Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 76: Weeds

Chapter 76: Weeds

I stand behind my master, watching as he rises gracefully from the bed, his movements elegant, deliberate, almost otherworldly in their serenity. His beauty is like that of a rare bloom, untouched by the harshness of the world. Even now, with the room still tense from the tears he shed earlier, there is something calming about him.

As he steps toward the vanity and sits in front of the massive mirror, the soft glow of the setting sun catches on his flawless skin. I watch as he delicately dips his fingers into a jar of ointment, applying it beneath his eyes with careful precision. His face, serene and composed, betrays nothing of the grief I had seen only moments ago. It’s as if it never happened.

"You don’t talk much, do you, Doris?" Noelle’s voice, soft and velvety, breaks the silence. He doesn’t turn to look at me, but I can see the faint curve of his lips in the reflection, his eyes still focused on his own reflection.

I feel a familiar warmth at the way he says my name, as if he’s always found comfort in my silence. I’ve been with him for long enough to know he prefers it this way. And so I say nothing, just as I always do.

He nods slightly to himself. "It’s okay," he says, continuing to dab the cream under his eyes, blending it with gentle taps. "I like that about you. You’re quiet, observant. You don’t meddle. No one could’ve been better suited for me."

His words should fill me with pride. After all, I’ve spent years perfecting my silence, my ability to blend into the background,through years spent doing assassinations I’m better suited to be the unseen force protecting him. But something in his tone feels different tonight—there’s a softness, yes, but also something else. Something unsettling.

Noelle places the ointment back on the vanity and picks up a brush. As he slowly runs it through his hair, his gaze remains fixed on his reflection, not on me.

"Have you ever grown a garden, Doris?" he asks suddenly, the question so casual it almost startles me.

I blink, thrown off by the sudden change in topic. A garden? I don’t answer, as is our usual rhythm, and Noelle doesn’t seem to expect me to.

"I used to help my mother with hers," he continues, his voice soft and melodic, almost wistful. "She loved her little strawberry patch. It was her pride and joy, you know." He smiles slightly, though it’s more of a reflection of memory than any real emotion.

The room feels calm, normal even, and I start to relax again. This is the Noelle I know—the beautiful, gentle man with a love for small, delicate things. I’ve always admired him for his serenity, for the way he navigates the world with such grace.

But then his tone shifts, just a fraction, as he sets the brush down. "Of course, no matter how well you tend to it, weeds always find a way in."

My breath hitches, just slightly. It’s almost imperceptible, but I notice it. The sudden chill in the air, the faint darkening of his words.

"They’re funny little things, aren’t they? Greedy." Noelle turns his head, ever so slightly, to glance at me in the reflection. His gaze lingers, not on me exactly, but somewhere between us, as if he’s thinking aloud.

"They sneak in when you’re not looking. Before you know it, they’re choking the life out of everything you’ve worked so hard to grow."

I shift, my body growing stiff as his words slowly start to settle in. There’s something in the way he speaks, something in the deliberate cadence of his voice. It’s as though he’s not talking about plants at all. My mind flickers to the events of earlier—the Robbens, the confrontation, the tears Noelle had shed, and Thorne’s fury that followed.

And suddenly, I feel uneasy.

Noelle turns fully toward me now, the brush still in his hand, hanging limply by his side.

"Do you know what the problem with weeds is, Doris?" His smile remains, but it’s sharper now, too sharp, like the edge of a knife hidden in silk. "You can pull them, cut them, but unless you dig them out from the root... they’ll always come back."

My heart begins to race, but I remain silent. I’m good at this—reading people, understanding them before they understand themselves. I’ve spent years honing my skills, learning how to detect even the slightest shift in behavior. But this... this is different. I’ve always known Noelle to be kind, delicate, soft.

Yet now, watching him so casually speak of weeds and roots, something deeper stirs beneath the surface.

Noelle’s fingers trace the curve of the mirror’s edge, his eyes distant again. "There’s this particular weed here, native to this land," he muses. "It starts small, barely noticeable, but if you don’t catch it early, it spreads. It multiplies, strangles everything around it. Before you know it, it’s taken over the entire garden, inviting all its little friends to feast on what isn’t theirs."

He pauses, and in the silence that follows, I can feel the weight of his words pressing down on me. My breath catches in my throat, and my mind races. Is he still talking about plants? Or is this something else entirely? I glance at his reflection, and there’s a chill in his eyes—a glint of something cold, calculating, that I’ve never noticed before.

And then it hits me.

I’ve been wrong. All this time, I thought I knew him. I thought I understood his softness, his vulnerability. But this—this was something else. The tears, the brokenness, the way Thorne had stormed off in rage—it had all been an act. A performance.

I feel the air shift, and Noelle’s gaze snaps back to mine in the reflection. His smile is soft again, serene, as though nothing in the world is wrong. But I can see it now. The manipulation. The quiet, calculated way he’s played all of us.

"I guess," he says softly, "sometimes you let the weeds grow... just to see what happens."

Noelle turns back to his reflection, his fingers brushing through his hair with deliberate ease, and continues as if nothing had changed.