then, is the most corrupt?

Is it the police, who have the power of law over the people who break it?

Or is it the military, with the power of weapons?

Or is it the politicians, controlling the police, the military, and the infamous red buttons?

Or perhaps it's the people who fund those politicians—those who control everything from the shadows.

To know who is the most corrupt, we need to figure out who is the most powerful.

If I asked a random person, "Who's the most powerful being?" they'd probably answer with one word: God.

Well, it makes sense. I mean, God Himself says in His holy scriptures that He is the source of all power. The most powerful being there was, is, and will ever be.

If He is the source of all power...

And if power's very nature is to corrupt...

Then does that mean "God," the source of all power, is also the source of all corruption?!

I rubbed the back of my neck, my lips twitching into a nervous smile. Probably not, but then again…

Angels, the second most powerful beings, worship God and cannot disobey Him. At least in Islam, they can't. Christianity? Well, that's a whole different ballgame. So I don't know—maybe.

But what about the people who believe in God?

There are plenty of radicals out there. I mean, I've seen enough news stories about people blowing themselves up in the name of God. Killing others in His name.

Some even believe they're chosen by God, so they kill for Him.

Are they believers in God? Corrupted by the Devil? Or enlightened beings who see something my dumb self doesn't?

I squinted, tapping my fingers rhythmically against my thigh. Man, I don't know about Hell, but after all these blasphemous thoughts, I don't think God's letting me into Heaven either.

Now, everyone's probably wondering, Why are you talking about these blasphemous things?

Well, it's my grandma's fault.

"What did she do?"

Nothing! It's not what she did—it's what she said. When I was little, my grandma used to say, "If you have nothing to do, think about God." So, technically, it's her fault.

Though… she probably didn't mean for me to think this way about God. Still, love you, Grandma.

Note to self: If Grandma knew how you were "thinking about God," she'd probably have a heart attack out of shock.

But hey, I'm still thinking about God, so… loophole!

Anyway, you're probably wondering why I don't have anything to do. Well, because, right now… I should be dead.

Yeah. Dead.

I opened my eyes slowly, staring up at a ceiling—or at least, I think it's a ceiling. It wasn't the kind you'd see in a normal room. More like some weird, jagged cave ceiling.

"Damn," I muttered, shifting slightly, the cold ground pressing against my back. "Am I in Hell?"

That was my first thought.

If this is Hell, though… where's the fire? The demons? The eternal punishment?

My brows furrowed, and I tilted my head slightly. Maybe everyone's being considerate of the new guy. Giving me time to adjust to my new "eternal damnation."

I let out a low chuckle and closed my eyes again. Might as well rest while I can, right? If this is Hell, this might be the last time I ever get to relax.

Sinking deeper into my thoughts, I decided to recap my life. You know, for my imaginary audience.

---

"We're moving to America."

Those words hit me like a slap to the face.

My home country? A small, developing country in Asia. We had a big family—parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins—all under one big roof.

Life was simple. Happy. At least, for me.

But not for my dad. He was an engineer, but he wanted something more. He wanted to live the "American Dream."

So, just like that, he decided we were moving to America—the land of freedom, democracy, and opportunity.

Cue the sound of an eagle crying majestically.

"One thing in life is constant," people say. "Change."

And boy, everything changed.

Our big family shrank into a small one. My circle of friends? Gone. Heck, I couldn't even talk to anyone because my English was trash.

Adjusting to this "new world" was tough. Real tough. But I managed.

Not everything was bad, though. The streets were cleaner, for one. But the people? Oh, man, the people were full of garbage.

Americans have this massive superiority complex. They genuinely think they're better than the rest of the world.

Don't believe me? Most of the idiots who believe in the flat Earth theory? Americans.

And, fun fact: Americans were also the first to land on the Moon. They even took pictures of Earth.

Yet they still doubt the Moon landing ever happened.

A bunch of idiots.

---

When school started, things got even more interesting.

After I learned some basic English, I got into middle school. That's when I realized being different wasn't always a good thing.

I stuck out like a sore thumb.

I was short. Not black, not white. Not a genius like the stereotypical Asian kid. Not dumb either. Just somewhere in the middle.

And on top of all that, I was Muslim.

Yeah, not exactly the best combo in early-2010s America.

I still remember the way people stared at me. Like I had a bomb strapped to my back or something. Every time I walked past someone's yard, they'd grip their backpack tighter or give me the stink eye. Sometimes, they'd even call the cops just because I looked "suspicious."

I sighed, shaking my head slightly at the memory. Thanks, 9/11. You really did us Muslims a solid, huh?

Now, you might be expecting me to say I was bullied in school, like some typical isekai protagonist. But no. Actually, it was quite the opposite.

The bullies?

They were terrified of me.

At first, it was all normal. People ignored me; I ignored them. But then… well, I was young and stupid. And I made the mistake of having a crush on this girl in my class.

She was flashy. Blonde, confident, and way out of my league. But hey, I was blind, so what did I know?

Long story short, she noticed. And she told her boyfriend about it—a guy who was a grade higher than me.

Big mistake.

Her boyfriend and his friends started picking on me. They'd push me in the hallways, dump garbage in my locker, and call me names. The girl? Oh, she wasn't any better. One day, she called me a creep in front of the whole class.

Then one of her boyfriend's friends decided to punch me. Right in the eye.

I winced, rubbing my temple as I remembered the pain. Damn, that hurt.

The teachers didn't care. My parents were too busy blending into American life to notice.

So I did what I had to do.

I showed them why everyone back in my home country called me the "devil incarnate."

---

The girl?

One day, she found something on her desk that made her puke in front of the entire class.

Her boyfriend? After football practice, he and his friends found their shoes mysteriously missing.

And the guy who punched me? Let's just say he found thumbtacks in his shoes.

Oh, and the teacher who didn't care? He found himself stuck to his chair because someone had poured super glue on it.

I smirked at the memory, my fingers twitching slightly. Fun fact: It was me.

Yeah, I was a little demon.

Everyone knew who did it. I mean, I made it pretty obvious. I walked around the whole day with the biggest shit-eating grin I could muster.

The school didn't do much. Think about it: A foreign kid gets bullied, then fights back—even against a teacher. They couldn't risk making a big deal out of it. If word got out, it could tarnish the school's reputation.

Plus, there wasn't any clear evidence. And involving the police? Oh, that was a no-go.

So they called in all the parents and "settled" everything.

My dad wasn't happy. But hey, he didn't care when I wasn't happy, so why should I care?

---

The bullies tried to get back at me. They really did.

But every time they did something, I'd march straight into the principal's office. Crying. Screaming. Exaggerating everything tenfold.

The principal's face? Priceless.

The guy looked like he'd bitten into the sourest lemon on Earth.

Sometimes I'd go to his office just to see that face. It was hilarious.

Eventually, the bullies gave up. They decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Instead, they spread rumors about me.

They said I was a psychopath. A lunatic. A madman.

And it worked. Everyone started avoiding me.

I wasn't exactly sad about it, though. In fact, I kinda liked it.

Nobody could touch me.

I almost felt like Gojo Satoru.

---

Life went on.

I graduated from middle school. My mom got a job, and my parents started growing distant. Mom made new friends—friends who taught her how to be a "strong, independent woman."

The arguments started soon after.

One time, Mom even called the cops on Dad.

Dad was furious. I thought it was hilarious.

The guy came to America chasing the "American Dream." But he didn't realize his dream had turned into a nightmare.

In the pursuit of a dream, he'd lost his reality.

Later, we found out Mom was cheating on Dad.

I wasn't surprised. But I was surprised by Dad's reaction—or lack thereof.

He didn't freak out. Didn't yell.

He just… accepted it.

Maybe he'd already guessed, I thought, shrugging to myself.

---

My parents were about to file for divorce.

Meanwhile, I was about to graduate high school and finally get out of their house.

I thought about going back to my home country. But in the end, I decided not to.

Why? Well… I made a little discovery about myself.

Turns out, I really like irritating people.

Like, my mere existence seems to annoy people. And honestly? I find it hilarious.

Does that make me a bully?

I decided to test it out. I tried "bullying" a bully.

And… well, turns out I'm not a fan of physical bullying. Mainly because I wasn't strong enough to block punches.

Or fast enough to dodge them.

I rubbed my jaw absentmindedly. Yeah… that black eye lasted two weeks.

So, no. I didn't like physical bullying.

But mental? Oh, that's a different story.

Watching someone squirm because of something I said? That was fun.

Was I a sick bastard who gained pleasure from tormenting people psychologically?

Kinda. Maybe. Probably.

---

I had plans, you know.

Graduate high school. Move out. Maybe go to college. Live life on my terms.

But, as someone once said:

"Plans can never keep up with change."

And that's exactly what happened.

I died

How well, that's another story.

Did I talk about Billy? … No? Well, let me tell you about Billy.

Billy was a year senior of mine in high school. He was a big white guy… like really big.

The type of guy who did things without thinking about the consequences first—or at least, that's how I think he was.

So, you know, a brute.

He played on the school football team.

Not the other football, but American football.

I always found it annoying. I mean, why do you have to call it football? Yeah, sometimes you kick the ball in the game, but most of the time, you're not kicking the ball; you're just holding it, running, and tackling each other.

Like, how is that even football?

You could've called it handball. Hell, you could've called it "tackling-each-other-with-the-ball-in-hand," and it would've made more sense.

But no… you had to call it football, just so the rest of the world could be confused.

Anyway, Billy was a football player on the school team, and he was great. I mean, the guy was big, strong, and loved fighting, so obviously, he was great—until he… wasn't.

You see, Billy might've hit his head too many times. Or at least, that's what I think.

Billy started ignoring the coach's orders during matches.

And guess what happened? The team started losing.

The coach spoke to Billy about it, but the guy didn't listen. After losing another match, the coach had enough.

He decided to remove Billy from the team—at least for now.

And obviously, Billy didn't like that.

In Billy's naive—or more like stupid—mind, he thought the coach had some kind of vendetta against him.

So, a few weeks later, a video spread around the school.

A video of the coach's daughter giving a head to someone.

Everyone in the school who had a phone had seen it.

Author's Note: If you don't know what "giving a head" means… you're an angel. 😇 We need more people like you.

Eventually, the coach found out about the video—and he was mad. Like really mad.

So, he asked his daughter—nicely—who the guy in the video was.

And guess who she said?

It was Billy. That son of a b**ch.

Turns out, after the coach removed Billy from the team, Billy decided to retaliate by seducing the coach's daughter.

And then, to really twist the knife, he recorded an MMS and spread it around the school.

Well, it worked.

Billy got his revenge.

But, unfortunately for him, it worked too well.

The coach decided to call the police.

The cops showed up, put Billy in cuffs, and were ready to press charges against him for the distribution of child pornography.

But the school didn't want the police involved in school matters.

So, they intervened.

The school called Billy's dad—a rich businessman—and the coach together to sort things out.

And guess what? They did.

Turns out, you can get out of trouble if you've got a rich dad willing to pay to wipe your ass out of it.

After that, Billy was suspended, and nobody was allowed to talk about the incident openly.