Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 200: Disrespect

The king paces his lavishly decorated chambers, the weight of the crown heavy on his head. His emerald-green eyes flicker with rage, his lips pressed into a thin line as thoughts race through his mind.

Disrespect. Insolence.

Ever since that humiliating spectacle on his birthday, things have shifted. He feels it in the air, in the way people speak to him—no, the way they dare not speak to him. Whispers, stifled laughter, sidelong glances. Even the nobles, once so eager to grovel at his feet, now avert their eyes, their deference replaced by pity or thinly veiled amusement.

How dare they? He is their king, chosen by divine right, the embodiment of power. Yet Duke Remiro, that insufferable thorn in his side, has been avoiding every royal summons, his excuses so blatant they’re practically mockery. "Not feeling well," the Duke claims. As if anyone believes that.

The king’s fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.

And his children—what a pitiful brood they’ve turned out to be. Useless, all of them. Not a single one possesses the cunning or strength required to command respect, let alone loyalty. They scuttle about like insects, more concerned with petty intrigues than with securing the throne.

But it’s Mirelle’s son who consumes his thoughts. That insolent omega, stolen from him under his very nose. Noelle, who should be by his side, bound to him in penance and devotion. Noelle, who dared to flee, dared to look at him with such defiance on that fateful night, he will be disciplined when he gets him back.

The king’s jaw tightens. He has tried to reclaim him, but Remiro has turned his estate into an impenetrable fortress. The guards have tripled, and every move is watched. Any forceful action would be a declaration of war—a war he cannot afford, not with the former crown prince’s faction lurking in the shadows like vultures.

The mere thought of his brother’s name makes his blood boil. A man long dead, yet his loyalists still cling to hope, still undermine his reign.

He turns sharply, his gaze falling upon the large, gilded portrait of his sister, Mirelle. Her painted green eyes stare back at him, her raven hair cascading down her shoulders, her expression serene and haunting. She was everything—his blood, his tether to sanity. His possession.

He steps closer, his fingers reaching out to trace the delicate brushstrokes of her painted face. His touch lingers over the curve of her cheek, his breath hitching as though the portrait might come to life beneath his fingertips.

"You should never have left me," he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. "You were mine, Mirelle. You are mine."

His obsession is palpable, dark and consuming, as if his sister’s ghost anchors him to the world. She had been his light, his muse, his reason. And now, with her gone, everything else feels hollow—except for the flickering hope that Noelle might return to take her place.

The king’s hand falls to his side, his eyes narrowing with determination.

"No one escapes me," he mutters, his voice cold and resolute. "Not her. Not him. Not anyone."

A sharp knock echoes through the lavish study, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. The king ignores it, his focus seemingly fixed on the intricate brushstrokes of the portrait before him. But when the knock sounds again, louder this time, his patience frays.

"What!" he barks, his voice snapping with icy authority.

The door creaks open to reveal a trembling servant, his head bowed low, every step hesitant as if he were approaching a coiled viper.

"I greet your majesty," the servant begins, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Spit it out," the king snaps, his sharp green eyes narrowing in irritation.

The servant swallows hard, his trembling hands gripping the hem of his uniform. "There’s... someone here to see you," he stammers.

The king’s expression darkens further, his fingers gripping the armrest of his chair with visible annoyance. "I said I want no company. Get out!" he roars, his voice reverberating through the room.

The servant’s trembling voice carries a name that sends a ripple of tension through the king’s rigid frame.

"It’s Duke Veyron," the servant stammers, his head bowed low.

The king pauses, his grip on the chair tightening until his knuckles whiten. A silent, simmering rage begins to boil beneath his composed facade.

"Send him in," he commands coldly, his voice slicing through the thick air like a blade.

Moments later, the grand double doors creak open, revealing a man who exudes effortless confidence. Duke Veyron steps into the room, his presence as striking as ever. His brunette hair is threaded with streaks of silver, and his piercing blue eyes hold an amused glint, as if mocking the very walls of the king’s chamber.

"Your Majesty," Veyron greets smoothly, inclining his head with a trace of irony.

The king’s green eyes narrow, his voice low and sharp. "I distinctly recall banning you from the capital, Veyron. What are you doing here?"

Veyron’s lips curve into a faint smirk. "Correction, Your Majesty. You said I dare not step foot into the capital until Mirelle returns." He strolls further into the room, his gaze drifting lazily to the grand portrait of the late princess hanging on the wall.

The king’s jaw tightens, his patience wearing thin. "Why are you here?" he snaps, his tone like thunder.

"Tut tut," Veyron chides, his eyes still fixed on the portrait. "Word reaches me that Mirelle is gone. But in her place, there’s a beautiful boy—a boy who looks so much like her, it’s as though she’s returned to the capital in spirit."

The king’s fists clench at his sides, the air around him growing heavier.

Veyron finally turns, meeting the king’s furious gaze with maddening calm. "And, if my calculations are correct, that boy must be Mirelle’s and my love child," he says lightly, as if discussing the weather.

The words hit the king like a slap. His fury erupts, and he lunges forward, grabbing Veyron by the collar with a vice-like grip.

"Don’t you dare!" the king roars, his voice shaking the room. His emerald eyes blaze with unrestrained fury, his face inches from Veyron’s smug expression.

Yet Veyron remains unshaken, his smirk unwavering. "Still angry, I see," he murmurs, his tone dripping with condescension.

"You insolent—"

"Misplaced anger, Your Majesty," Veyron interrupts smoothly, his voice like ice. "It’s as much your fault as it is mine that she left." He leans in slightly, unbothered by the king’s crushing hold. "You drove her away just as much as I did, perhaps even more."

The king’s grip tightens further, his entire body trembling with rage. For a moment, it seems as if he might strike Veyron, but instead, he releases him with a shove.

"Get out," the king hisses through gritted teeth.