Chapter Six: No One Capable of Performing His Words
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Noya sat in his own composed elegance, quietly sharing the meal with the rest of the family.
The sound of spoons and forks echoed faintly—measured, deliberate.
He cut a piece of meat with slow precision, then tapped the spoon gently against the bowl.
Everything felt calm, calculated. Silence ruled the table, and it suited him perfectly.
Noya was a man of quiet nature, reserved, unwilling to chatter.
He sensed the gazes around him, yet he did not care.
If no one began speaking, neither would he.
It was an unshakable rule.
And no one seemed willing to break it.
A soft sigh slipped from his lips, pleasant in its simplicity, breaking the comfortable silence woven with the faint clatter of utensils.
"Can I call you oppa?"
The voice was hesitant, accompanied by a shy tilt of the head.
Noya lifted his gaze, took the white napkin, and dabbed his mouth.
There she was—the younger sister of his wife—fingering a strand of her hair, eyes wavering in embarrassment.
"As you wish," he replied, calm as ever.
Her smile blossomed, radiant like her mother's, warm as a rising sun capable of melting any frost.
"Then, oppa, may I ask you something?"
Her voice trembled, yet carried a grace that even her hesitation could not hide.
Her mother cast her a glance, but she pretended not to see it.
"Go ahead," Noya said.
"What products do you use? Your skin looks amazing."
A question and a compliment, refined despite her nervousness.
Every word polished, never excessive, never insulting.
And yet, her childlike features betrayed her earnestness in a way almost comical.
Idren stared at his sister coldly—it was improper to speak so—but she was stubborn as ever.
He then looked at Noya with a trace of curiosity.
"Are you really interested in these things?" he asked.
The girl nodded eagerly, as though she had finally found someone who shared her passion.
"I use Aurelis products," Noya answered.
She stood up abruptly, stunned by what she had just heard.
"You're joking!"
"Elia, stop."
A third voice intervened—the younger brother, his face calm, more mature than hers.
His tone carried rebuke. From the very start, he had thought her behavior shameful, but only now, when her words had gone too far, did he speak up.
Realizing her mistake, Elia lowered her head, murmuring an apology.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to."
Noya's gaze shifted between the siblings—the stern boy brimming with annoyance, and the gentle girl flushed with embarrassment.
Spontaneously, his voice softened.
"I can show them to you, if you'd like."
Her eyes lit up, and her father sighed, setting down his utensils as he spoke.
"What's so special about it, Elia?"
She raised her hands excitedly, her voice bubbling with passion.
"It's one of the rarest product lines! Aurelis is the largest company in the field, with branches across several nations. But the exclusive line—the one bearing the company's very name—is legendary. High quality, in huge demand, yet more than three-quarters of the world can't get their hands on it! My older brother once took me to their marketplace—it was breathtaking! You need to book in advance, they're so expensive, and everyone dreams of owning them!"
Her words tumbled out rapidly, heated with enthusiasm.
Turning back to Noya, she beamed and flashed him a bright thumbs-up.
"I really respect you, oppa."
Noya paused mid-bite, looked at her, and managed a faint smile. He never truly knew how to smile.
"You really love them, don't you?"
She nodded eagerly, her smile unguarded.
The patient mother, silent until then, chose to enter the conversation. She had noticed how easily one could speak with Noya. With elegant motions, she set down her knife, took her napkin, and touched her lips delicately. Each movement spoke of her refined grace, the cultured poise of a dignified omega.
"It must be exhausting," she said softly, "to travel from the capital to your province each time you wish to purchase these products."
Noya caught the note of concern in her tone, a concern she had tried to conceal but failed.
And for a moment, something stirred inside him.
A forgotten sensation resurfaced—subtle, yet overwhelming.
The quiet worry of a mother.
Memories flickered at the edge of his mind, gentle yet insistent.
But he did not allow himself to waver.
Feelings were not necessary.
Remembering was enough.
So he simply spoke, not to the memory, but to her:
"The flight takes no more than an hour and a half. I used to go at the end of each month."
"That sounds convenient."
Her voice washed over him like a calm wave.
"By the way, Noya," she added, "I heard you were top of your field at university. Do you intend to continue with it?"
"Yes. As you've heard. I love art, and I was born with talent for it."
It was truth, without embellishment, without false humility.
When he declared himself talented, it was not arrogance.
His judgments—of himself and others—rarely proved wrong.
"That's wonderful. Idren studies the same field."
It was an ordinary statement, but its intent was clear.
A reassurance.
Her way of telling him that her son would stand by his side, that he need not worry.
That this family would support him without condition.
"Thank you for caring, mother-in-law," Noya said without emphasis.
Just as he had spoken to his father-in-law.
Mere words.
Yet they brought a smile to her face.
"Let's finish our meal then—you must be tired."
"Alright."
And thus, the small conversation sparked by the curiosity of a little girl came to an end, drawing the long day to its quiet close.
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In another chamber of the vast, noble house, Ashin sat comfortably, thumbing through the worn pages of a script.
One could tell his devotion by the frayed edges, the way the paper had aged from constant reading.
Vaileth stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her son from behind.
"You're reading it again, my little one?"
Her movements, like her words, were soft and tender—imbued with such warmth that every trace of feeling she carried was passed on in the gentlest way.
"It's special, Mother," he replied.
His voice carried the tone of someone reciting a beloved tale from long ago, something rising from forgotten memory, shrouding his heart with longing and nostalgia.
She brushed his face with her delicate hands, studying his features, his tone.
"Then why not watch the series that came from it?"
She did not pry into the memory behind his voice, nor the emotions he was guarding.
She would not wound him.
So she changed the subject gracefully, yet without straying too far—asking instead why he refused to watch the adaptation.
Ashin's gestures said more than words.
He caressed the small booklet slowly, reverently—like a pirate with his treasure, like a mother with her infant child.
Her serious features softened, melted into a quiet mixture of love and trust.
"No one, Mother," he said at last, his voice like a confession—not of guilt, but of truth that dissolves walls.
"No one is capable of performing a scene worthy of these words."
He spoke with conviction, though the series had ranked among the finest worldwide.
Deep down, he knew: the author himself had never watched it.
Both writer and reader understood—no one could bring the script to life better than the script itself.
Vaileth listened, her heart reaching into the silence between his sentences. She understood without needing more, yet curiosity stirred—gentle, playful, because his mood was good, and she wished to know a little more.
"Does he know?" she asked, leaving the question unfinished, though its meaning was clear.
Both mother and son were aware: Ashin had obtained the script through influence, not from the writer's own hand.
Ashin's reply came faintly, almost forgotten.
"He doesn't know that I know."
Another pause, softer still:
"He doesn't know that I found out it was his."
And once more, his voice sounding like an old instrument, weary yet steadfast:
"He doesn't know how many times I've read it, how much I loved it."
His fingertips traced the letters with precision, as though decoding ancient glyphs.
Vaileth smiled gently and sat beside him, wanting him to continue.
"And how did you discover he was the writer?"
Her tone carried anticipation, as if weighing the depth of her child's connection to the creator of those words.
"Look, Mother," Ashin said.
"The way he structures sentences, his use of pauses and dots."
"The spacing he leaves blank."
"The side notes he makes for improvisation."
"The way he describes his characters' expressions."
"The choice of colors, the names."
"Every part of these pages—every word—speaks for itself. It declares him the author. There's no debate. The script radiates his name."
He spoke with fervor, showing her each mark, each detail, as if unveiling a sacred relic.
Through his eyes, the script shone with the writer's devotion to art—and Ashin's reverence for it.
His words and expressions flowed like poetry carried by the wind, like an answer rehearsed long ago and now recited with unshakable certainty.
Vaileth clasped his hands for a moment, marveling at his passion.
"You've returned to speaking in verses," she whispered, delighted.
For so long, Ashin had shut himself off, his once lyrical way of speaking buried. Now, she finally understood—those poetic words of his had always been for that person, for the artist he revered.
"Is this his only work?" she asked.
Ashin closed the booklet slowly, shaking his head.
"The only one the world knows."
"Then he prefers to write in secrecy," she said, playful yet probing.
Ashin rose, placed the script back in its place, then returned with a small black card.
He connected it to his phone, pressed play, and sat before her without another word.
On the screen, a video unfolded—but the figure was obscured, blurred in deliberate secrecy.
Only his music could be heard.
He moved from piano to violin, each note carrying impossible beauty. Vaileth felt her breath catch; she had never heard such melodies in her life.
With another tap, the screen changed—this time showing hands sketching a portrait, gentle and focused.
The lines bloomed into something breathtaking.
"This is… extraordinary," she murmured, awestruck.
Yet in her wonder, she missed the expression on her son's face—
the look of a mad lover, a soul drowning not in love, but in the shadow of obsession.
Darkness crept where light had once been.
While Ashin and his mother lingered in their memories, elsewhere Noya had already slipped out of the house once the family had gone to sleep.
He mounted his black motorcycle, dressed head to toe in a fitted dark suit, helmet of advanced make, and new gloves that hugged his hands snugly.
The city lights reflected off his figure as he sped into the night.
But the ride was far from peaceful.
Vrrrm… Vrrrmmm… screech!
The motorcycle roared, tires slicing the streets in sharp turns.
To an observer, it seemed as if Noya was running—wasting time, evading shadows.
But in truth, he knew exactly where he was heading.
He had memorized the capital's roads like the back of his hand.
The chase continued, clean yet tense, the air thick with strain.
Finally, he reached a place he knew well—secluded, away from cameras, away from eyes.
He stopped the bike but didn't dismount.
From the perspective of those tailing him, he had vanished into a blind corner.
Swiftly, he drew his gun.
And for a fleeting moment, he was grateful he had brought it—he had almost left it behind.
Click.
The trigger pulled.
Bang!
Bullets tore through the silence, precise and fatal.
The watchers fell, one after another, like leaves stripped from a tree.
Noya did not question who they were. It wasn't his concern.
He had only one goal:
Survival. And family.
A goal he would see through, no matter how long it took.
Vrrrm.
Restarting his bike, he tapped twice on his helmet. A signal pulsed, encrypted in black, bouncing off a transmission tower. Within moments, a holographic screen flickered to life before his eyes, linked to his wireless earpiece.
"Hello, Deputy."
Noya's voice was flat, businesslike, as he faced the man on the screen.
"Nerith, you never manage to last a single day in peace here," the deputy remarked with a weary smile.
"Send the cleaners to Sector Eleven, Fourth Street, near the prison corner," Noya instructed, curt and to the point. His morning ride had turned into a crime scene.
The deputy understood the tone—there was no need for questions. He dispatched his men immediately. Noya called them "cleaners," though they were nothing more than the deputy's loyal subordinates, tasked with erasing his traces.
"Alright."
And with a deliberate edge to his voice, the deputy added:
"You know they're after you for two reasons."
His words carried political weight, authority woven into each syllable.
"They know nothing about you—except your bike, its license plate, and your black suit."
It was half warning, half command: change something. Either the suit, or the bike.
Noya exhaled, a sound between a sigh and resignation. He knew this already. For once, he yielded to the deputy's advice.
"Send maintenance men to the house. I'll step out and buy a new suit."
In truth, it meant replacing the license plate and his clothes—simple disguises, handled under the deputy's cover.
"Later, Nerith," the deputy concluded.
His words brief, confirming both his busyness and his continued interest in keeping Noya close.
"Your efforts are appreciated, Deputy."
Noya cut the line.
The city greeted him with another weary day. He returned home, where his wife's younger siblings were already waiting for him.
Changing into something more refined, he chose an outfit that was both practical and dignified:
a soft ivory shirt fitted perfectly to his frame, collar folded neatly;
a long dark coat, open at the front, draping him in silent authority;
loose navy trousers for easy movement;
a fine gray-green scarf, and a black leather watch gleaming faintly at his wrist;
polished classic shoes to complete the look.
And of course, he carried his weapon, freshly loaded.
The moment he stepped out, little Elia rushed forward.
"Oppa, you look amazing!"
She grabbed his wrist tightly, tugging him along with all her childish force.
Noya didn't resist. He followed the pull of her hand, steady as ever.
His gaze drifted toward Idren, then to the youngest boy—the quiet one, more mature than both his siblings.
"Well then," Noya said softly. "Shall we go?"
And so, he was swept along.
By the affection of a little girl, the silent company of a reserved child, and the reluctant presence of another who played the role of elder.
Noya never complained, never asked questions.
He neither acted the part of babysitter nor of dutiful brother-in-law—he simply lived the role as if it were another shade of life.
Together they wandered through the halls, until at last Noya found what he sought: another fine suit to match his taste.
He spent far too long in the fitting room with Elia fussing by his side—while the other two lingered in silence.
"Again, Idren," Elia urged, nudging her brother toward the changing room.
The quiet boy spoke at last, tossing his words like stones to test the water.
"If you want to go on a proper date with your lover, at least do what they say."
His tone was indifferent, but his eyes flicked toward Noya without thinking.
"Come on, you!" Elia protested, annoyed at his teasing.
Noya, unfazed, raised a hand and gently pushed Idren toward the changing room.
"Listen to your younger brother," he said, voice easy, dismissive.
Idren shook his head in defeat. After those words, escape was impossible. He had no choice but to endure the ordeal of fashion under the judgment of both his sister and brother-in-law.
Three hours later, the mission was complete—the siblings satisfied with his appearance.
Through it all, the youngest had stayed silent, watching.
They ended their outing with a shared meal, and finally returned home in peace…
unaware of the surprises still waiting for them.