The story is about a young man born into a noble family, surrounded by luxury and riches. The boy was pampered by his family’s wealth and heritage from birth. He had no worries, as all his wishes were fulfilled without any effort on his part. Never having to work for anything, this abundance made the young man prideful and arrogant.
He lived in a magnificent castle, whose windows shone in the bright sunlight as if gilded in gold. The castle stood proudly in the center of Edenburg, a city brimming with rustic charm. The houses surrounding the castle had rounded tower-like sections, conical shingled roofs, small dormer windows, and thick stone walls. Overgrown bushes and ivy clung to these homes. The castle’s sturdy walls and the broad stone staircase leading to its grand entrance further heightened its imposing elegance.
The young man’s name was Marge. When Marge was in his early teenage years, he often roamed the castle’s grand hallways, as though surveying his kingdom. One day, during one of these aimless strolls, he crossed paths with an older gentleman in his 60s. This man was adorned in a long, regal green robe with fur trimmings on the sleeves, a mark of his noble standing. He belonged to a noble family of Edenburg, though his family did not hold the same high reputation as Marge’s.
The man greeted the young lord with a courteous, “Good morning, young lord.” Marge, glancing at him dismissively, did not reply. Instead, he stood in the man’s path, unwilling to let him pass easily. In a voice thick with arrogance, he commanded, “Bow.” The older man looked at him, confused, and said hesitantly, “Pardon?”
Marge smirked, his tone dripping with superiority. “I wouldn’t want your son to be expelled from the academy,” he threatened casually, as if discussing the weather. The man’s face went pale. His expression hardened, but with a reluctant bow, he stepped aside, making way for Marge. Satisfied, Marge walked away, continuing down the hallway, a smirk still playing on his lips, feeling the weight of his power and privilege.
Marge was not a dumb or foolish child; rather, he was quite smart for his age. He excelled in all his academics and knew the ways and elegance of the nobles. It was just that his arrogance and the luxuries he enjoyed made him too prideful and heartless toward others.
An incident that shows both his intelligence and how heartless he could be toward those lesser than him occurred about a year ago. It was autumn, and the trees were golden, with leaves falling and drifting along with the wind. The air had a soothing fragrance and was slow and gentle. Marge was sitting in his garden, reading a book and enjoying his food when a guard approached him. The guard informed him, “Your father has called for you and wishes to speak with you.”
Marge stood up and made his way to speak with his father. He knocked on his father’s door. “Who is it?” his father asked from inside. “It’s me, Father,” Marge responded. His father beckoned him in and asked, “What is it, Marge?” Marge paused for a moment, looked at his father, and said, “I’ll be back, Father. I remembered I had something to attend to.”
Marge walked out the door and slowly made his way back to the garden where he had left his book and uneaten food. He saw a young boy, about his age, taking his food and hiding it in his clothes.
Marge stormed toward the boy, grabbed his hand with a strong grip, and punched him squarely in the gut. With a forceful swing, he threw the boy to the ground. The boy vomited up what little food he had managed to eat. From the looks of him, it seemed like this was the first meal the boy had had in a long time. His bones jutted out, and he looked like a walking skeleton, dressed in torn rags.
Marge slowly advanced toward the boy, who remained silent, and slumped on the ground in a seated position. His eyes were pale and empty, much like a blind man’s. Just as Marge was about to strike him again, a guard came running over, sliding on his knees and positioning himself between Marge and the boy.
“Young master, please forgive this boy! It was my doing. He would have died if he hadn’t eaten,” the guard pleaded. The guard was an old man with white hair and a beard, wearing light iron-plated armor, high boots, and a long sword strapped to his back. His name was Regurd.
“Regurd, you know this boy is a peasant, yet you dared to let him enter the grounds of this castle?” Marge asked calmly, rubbing the hand he had used to strike the boy on Regurd’s kneeling clothes as if his hand had been dirtied by the contact. “It’s alright, Regurd. Things happen, it’s life after all. Now, now, why don’t you cut off one of his hands and feed it to the dogs… ooh, wait.” Marge laughed slightly. “Let me give you a choice—cut his hand or yours…”
A sudden slashing sound filled the air, and blood splattered onto the ground. Regurd had taken his own dagger from his hip and cut off his left hand. He clutched his severed hand with his right, sweating and breathing heavily, stammering, “Forgive this boy, young master!”
Marge turned and walked away, Regurd’s blood staining the autumn leaves as they gently settled to the ground, the wind suddenly still. Regurd remained kneeling, blood flowing from the stump of his left arm, while the peasant boy stayed seated behind him, too weak to show any reaction.
Later that evening, Marge’s mother learned what had transpired.
