CHAPTER 221: EX 221. PIUS THE FIRST

As Pius’ bodiless head lay on the marble floor, the light fading from his eyes, his life unspooled like a cruel play he was forced to watch.

He was not always this way.

He had been the second son of Richard, the 18th Lord of Shantel, born beneath good omens, bright-eyed and gentle-hearted. His elder brother, Josiah, was destined to inherit their father’s mantle, while Pius was meant to grow into a trusted support. For a time, that was enough.

But everything changed the day his mother died.

Her passing carved something hollow in him, a wound that no comfort could fill. His father mourned. His brother mourned. But Pius, he heard a voice.

At first it whispered in the dark, a phantom murmur against the silence of grief. If it had stayed a torment, perhaps he could have endured it. But it grew. It commanded. It warped. It urged his hand to cruelty.

And Pius obeyed.

Extortion. Exploitation. Even unspeakable violations against the common folk. Each act was a stain he could not wash away. And yet, every time, his father, Lord Richard—shielded him. Rumors were dismissed as baseless slander. Perhaps Richard believed his son was just weathering grief in his own way. Perhaps it was denial. Perhaps it was weakness.

But that lenience came back to bite him.

The day of the hunt.

Pius and Josiah had gone into the woods together, but only one returned standing tall. Josiah stumbled home bloodied, breath ragged, his arm mangled beyond recognition. Richard had rushed to him, horror in his eyes.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Pius’ voice was flat, almost bored, as he answered.

"I was aiming at a wild boar. But he got in my way."

Richard froze. Disbelief turned to fury.

"What did you say?"

Pius, unblinking, repeated himself, no trace of regret on his face.

"He got in my way."

The crack of palm against cheek echoed through the manor. Richard’s hand had moved before he even realized it, striking his son to the floor.

"You—have you gone mad!?"

Pius, clutching his reddened cheek, looked up in shock. The disbelief in his eyes twisted into indignation. "Did you... slap me?"

Richard’s heart clenched. His son’s gaze was no longer that of a grieving boy. It was something else entirely. Something hollow. Something monstrous.

"How dare you slap me!" Pius screamed, lunging at his father with wild, incoherent ramblings spilling from his mouth.

But Richard was no weak man. A Rank 4 warrior at his prime, he subdued his son with a single strike, knocking him unconscious. Pius collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his breathing shallow but steady.

Richard stood over him, chest heaving. Tears welled in his eyes as his fists trembled at his sides.

"...Deborah," he whispered to the memory of his late wife. "I promised you. I swore I would give our sons a life worth living, even if it costs me everything."

His voice broke. He looked down at his fallen son, no longer certain if the boy he loved still lived beneath the madness.

"From today," Richard said, jaw tightening, "this child will learn what discipline truly means."

He called for the servants, his voice heavy with both sorrow and resolve. "Take him to his room."

And as they carried Pius away, Richard prayed to whatever gods still listened that it was not already too late.

****

After that day, the altercation between Pius and his father, the city had been shaken. Josiah was bedridden, still receiving treatment, while Richard poured all his focus into his son. From that moment on, Pius was rarely allowed out of Richard’s sight. Whenever the boy tried anything foolish, Richard’s response was swift and brutal, one strike, and Pius was out cold.

This routine went on for years. Slowly, steadily, visible change began to show. Pius’s wild edges dulled. His eyes carried less madness, his demeanor softened. He no longer lunged at his father with a blade at every chance. Instead, he grew calmer, gentler, almost kind.

And as Richard noticed. Pride began swelling in the man’s chest, he had reclaimed his son from the brink. To mark this victory, he arranged a grand feast in the manor. The halls of Shantel filled with laughter and music as nobles and common folk alike gathered. Everyone knew of the harsh discipline Richard had inflicted, and though many still bore grudges against Pius, they couldn’t deny his effort to mend the damage. For Richard’s sake, for Shantel’s sake, they gave him a chance.

Throughout the evening, townsfolk approached Pius. Their words were always the same: "Congratulations." No more, no less. Anything beyond that risked opening old wounds. They could hardly say, You used to be unbearable, but look at you now, without souring the night. But Pius didn’t mind. Each "congratulations" was a quiet acceptance, and that was enough.

He stood near the edge of the gathering, sipping from his cup, when the sound of approaching footsteps caught his ear. He turned, expecting another well-wisher, but instead found his father standing there, smiling warmly.

"Is there any problem, Father?" Pius asked.

Richard shook his head, the corners of his lips lifting as though the moment held a secret only he understood. "Why don’t we go for a walk, son?"

Pius didn’t hesitate. He set down his cup and followed his father out into the cool night air.

****

The night air was cool, carrying the fragrance of freshly trimmed roses as father and son walked side by side through the garden. Lantern light flickered across their faces, casting long shadows that danced among the hedges.

"Son," Richard said at last, his tone measured, "what do you think makes a city... a city?"

Pius blinked, caught off guard. "I don’t get what you mean, Father."

Richard stopped walking. He turned to face his son, his gaze sharp yet strangely weary. "Is it the people who make the city, or the place itself?"

Pius furrowed his brows, unease creeping in. His father’s riddles usually meant trouble, and trouble often meant punishment. ’Did I do something wrong again?’ he wondered, though he couldn’t recall any offense. Truthfully, much of his change these past years had come from Richard’s relentless discipline. Ever since the beatings began, the voices, the whispers that once plagued his mind had gone silent.

Seeing his son’s confusion, Richard’s expression softened. "You don’t need to answer me, son. Just remember this: what a city is doesn’t matter. To a city lord, the only thing that should matter is its well-being. No matter what the city means to you, its survival must always be your greatest concern."

Pius mulled over the words. His father rarely spoke in half-truths. There was something buried in that lesson, though he couldn’t quite grasp it. Finally, he frowned and asked, "Shouldn’t you be telling Josiah this? Why are you telling me?"

His father held his gaze for a long moment, his silence heavier than any blow he’d ever delivered. Then, at last, Richard said quietly, "Let’s get back to the celebration."

The two of them walked back toward the lights and laughter of the manor, though Pius’s thoughts lingered on the unanswered question. He would never receive the explanation he sought.

Because the very next day, Lord Richard was found dead.