Chapter 351: 351 — Why Would I Listen To You?

— And sometimes, what we hope for the most happens unexpectedly. —

Vincent turned sharply, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Did he truly hear that voice? Or had his mind begun playing cruel tricks on him again?

When their eyes met, the world tilted.

The music still played—soft drums, distant strings—but it might as well have vanished. For them, it did. The hall, the nobles, the ceremony—everything dissolved into a single, suffocating moment.

Silver hair.

Not a disguise. Not a trick of the light.

Him.

Vincent’s breath faltered. For years, he had imagined this encounter. In anger. In triumph. In revenge. Yet none of those emotions surfaced first.

Fear did.

Fear of what Raniel’s existence had done to his life. His mother’s coldness. Her comparisons. Her relentless, cutting words—Why can’t you be more like him?—until self-loathing had rooted itself so deeply within Vincent that hatred became easier than grief.

And Ren—

Ren felt the past claw its way up his spine.

The nightmare he had fled from. The blood. The temple. The suffocating expectations. The weapon he had been shaped into.

He had thought he was free.

He had thought he had buried that life beneath a new name, a new home, and new arms that held him gently instead of sharpening him.

Yet here it stood.

Vincent.

Alive. Watching him.

The silver-haired man swallowed hard, tears blurring his vision before he could stop them. His lips parted, a thousand explanations crowding his throat—but no sound emerged.

He did not even know which name to answer to anymore.

Vincent moved first.

Without allowing himself another heartbeat to think, he seized Ren’s arm and pulled him through the shifting crowd. The movement was swift, almost seamless. Guests stepped aside, assuming urgency. A servant escorting someone important—who would question it?

After all, who would dare interfere with someone so closely associated with the Imperial General?

They slipped beyond the archway, past the torches, into a quieter corridor where the noise dulled into a distant hum.

Only then did Vincent stop.

His grip tightened unconsciously.

And for a moment—just a moment—neither of them spoke.

Because speaking would make it real. It was a dream and a nightmare all at once.

They had once been friends. The best kind. The kind who would have bled for one another without hesitation. The kind who whispered secrets beneath temple roofs and shared stolen laughter in corridors meant for silence.

Until bitterness crept in.

Until jealousy took root.

Until comparison turned affection into poison.

Their bond had not broken in a single day—it had shattered slowly, like fragile glass under constant pressure, until nothing remained but sharp edges.

"Why are you here?" Ren finally managed, his voice trembling. Tears clung to his lashes, threatening to fall at any second.

Vincent let out a short, humourless laugh.

"Why?" he echoed, mockery curling around the word. "Did you truly think you could escape us? Or rather—escape Mother?"

The name lingered heavily between them.

"She will never give up on you."

It was meant to wound. Meant to strip away whatever peace Ren had built for himself.

Yet it was Vincent’s own chest that tightened painfully.

Because it was never him she searched for like that.

Never him she refused to abandon.

Even hatred, when directed so obsessively, was proof of value.

And Vincent had grown up starving for even that.

Ren’s fingers trembled within Vincent’s grasp. He did not pull away, though he could have. His voice came softer this time—fragile in a way Vincent had never heard before.

"I never wanted to be something she owned."

Vincent’s jaw tightened.

"You think I did?" he snapped, the sharpness cracking slightly at the edges. "You were her masterpiece. Her prized weapon. And I was—"

He stopped himself.

A mistake. An afterthought. A shadow.

He refused to say it aloud.

Ren’s tears slipped free at last, tracing silent lines down his pale cheeks.

"I didn’t ask for that," he whispered.

"And I didn’t ask to live in your shadow," Vincent shot back, though his voice no longer held the same strength.

Silence swallowed them again.

Closer now, Vincent could see it clearly—the difference in Ren’s expression. There was no steel in his gaze anymore. No cold, obedient emptiness like in the temple.

There was fear.

And something else.

Softness.

Someone had changed him.

Vincent’s grip loosened, just slightly.

"You look different," Vincent muttered, almost to himself.

"Different? How?" Ren narrowed his gaze, something guarded flashing through his silver eyes.

Vincent studied him carefully, as if comparing the man before him to a memory only he could see.

"You don’t lower your gaze as much," he said slowly. "Your voice isn’t as soft as before. Nor do you stand there silently, waiting for orders." His eyes drifted upward, meeting Ren’s. "And your eyes... there’s a will to live in them now. The same gaze you had when Ilyan came into your life."

The name struck like a blade.

"Was that meant to hurt me?" Ren’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"I—"

"You killed him," Ren cut in sharply, his voice breaking despite the force behind it. "You killed him right in front of me."

Vincent recoiled as if struck.

"I-I didn’t!" he insisted, panic flickering across his face. "I wasn’t the one who—"

Ren let out a bitter scoff, shaking his head as though the denial itself was insulting.

"You stood there," he whispered, eyes glassy with restrained fury. "You stood there when he could have been saved. I begged for your help, damn it!"

The air between them grew heavier, charged with years of unspoken grief.

"Leave," Ren said at last, his voice turning cold—cold in a way Vincent remembered too well. "Don’t you dare try anything."

His gaze hardened, that fragile softness from moments ago replaced by something far more powerful.

"I won’t hesitate to kill you if I have to."

There was no exaggeration in his tone.

Only certainty.

Vincent stared at him, chest rising and falling unevenly. For a brief second, the boy he once knew flickered behind Ren’s eyes—the friend who used to smile at him without suspicion.

But that boy was long gone.

And perhaps Vincent had helped bury that version of himself as well.

"Why would I listen to you?"