Chapter 12 – Disguised Exile (2)

The man drew a long breath. And at last, he spoke:

"Ezra..." The voice was low. Paternal. But without warmth. Without affection.

"The elders have made a decision…" he paused. "As of today, you are to be exiled."

Another pause — longer this time, his words dragging like he couldn't bring himself to finish:

"For being born of shame, a knot that only hinders this family's progress."

Silence.

Ezra blinked. Once. Then again. The realization didn't strike like lightning. It crept in — like slow poison seeping into the mind, corroding from within.

"I guess the title of great adventurer… legendary guide…" A lifeless laugh accompanied the words. "Wasn't enough for the elders of House Ashenguard."

He looked directly at the man. But something shifted.

The truth landed.

Ezra exhaled — not with anger. But with bitter disbelief — the kind that burns deeper than hatred, deeper than tears.

"Even that… was denied to me."

His gaze dropped again, to the symbol on the wall. That crooked line, that flawed curve. Redrawn dozens, hundreds of times.

Suddenly… it made sense.

Because he was that too. An incomplete mark. A mistake rewritten so many times, it no longer remembered what it was supposed to be.

"At least…" he continued, with a tired, ironic chuckle, "…they didn't try to exorcise me. Didn't say I was possessed by a demon. Or that I'd bring ruin to the family."

He laughed.

But it was a hollow laugh.
Melancholic.
Almost childlike.

"..."

Ezra looked up — and saw.
He saw the change.
The slight twitch at the corners of the man's mouth. The subtle shift in his eyes. The hesitation.

And in that instant, suspicion became certainty.

"...Fuck." Ezra blinked faster now. The words came out choked.

"Am I really hated that much?"

"..."

The man didn't answer. Instead, he averted his gaze and changed the subject, his voice returning to the impersonal tone from before:

"You are to leave the family's territory immediately. You may not take anything with you — not even the clothes you wear. Your devices, your bank account, your belongings — all property of House Ashenguard."

He paused briefly. "But… you will be allowed to keep the surname."

Ezra arched an eyebrow. His lips twisted into a bitter half-smile.

"And I'm supposed to see that as the family's final act of kindness toward me?"

The man remained silent. He didn't nod. He didn't deny it. He just stood there, like a statue that had already seen too much.

Ezra sighed — dry, tired — and said nothing more.

He turned slowly and began removing his watch. It was an elegant model, made of dark metal with a matte finish, its curved, translucent screen reacting to his touch with a faint glow. It displayed more than time: heart rate, vital energy, body temperature, secure connections, calls, messages, maps — it was almost a part of his body.

He placed it gently on the desk, like saying goodbye to a piece of himself.

Then came the communicator — informally called a phone. A sleek, lightweight device with rounded edges and a living black surface that responded to skin contact.

It was more than a phone: it held memories, records, mind maps, unsent messages, voices he would never hear again. The glass flickered briefly, recognizing his touch one final time before shutting off completely.

Ezra placed it beside the watch, without haste.

He looked back one last time… Then walked out of the room, passing slowly by the grey-haired man.

As he came close enough, the old man murmured, barely audible:

"I'm sorry. I couldn't do anything for you… forgive me for not being able to save you…"

Ezra didn't stop, but replied in the same quiet, bitter tone, without turning his head:

"No problem, grandfather. I'm grateful for all you did. And I know that… if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be exiled — I'd be dead."

And then he walked on.

Unaware that behind him, the old man's hand trembled.
Subtly. His fist clenched, as if fighting back something he wasn't supposed to feel.

Up ahead, ten servants awaited in the hallway — lined up, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.
None dared look at him.
None showed emotion.

Behind them, ten armed guards stood like ceremonial statues.

Their armor wasn't traditional — it was made of black metallic polymer, reinforced with geometric plates that adjusted to the body's movement. Luminous conduction fibers traced across their shoulders and arms, pulsing a glacial blue. Their visors fully covered their faces, projecting internal data and shielding against all sensory interference.

In their arms, each held a long energy rifle — intelligent targeting, cylindrical magazine at the base, the Ashenguard family crest etched near the chamber.

Elite weapons. Crafted by arcane science.
Not for escorting.

For eliminating, with precision.

Ezra looked at them one by one.
None met his eyes.
None showed anger. Or pride.
Only discomfort.
Disgust.
Or fear.

"So that's why he was so stiff?" Ezra thought as he walked. "Still… I get it. All this, just to escort an ordinary person — it's overkill."

The group surrounded him in formation. Three in front, two behind, the rest flanking. Ezra kept his steps steady, though his chest grew heavier with every stride.

They advanced through the halls of the Ashenguard residence — where marble was cold, and silence always screamed louder than words. They passed through the entrance hall, where ancient tapestries told stories he had never lived.

They descended along the outer ramps, where the flowering fields stubbornly resisted the world's slow decay.
There, the flowers were still real. Resilient. Vibrant — even under a pale, starless night sky.

Ezra paused briefly and looked out at the garden.
There was one flower in particular — a blue one — that only bloomed under extreme soil stress.

His mother, back when she still cared about him, used to say it was a symbol of persistence.
Ezra had always thought it was just a plant too stubborn to die.

And then, they reached the gate.

But it wasn't the main gate.

Ezra stopped. His brow furrowed. The grass here was taller. The stone path more rugged, rarely used. The columns were veiled in moss.

"Huh…?" he murmured. He knew this estate like the back of his hand. And this… this wasn't an exit.

"Don't tell me—"

He turned instinctively to flee, to retreat — But one of the guards stepped forward with precise speed, blocking the way with his body. No hesitation. No words.

Ezra froze. His heart pounded.

"Fuck."

And then he understood.
Too late.

There was no exile.
There had never been.

There was only a sentence.

Guards armed to the teeth… Tactical armor, precision rifles, synchronized footsteps… It was impossible to ignore now.

This was an execution.
Not an escort.

The guards closed in.
Without hurry.
Without a sound.

Ezra didn't speak.
Didn't scream.
Didn't beg.

He simply raised his eyes to the pale sky — Now almost white, like a sheet of paper on which nothing more will ever be written —
And let out one final breath.

Maybe… if he'd had more time.
More strength.
Or more luck.

But in that moment, only one truth remained:

Not every stubborn flower survives the winter.