Chapter 24 : Might Makes Right?
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO — KINGDOM CLAVIA
The room smelled of sweat and fear and things Urus's thirteen-year-old mind couldn't yet name.
His mother lay on the mattress, her body small and trembling beneath the general's weight. She looked at her son with eyes that begged forgiveness for something that wasn't her fault.
"Oii, leave my mom—you bastard!" Urus grabbed the general's shirt, pulling with all the strength his adolescent frame could muster. "Get away from her!"
The general stood with lazy arrogance, not even bothering to move quickly. His hand shot out and connected with Urus's face—a casual backhand that sent the boy sprawling across the floor.
Pain exploded through his cheekbone.
"You little pig," the general said, not even slightly winded. "Go away, or I'll do worse."
"Sir, please don't—" Scilla's voice came broken and hollow, covering herself with shaking hands. "Please stop. I'm begging you."
The general laughed—an ugly sound that filled the small room like poison.
"You whore." He forced her back onto the mattress with casual cruelty. His hand moved across her skin, leaving red scratches that welled with blood. "You should be grateful I didn't send you to the brothels. You're my personal prize . Your kingdom lost to ours. You deserve this."
He continued his assault while Urus lay on the floor, watching, understanding on some primal level that weakness meant suffering. That in a world where kingdoms conquered other kingdoms, where generals took what they wanted from the conquered, strength was the only law.
Scilla's eyes met his again. This time they held something else—not just apology, but a kind of emptiness. As if part of her was already gone.
Something inside Urus broke and hardened simultaneously.
He crawled toward a table where a knife lay discarded. His hands were shaking—whether from fear or rage, he couldn't tell. The distinction didn't matter.
He moved behind the general and pressed the blade against his spine.
"Ah? You son of a bitch—" The general spun, pulling away, and Urus drove the knife deeper. The general screamed, genuine pain penetrating his arrogance for the first time. Blood bloomed across his stomach where Urus stabbed again, and again, each thrust fueled by the helplessness of a child watching his world collapse.
"I'm going to become stronger than this," Urus heard himself say, his voice strange and hollow. "I'm going to become strong enough to hunt people like you. I'll show you what it feels like to be powerless."
He grabbed bread and clothes with trembling hands and ran.
Behind him, guards were coming. He could hear their boots on stone, their shouted commands. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
The last thing he heard was his mother's voice calling his name—a sound so broken it barely sounded human.
Later, he would learn that she'd chosen to end her pain rather than face what came next. That she'd found the same method the general had neglected to guard against. That her choice had sealed something in Urus—closed off every tender part of him and replaced it with singular purpose.
Being weak meant suffering. Suffering meant death.
Strength was everything.
---
PRESENT DAY — ROAD TO ZYRICK PALACE
"Oi... do you want to tell me, or not?"
Mabel's voice pulled Urus from the depths of memory. They were walking along the palace road now, the white-cloaked figure moving with that unsettling grace, the bundled spear across his shoulders.
Urus said nothing, just studied him. Trying to understand how a man who could literally reshape landscapes through sheer force could walk beside him with such... peace.
"Ah..." Urus finally spoke, his voice rough with emotions he'd spent fifteen years suppressing. "Tell me why a strong guy like you is just a passerby. Why didn't you do those things? Conquest. Domination. Why didn't you use what you have to take what you want?"
Mabel stopped walking. He shifted the bundled spear to rest against the palace wall, then turned to face Urus fully. His brown eyes held genuine curiosity—not judgment, just observation.
"I don't feel anything to do with domination," Mabel said simply. "Why would I need conquest? All I need is sleep, food, and my Fantom Spear for practice."
"But you're strong enough to take anything," Urus pressed, genuinely trying to comprehend. "Anything you wanted. From anyone."
"Being strong means I should dominate others?" Mabel's tone suggested he was asking himself the question as much as answering it. "That's profoundly wrong. Strength isn't meant for that."
They reached the palace entrance. Guards saluted. Servants scattered out of the way. Mabel moved through it all like a man passing through water, barely disturbing the surface.
"I became strong to protect people," Mabel continued, not looking at Urus but seemingly determined to finish his thought. "Not to use them. Not to take from them. A gift like this—it has a responsibility attached. The responsibility to help, not harm."
Urus followed him inside, his mind circling the idea like a predator uncertain whether to attack or retreat.
'To help, not harm.'
He thought of his mother. Of the general. Of the fifteen years spent becoming lethal enough that no one could ever use him like that again. Of the countless people he'd hurt in pursuit of that impossible strength.
"I can't accept that," he said finally, not unkindly. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"I know," Mabel replied. He paused at the entrance to the dining hall, where servants were beginning to prepare for the evening meal. "But you can choose differently tomorrow than you chose yesterday. That's all anyone can do."
With that, he walked into the palace to find something to eat, leaving Urus standing in the corridor—broken, haunted, and for the first time in fifteen years, uncertain if strength alone was enough.