Blackstone Code-Chapter 479: The Charity That Never Comes

People are very subjective creatures, especially when someone is self-centered. Even if they go too far or make mistakes, they won’t see it that way; they’ll blame others’ attitudes instead of their own.
Mr. Simon’s treatment of his child and wife didn’t resemble that of a true father or husband. Yet in his own eyes, he believed he had done his duty.
He provided the woman and child with a standard of living that 80% of Nagaryll people couldn’t enjoy—an affluent life that didn’t require them to work outside.
He had already given so much. If anyone was still dissatisfied, the problem couldn’t be his.
That was how he saw it. But outsiders, like the butler, could clearly see that Simon didn’t truly care for the woman or the child.
The butler had begun to suspect that Simon might be planning to sell off his assets and leave. As a butler, he couldn’t interfere with his master’s decisions, but…
Facing the young master, the butler sighed quietly, reluctant to believe it but feeling compelled to hint at the possibility, no matter how slim.
“The master might be planning to leave.”
“Is he going traveling or going somewhere else for business?” The boy didn’t grasp the gravity at first.
Although Simon was harsh to him and his mother, he had at least fulfilled the basic responsibility of providing a decent environment for him to grow up.
While others struggled to survive, he could still attend school, so his feelings toward Simon were complicated—sometimes despair, sometimes consolation.
The boy’s smile hinted he hadn’t realized the seriousness. He glanced around and lowered his voice, “Master used to work for Preyton Trading Company. Now that Preyton is gone and Federation merchants have arrived, he might be planning… to leave here for good, to return where he came from.”
“My staying here no longer matters. I’m already old bones. Maybe the rough sea voyage will take my life,” his eyes showed something unusual—kindness, care. “But you’re different, young master.”
“I don’t understand everything, but maybe you could… ask the master.”
After speaking, the butler sighed deeply again and quickly left, leaving the boy standing there in thought.
Simon’s departure wasn’t good news. Over the years, the boy had learned his father had another family in another country—a wife and children there.
That wasn’t a big deal to him. In Nagaryll, capable men often supported several women and helped them fulfill their dreams of bearing children. It wasn’t frowned upon.
Wealthy families having dozens of wives was common. Having a stepmother and older brother didn’t bother him much.
But now, things he’d deliberately ignored began to weigh on him.
For example, Simon always displayed photos of his other family in the most visible places—on shelves, desks, even living room cabinets.
Yet there were never any photos of him and this family.
Simon wrote long letters regularly to that other family—three or four pages each time—but rarely communicated briefly with his family here.
And many other details like this brought the boy’s mood down again.
His priority now was to find out if Simon really planned to leave.
He quickly masked his feelings, having learned to hide himself in this kind of family and relationship.
“Father…”
Two minutes later, he stood outside Simon’s study, watching him bent over the desk, writing quietly.
He stayed just outside the door, not daring to cross the threshold—Simon had said no one could enter without permission, including the lady of the house and the young master.
The boy didn’t dare disobey. The scar on his temple still ached slightly, though long faded.
Simon didn’t look up or respond, continuing his work.
About seven or eight minutes later, Simon put down his pen, rubbed his wrist, and looked up with a cold expression and tone. “You should be doing your homework or something else right now.”
He didn’t want to see the boy there. The boy pressed his lips and lowered his head but spoke on, “Yes. I just ran into the butler and learned some things… May I ask if you are planning to leave?”
“Leave?” Simon’s gaze turned harsh. “Who told you that? Or is it your wild guess?”
“I’ve told you before—anything you should know, I will tell you. But things you shouldn’t know, I don’t want you snooping around.”
“This time I won’t punish you, but if there’s a next time and I find you guessing or prying, the punishment will be worse.”
Simon owned a whip, used to punish servants who erred. He had to be strict with the Nagaryll natives; too much kindness would lead them to cross the boundaries between master and servant.
A few lashes were enough to remind someone of their place for a time.
Sometimes, when the boy or his mother made mistakes, Simon would whip them—five lashes, shirt off, struck on the back.
Each punishment left a deep impression. Hearing the word
punishment,
fear flashed in the boy’s eyes, and he lowered his head further.
“If you’re done, go on with your business. Remember to close my door,” Simon said, rubbing his wrist and picking up his pen to write again.
He used to have a typewriter—a noisy one with the clickety-clack and the bell that rang at the end of a line, which you pushed back manually.
But he stopped using it. Though he wrote letters often, not every day. The ink ribbons and the machine required upkeep. The cost had long surpassed the machine’s value, and his typing wasn’t good anyway.
The boy stood silently by the door for a moment. Simon, annoyed, looked up again, nodded slightly as if to ask why he hadn’t left yet and what else he wanted.
The boy bowed slightly, closed the door, and left. Only the sound of scratching pen remained, along with Simon’s growing longing to return to his real home and feel true family warmth.
The more he thought this, the more urgent he felt, even though his other children held no real affection for him—they only saw money.
Even though his wife there had an affair and a lover, he blamed himself for starting wrong and vowed to make amends when he returned.
He couldn’t bear the wildness of the boy here, couldn’t stand the permanent odd scent on his wife here. He was done. He wanted to go back.
The boy returned to his room, passing his mother’s door without noticing her calling his name.
He closed the door, flopped onto the soft bed, and stared at the mosquito net, feeling more and more lost.
He could already feel it—the determination in Mr. Simon’s decision to leave, and… to abandon them.
He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he just did. He and his mother were about to be left behind.
Tears uncontrollably streamed down his face. He had never cried before, not even when his father whipped him, because Simon had said that a real man should never cry.
Since he was young, he had never shed a tear. The more pain he felt, the more he forced a smile—to meet the impossible expectations Simon might have had for him and to comfort his mother.
But now, he cried. He was truly the one being abandoned. From what the butler had revealed, Simon seemed intent on selling everything here, without a thought for how Lynch and his mother would survive.
This world was cruel. For wealthy people like them, losing their money meant others outside would treat them even worse.
For nearly twenty years, he had been like an unwanted stone—sometimes useful, placed where he could be easily found.
Now he was useless, about to be kicked aside.
In his sadness, he thought of a stranger he had recently connected with—a fascinating person. Unlike other Nagaryll who just hoped for a quiet life and a good reincarnation, this young man carried something different.
From him, he felt something Nagaryll rarely showed—a spirit.
A fierce resistance.
A determined struggle.
A brutal fight.
And with his own will, body, and hands, he grasped a future full of light.