The Substitute Healer (BL)-Chapter 97: “A commoner… having this much gold?

To put it bluntly, Sylas’ hostility toward Soren did not remain as mere cold glares or mocking words.

It grew into something intended and calculated.

What began as silent disdain slowly twisted into quiet cruelty. Without ever dirtying his own hands, Sylas went as far as to hire people to harass Soren behind the scenes. He paid them in secret, gave simple instructions, and ensured that nothing could ever be traced back to him.

Soren, of course, never knew.

The coincidences started small.

A misplaced herb, a torn cloak.

Servants who suddenly refused to meet his eyes and treated him more harshly than usual. Then came the whispers around the encampment, the subtle shoulder checks, the deliberate spilling of soup on his fur robe.

Strangers seemed to sneer at him for no reason while knights nudged at him more. Stable boys even laughed when he passed.

And Soren, the poor and resigned Soren accepted it all without question.

He had long grown accustomed to swallowing humiliation like daily bread.

Ever since his mother passed away, warmth had vanished from his world.

The one person who had shielded him, who had spoken gently to him and who had told him he was enough was gone. In her absence, Soren’s heart grew colder while people around him grew sharper. And Soren learned, far too young, that affection was temporary while cruelty was constant.

So, when misfortune followed him like a shadow, he did not suspect such hands pushing him toward it.

He simply thought that it’s his fault.

Or perhaps, that was just how fate treats someone like him.

Every cruel word became proof that he was lacking.

Every shove became confirmation that he did not belong and every humiliation was nothing more than another reminder that the world had decided, long ago, that he was undeserving of gentleness.

He never questioned the pattern.

Never searched for a cause beyond himself.

Misery, to Soren, was not something inflicted, it was something destined.

But unfortunately, it wasn’t fate.

It was intention.

While Soren bowed his head and blamed the heavens for his suffering, Sylas watched from a comfortable distance. Each report he received only fueled the quiet satisfaction coiling in his chest. Soren’s growing isolation, the way people avoided him and the way his shoulders seemed to curl inward more each day was all unfolding exactly as he planned.

What Soren thought was bad luck being, in truth, a carefully orchestrated cruelty.

And the most tragic part was that even if Soren knew, he might have never been angry.

And because he didn’t, he only hated himself a little more.

Standing now before Cael, Alaric, Sylas, and Lyric, the four men who had shaped his suffering so carefully it almost felt like art. The cold wind rushed through the courtyard while tugging at their expensive robes and sending their perfectly styled hair into graceful motion.

Even the weather seemed to favor them while lifting their cloaks just enough to make them look grand, and even heroic. How fitting for the empire’s golden sons, standing tall and proud beneath a gray sky, as if hardship had never dared touch them.

Alaric looked as composed as ever with his keen eye and unreadable mocking expression. Cael, on the other hand wore that faint, amused curve on his lips like everything before him was a passing entertainment. Sylas stood stiff and dignified with his carved from cold stone expression. And Lyric wuo held himself with quiet authority, as though the ground itself would crack before he ever would.

How dazzling they were and noble.

How utterly blameless they must think themselves.

Seeing their dignified posture, Soren let his gaze pass over each of them slowly, one final time.

If someone had been watching closely, they might have mistaken the look in his eyes for admiration that it was almost laughable. After all, weren’t they everything the empire praised?

They’re strong, powerful and have wealth.

Then Soren bowed.

The action was flawless, submissive and obedient like the kind expected from someone beneath them. Years of discipline shaped the angle of his back and the careful lowering of his head. The wind pressed harshly against his thin cloak while making it cling to him, reminding everyone and him himself of the difference between them.

Silk against worn fabric and gold against plain a thread.

While bent forward, something shifted in his eyes.

Not hatred and rebellion.

Just something who was tired of pleasing people.

The softness that once made him blame himself for everything was gone. The confusion that once made him believe it was all just bad luck had faded. In its place was calm understanding. Every insult and humiliation as well as coincidences were all buried in his soul.

It will never be forgotten.

How foolish he had been.

When he straightened, he did so with steady composure. His face was calm and there was no trembling in his hands, no redness in his eyes. If anything, he looked almost serene.

But he did not meet their gazes.

Not Alaric’s sharp stare, Cael’s amused eyes, Sylas’ cold indifference and not even Lyric’s commanding presence.

He did not look at them because he no longer needed to.

For the first time, Soren wasn’t lowering his eyes because he felt small.

He was lowering them because they were no longer worth seeing.

For Soren, this was the moment he would finally let go of everything.

Not just the mission, insults and humiliation.

Everything.

It was not easy.

Letting go felt like tearing something from his chest with his bare hands. His fingers trembled slightly at his sides, hidden by the sleeves of his robe. His throat felt tight, heavy with words he would never say. Walking away meant giving up the small, foolish hope he had once carried that maybe one day things would change, that maybe one day he would be seen.

It hurts but in that painful silence, he remembered his mother.

Her gentle voice and the warmth of her hand on his hair. The way she used to smile at him when he struggled with something difficult.

"The first time is always the hardest, son," she had once told him. "But once you endure it, the next step becomes easier."

She had been right.

This was the first time he was choosing himself.

Drawing in a quiet breath, Soren bowed once more. Lower, deeper and final.

"Thank you for everything," he said steadily, though his chest felt throbbed. "And my apologies for causing trouble during the mission, Your Highness and Your Graces."

His voice did not shake. It was calm, respectful and perfectly composed just as they would expect from him. Then, after a brief pause, he added softly,

"But please do not worry. I will never show myself before you again."

After saying that, the wind howled between them as if its listening while carrying his words into the cold air.

That was his final resolve.

No anger, accusations and dramatic farewell.

Just a quiet promise.

While bowing, his eyes closed for a brief second not in weakness, but in farewell. Farewell to the years he spent trying and the silent longing of belongingness. Farewell to the version of himself who kept enduring, hoping and waiting.

When he straightened, something in him felt lighter.

For the first time in a long while, Soren was not staying because he had nowhere else to go.

He was leaving because he finally chose to.

On the other hand, Sylas seemed almost thrilled at the thought of finally seeing Soren gone.

The moment Soren opened his mouth to say something more, Sylas cut him off with sharp impatience. "My goodness, just how long are you going to keep loitering around? Get your ass out of here! We’re waiting for someone important, and you’re nothing but a nuisance." His gaze then swept over Elias, who had quietly stood by Soren all this time, also having tendered his resignation as one of the Davenmore house’s healers alongside Soren.

"And you," Sylas snapped while his voice was rising with irritation, "drag him away, or I’ll have the guards do it for both of you!"

Even as he was leaving, Soren felt the sting of their hostility.

For the last time, he let his gaze linger on Alaric, hoping foolishly for some flicker of recognition and trace of humanity but Alaric merely returned a cold, unreadable stare, letting Sylas speak his mockery.

Cael, ever the picture of bored detachment, tilted his head lazily and let his eyes roam over Soren from head to toe, mocking as if nothing had ever happened between them, as if the past years of cruelty were just another story he could ignore.

And Lyric as Soren’s last fragile hope remained unmoved with his face like a mask of indifference, letting Sylas’ words hang in the air like a judgment.

Realizing that it was all hopeless, Soren’s chest once again throbbed.

He had expected nothing less, and yet, the cruelty still pricked him in a way that made his heart ache. ’Ah... just what am I expecting?’ he thought bitterly with a bitter half smile curling at the corner of his lips as Elias gently took his wrist, guiding him away.

"Soren... we have to go..." Elias said gently while steadying him, sensing the quiet storm behind his calm facade.

And Soren let himself be led and with one final look at the four nobles burning behind his closed lids, a silent farewell to the past that had bound him for far too long.

Even in their indifference and mockery, he knew this finally stepping out of their shadow, no matter how bitter the path had been.

Meanwhile, as a few knights busied themselves cleaning out Soren’s tent, sweeping the dust and folding the few belongings he had left behind, one of them noticed something unusual resting on the side table next to Soren’s bed.

There’s a large, heavy pouch sat there with its leather worn but sturdy and its weight obvious even from a distance.

"Hmm... what’s this?" one knight muttered while crouching slightly to pick it up and shake it gently. Upon doing that, the pouch rattled with a satisfying clink, and his brow furrowed in curiosity.

Just then, another knight wandered over, curious about the sudden noise.

"O-oh... that’s... that’s a lot of gold coins," the first knight stammered with his eyes widening as he carefully opened the pouch. The coins gleamed in the dim light of the tent, reflecting tiny, dazzling sparks that made the treasure seem almost unreal. "Is... is this that commoner’s money?"

The second knight leaned in with his eyebrows rising in surprise and barely concealed greed. "A commoner... having this much gold? Are you kidding me? There’s no way he earned this honestly."

The first knight shrugged, a slow, cunning smile forming on his lips. "Who knows? Maybe he hid it all. Or maybe someone left it for him. Either way... we’re going to have to report this... or maybe we don’t."