Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended

CHAPTER 185: A Broken Mother, A Broken Son

The palace's inner ward was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirping of birds. Stynx sat on a marble bench beneath the shade of a tree, his posture unrefined and uncaring. His Prussian blue hair shimmered faintly under the filtered sunlight, and his rusty orange eyes—sharp, piercing—were locked in a perpetual frown. His formal attire was pristine except for the faint folds of his cape, and he exuded an air of nonchalance and disinterest.

As he bit into a crumpet, crumbs fell to the ground, unnoticed until his gaze shifted downward. Ants. Tiny black bodies scurried across the grassy terrain, their movements swift and precise. One scout discovered the crumbs and, within moments, chemical signals called reinforcements. Together, they hoisted pieces of the crumpet and began their march toward an anthill nestled in the roots of the tree.

Stynx watched with a curious glint in his eyes, a faint interest stirring as he rose from the bench. Quietly, he followed the line of ants to their colony, the loaf of bread still in his hand. He crouched near the anthill, observing the flurry of activity—the workers dragging their prize into the tunnels, the guards scuttling about in defense of their domain.

Without a hint of hesitation, Stynx extended his hand. A single flick of his finger unleashed a stream of fire into the hill's entrance. The flames roared as they surged through the intricate chambers, incinerating everything in their path. Ants scattered in chaos, their frail bodies curling under the heat. From deep within the colony came a faint, piercing screech—the queen, her death throes lost in the inferno as her eggs were reduced to ash.

Stynx stood, brushing the dirt from his hands. His expression betrayed no satisfaction, no remorse—only an empty detachment. He tossed the remainder of the bread onto the scorched mound and walked away, his posture upright and composed.

As he made his way through the ward, whispers followed him. Some murmured "bastard" under their breath, their voices laced with contempt. Others cast furtive glances, afraid to meet his eyes. Stynx ignored them all, his head held high as he strode past the armored guards into the stone keep.

***

In a poorly kept chamber tucked away in a forgotten wing of the keep, Stynx's mother slouched in a chair by the window. Her once radiant beauty had withered, leaving behind a disheveled, hollow shell. Tangled hair framed her pale face, her parched lips trembling slightly as she exhaled. On the cluttered table beside her lay empty vials, discarded alcohol bottles, and a smoking pipe still faintly warm. The acrid scent of a familiar substance still lingered in the air.

Stynx entered without knocking, his sharp gaze immediately falling on the mess. "...You really shouldn't be indulging this much," he said, his voice flat as he gestured to the array of containers. "It's destroying you."

The woman stirred at his words, her glassy eyes blinking as she registered his presence. When her gaze landed on him, her face contorted with anger.

"It's you," she spat, her voice venomous. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she crossed the room in a fury, her hand striking his cheek with a resounding slap.

"You ruined everything!" she screamed, shaking him by the shoulders. "That man left because of you! The king ignores me, refuses to touch me, love me! He refuses to make me queen—all because of you! Every misfortune I've suffered, every ounce of pain—it's your fault!"

Stynx stood motionless, his face impassive as her accusations tore into him. "You're a devil child," she hissed. "You should have never been born. You should go back to whatever hell you came from."

Her tirade left a suffocating silence in its wake. Stynx turned to leave, but before he could take a step, her demeanor suddenly shifted. She reached for him, pulling him into an embrace that was disturbingly tender.