If this had happened a few hours earlier, the young man would have left the room like a servant, even if he didn’t want to. But everything had changed now. He didn’t leave. Instead, he looked at his father—Mr. Simon—and said, “You’re planning to leave…”
“I heard everything from the butler. You’re selling off everything.”
“The factories, the shops, the warehouses and everything inside them. You laid off all the workers. Even this house is part of your sale plan!” The boy’s voice wasn’t loud, but it struck Mr. Simon like thunder.
Exposed, Mr. Simon was momentarily flustered. “No, that’s not true!”
For the first time, the boy didn’t lower his head in silence. He stared directly at the man who now looked panicked under pressure, realizing he wasn’t as powerful as he had once imagined.
“You’re already set to leave. As soon as someone takes over your assets, you’ll go—and you weren’t even planning to take me or my mother. You were going to leave us behind, with nothing!”
He had guessed the truth, and Mr. Simon, now more composed, regained his footing in the familiar dynamic.
“This isn’t something you need to worry about. Do you understand? I’ll say it again—leave this room. Now!” Mr. Simon pointed at the door, his authority as a father and head of the household reasserting itself.
The young man began slipping from disappointment into despair, a process he had endured countless times. He felt darkness swallowing him, slowly but surely.
His face twisted in pain. He tried to force a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “We can leave together. Anywhere. To your country, or someplace you’ve never been. We’re a family. We should live together…”
“Tell me you were going to take us with you…”
He shouted, but Mr. Simon remained silent. His lips were pressed tightly together, drained of color, pale as his mood.
He had never acknowledged the boy, whose skin resembled his mother’s more than his own, as his real son. Though he knew it was the truth, he simply refused to accept it.
The longer he stayed, the more he missed the wife who had cheated on him, and the son who only called him
father
in letters asking for money. This woman and child here were nothing more than props—tools to help him fit into the local society. A vase, and a bastard.
The stranger’s cold, hateful gaze shattered what little hope the boy had left. He didn’t leave the room. He just walked to the sofa and sat down, clutching his head with both hands, spiraling into agitation.
“Why? If you didn’t love my mother or me, why did you marry her and have me?” he demanded.
He had wondered this before, but always told himself it was just his imagination. How could a parent not love their own child?
He had even made excuses for Mr. Simon—maybe he showed love differently, maybe he was just watching over him quietly…
He had tried to fool himself into believing those lies were real. But it was all false.
Mr. Simon finally spoke, coldly. “Because without a son like you, the locals wouldn’t have done business with me.”
“I knew what they were thinking. They thought you’d inherit everything from me. They thought you were one of them—a Nagaryll native…” Mr. Simon paused, caught in emotion, then continued, “And you are a Nagaryll native.”
A strange smile crept across his face. “But I’m not. And my son shouldn’t be, either.”
“You were right. I never saw you as my son. I never planned to take you with me. I can’t stand you. And now that you’re no longer useful, I definitely won’t take you!”
“Well? You wanted to know. I’ve told you. Are you satisfied with that answer?”
“If you are, then get the hell out of my room. Just looking at you pisses me off!”
Tears streamed down the young man’s face. His facial muscles twitched involuntarily. Combined with the snot and tears, it made for a pitiful sight.
“So you never loved me. Ever?” he asked—his final question.
Mr. Simon hesitated, then shook his head. “Not once.”
“I always thought you didn’t like me because I wasn’t good enough… Even when I knew I was lying to myself.”
“You’ve refused your last chance. Please… let me call you
papa
just once…”
In the local Nagaryll dialect,
papa
is a more affectionate, familiar term than the formal
father.
Few people use formal terms in daily life unless forced by their upbringing or education. Most use warmer words like this.
As Mr. Simon froze in confusion, the young man grabbed the hunting rifle from the sofa and raised it. Mr. Simon’s expression turned strange—almost disappointed.
“You won’t pull the trigger. You don’t have the guts. I’ll leave you and your mother some money—enough to live well. Now stop saying upsetting things, put the gun down, and get out of my room…”
Bang!
The deafening shot seemed to consume the entire world. As Mr. Simon stared into the flash of fire, he remembered something from early in his time here.
Preyton, an excellent hunter, had taken him in when Simon had nowhere else to go. Simon had past business success and some connections back home, which interested Preyton—who only recruited people of value.
To impress Preyton, Simon had arranged for several high-quality hunting rifles to be delivered. They weren’t battlefield weapons, but they were exceptional for hunting.
Larger calibers, higher muzzle velocity, terrifying tearing force—the gunsmith had proudly told Simon that even a raging elephant could be taken down.
Just plant your feet apart, brace the stock into your shoulder, aim at the elephant’s head, and pull the trigger.
With a bang, the elephant would drop like a rag doll, never to rise again.
Mr. Simon fell backward slowly. He saw blood droplets hanging in the air, falling sluggishly. Blood wasn’t as bright red as people imagined—it was darker.
He saw bits of shattered bone… even another eyeball, its nerve still attached to a piece of muscle, floating in the air. He could see the terror in that eye—and his own reflection.
A pitiful creature, half his head gone.
With a heavy thud, Mr. Simon collapsed. His body twitched briefly, then went still as blood poured from his skull.
Knocked over by the recoil, the young man stood again. The door burst open. The butler and the other young man rushed in, immediately seeing Mr. Simon’s corpse.
The younger man looked thrilled. The butler, more somber, pulled the tablecloth from the coffee table and gently draped it over Mr. Simon’s mutilated head.
The blood quickly soaked the white cloth. The young man wiped the tears from his face and looked at the lifeless Mr. Simon on the floor, his heart tangled in a storm of emotions.What he once saw as an insurmountable mountain had now collapsed before him. Human life, he realized, was truly fragile.
He didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling—emotions churned within him—but more than anything, he knew he had new responsibilities now.
“What should I do next?” the young man asked, turning to the other young man. “I’ve already shown my sincerity.”
The other nodded in full agreement. “From this moment on, everything will be handled by me. From now on, you, your family, and your property will be protected and cared for by the Nagaryll Youth Party!”
Gunshots occasionally rang out nearby, but they quickly subsided.
The unrest had spread to this area. Some people had their eyes on Mr. Simon’s house—after all, among the foreigners here, everyone knew he was one of the wealthiest.
But as they approached to break in, they saw a corpse on the lawn with its head covered. Several young men were loudly proclaiming that a mob had broken in and killed Mr. Simon.
They also declared that Mr. Simon’s child—a local Nagaryll boy—would inherit his estate and fortune, and that he was a member of the Nagaryll Youth Party.
If anyone wanted to avoid trouble for themselves and their families, they were better off staying away from this property.
Though the Nagaryll Youth Party lacked real influence or renown, they had guns—and right now, guns were the most persuasive tool of all.
People remembered the dead Mr. Simon, remembered the Youth Party, and remembered the weapons they held.
They were afraid, and they left.
Sitting in the living room across from his mother, who didn’t seem particularly sorrowful, the young man stared blankly out the window at the sky.
He didn’t know whether he had made the right decision—but at the very least, he was fighting for a chance.
A chance to control his own destiny.
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