Into the Rose Garden

A man wandered aimlessly through the depths of the city, both lost and broken.

He moved through the lowest, most forsaken part of town.  His torn, tattered clothes, yellowed and caked with dirt, clung to his body, soaked in sweat mixed with dust. His blonde hair, streaked with occasional bright strands, was tangled and matted, untouched by a comb in who knows how long.

His limbs, thin and brittle like dead branches in the dead of winter, jutted out from the frayed fabric and moved sluggishly. Every so often, he paused to catch his breath before dragging himself onward. His destination was unclear, as if he had no purpose left.

He wandered into a dry alley so forsaken that even pickpockets spat and turned away, knowing there was nothing worth taking. In a dark corner, hidden from any trace of light, he collapsed.

He hadn’t eaten today. Yesterday had been the same—nothing but the gnawing ache of hunger. His stomach had shriveled so much that it couldn’t even process water anymore, and the familiar pangs had long since faded.

As he staggered, his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell onto the cold, hard stone of the alley. There was no strength left in him to resist. Slowly, as if surrendering to the inevitable, he lay down, pressing his frail body against the unforgiving ground. His eyelids grew heavy, and he let them fall.

The alley was silent and deserted. There was no one here to despise him, no one to strike him, no one to rape him, torture him and no one to discard him as worthless. The cold, black shadow cast by the gray walls became his only comfort, a blanket shielding him from the swirling red haze that spun in his mind behind his closed eyes.

“Hey, wake up.”

A sharp kick jarred him from the edge of unconsciousness. The oppressive darkness that had been closing in on him receded slightly as his awareness stirred.

The stench of the boots that struck him was overwhelming, and with each impact, the ache in his bones worsened. The relentless stomps on his legs carried no trace of mercy, only violence. It wasn’t until he heard the sickening crack of bone breaking that his foggy eyes fluttered open. His arms flailed weakly, like the last frantic movements of an insect caught in its final death throes.

The man who had woken him up with a fierce kick threw a paper bag at his face. It landed with a soft thud, and a faint savory smell wafted from it. Weakly, the man stretched out his thin, trembling hand and grabbed the bag.

“Today, I brought something special—bread with raisins,” the guy sneered.

The man tore through the tough paper, revealing a warm, freshly baked loaf inside. The aroma of the bread filled his nostrils, and his dry, cracked mouth instantly watered. With shaking hands, he brought the bread closer, tearing off a chunk as his mouth opened hungrily.

As he bit into the warm, savory piece, the guy chuckled darkly and grabbed his ankle. In one swift motion, he yanked down the man’s filthy pants and spread his legs apart.

Even as this happened, the man was too focused on the bread, inhaling its scent and tearing off large pieces to quiet the gnawing hunger. The guy forced him onto his side, spreading his legs wide again, revealing his thin, frail body. The skin beneath was raw and scarred, covered in sickening patches of white mucus.

“You always get me hornier than most of the whores out there,” the guy growled, “for a fucking alpha bastard like you.”

With a cruel smirk, he tugged down his own pants, revealing a monstrous erection. Without hesitation, he jammed his fingers into the man’s torn, abused flesh, prying open the wound that had been violated countless times before. The man, who had just swallowed his bite of bread, gagged and choked as pain and humiliation mixed with the fleeting comfort of food.

“Don’t stuff your face. Relax. I need to loosen your hole,” the guy ordered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight.

He raised his hand and whipped it down across the man’s exposed buttocks with brutal force. The sharp sting made the man’s whole body tremble, and the bread fell from his grasp. Desperate, he scrambled to pick it up, crawling on his knees. Just as his fingers closed around the fallen bread, the guy seized his waist and pulled him back roughly. The bread, the only moment of warmth in this cruel world, slipped from his reach once more.

“You’ve got to pay for the meal—where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

The guy spat on the exposed, red flesh after slapping his ass a few more times. Then, he shoved his fingers deeper, twisting them inside with cruel precision. The man grimaced and let out a small, stifled moan, barely managing to keep the bread clamped between his teeth.

“Sick bastard, you enjoying this?”

Satisfied with the way his fingers had ravaged the man’s body, the guy wasted no time plunging his stiff, grotesque cock in to the hilt. The man seemed to scream, but with the bread stuffed in his mouth, it came out as nothing more than a muffled whimper, too faint to even reach the guy’s ears. The brutal thrusts tore into his trembling body, threatening to rip his insides apart with every violent movement.

The impact was too much. The man collapsed forward, clutching the bread in his arms, with his hips still raised in submission. Drool dripped from his cracked lips onto the dark raisins embedded in the warm loaf, tainting the sweet bread with his suffering.

* * *

Once, the man had been a brilliant count. There were times when even he forgot his own name, as no one called him by it anymore, but he had once held a title. Perhaps he had even possessed a noble estate. But now, they simply called him “Ya,” or “Hey” and even if his name was long and distinguished, it was met only with mocking laughter.

After the man had left, he pulled his clothes back on without bothering to wipe the semen dripping down his thighs. If anyone had seen him collecting Alpha’s semen, they would have forced him to consume every drop until his stomach couldn’t hold anymore, regardless of whether it could be processed as calories. He didn’t want to suffer that kind of agony. He needed to hide somewhere quickly.

He picked up a piece of half-eaten bread. The saliva-soaked crumb crumbled in his weakened fingers, falling to the floor. He stared at the fragments scattered at his feet, the black raisins glistening temptingly. The shiny surface called to him. Then, he knelt, gathered the pieces, and shoved them into his mouth.

From time to time after that, the man with the raisin bread would appear again, often without warning. Sometimes, he brought a companion with him. Taking both of their genitals at the same time was excruciatingly painful, but it was more bearable than the ache of hunger. After they left, he would hide and devour the bread. Even when he choked and coughed, he forced the sweet lumps down his throat. He licked every last crumb from his hand before looking away.

The city’s gas lamps cast a crimson glow against the darkened night sky. The color, like delicate lace shimmering in the air, reminded him of the petals that once bloomed in the count’s garden—the most magnificent garden in the city. Staring at the sky, his face twisted. His lips drooped, his sunken cheeks lifted into a sad smile, forming fine wrinkles around his eyes.

Aeroc Taywind.

A noble among nobles, with a lineage that stretched back further than the current royal family. When he had just come of age, he inherited the title after his father’s sudden passing. The young count, with his striking golden-blond hair—reminiscent of the family’s symbol, the golden lion—and eyes as blue as the sky, was renowned for never wavering in his aristocratic dignity and nobility.

He had become famous for never losing, but he hadn’t always been that way.

He had become famous for never losing, but he hadn’t always been that way.

“Aeroc, did you have fun today?”

“Mother.”

A faint scent of medicine had always clung to the Countess as he greeted his young son. His mother, a male omega, had never been healthy. The strain of reckless childbirth had left him chronically ill, bedridden for as long as Aeroc could remember. Not yet seven years old, he would climb into his bed, clinging to his frail arms. He would bury his face in his mother’s thin chest and nod quietly.

“Did you see the rose garden? Can you tell me what color the roses are today?”

The window by the bed looked directly onto the garden, but he always asked his son that question. Aeroc would respond with a detailed description, using all the color names and exclamations he knew. As he spoke, his mother would gently run his hand, like a dry twig, through his round hair, which barely touched his chin.

When Aeroc turned seven, his mother passed away. He had cried until his eyes felt like they were melting. At the funeral, his father stood next to him, silent and lost. He had picked every rose of every color from his wife’s beloved garden and tossed them onto his polished coffin.

Aeroc’s father, intent on preserving the family’s reputation, raised his alpha son with harsh discipline. After his wife’s death, he became intolerant of Aeroc’s constant crying over small things.

“Nobles do not shed tears!”

Several times, when his father found him emerging from his mother’s room in tears, he would drag him to the study and beat him severely. Aeroc wasn’t even allowed to rub his swollen legs afterward; he had to hold back his tears.

When he missed his mother, he would hide in the shaded corners of the rose garden, crying silently, his shoulders trembling as he stifled his sobs. He would cry there until the butler, who wore the same stern expression as his father but treated him with kindness, would find him and embrace him gently. Even as his eyes swelled and turned red, Aeroc buried himself in the scent of the roses, weeping for the fading memory of his mother’s scent.

In time, the rain and wind had swept all the roses to the ground. Meanwhile, with his father’s stern discipline, Aeroc learned to straighten his shoulders and hold his head high.

The seven-year-old had forgotten how to cry and had learned to laugh instead.

His father, a nobleman to the core, dedicated himself fully to his duties. He didn’t merely flaunt his authority or boast of his wealth. Instead, he used the immense fortune he had amassed from his vast estate to contribute to society. However, his methods were thoroughly “aristocratic.” He would donate significant amounts to charity for starving children in the slums, but he never directly engaged with the lower classes.

In fact, he despised them. The mere existence of such a filthy, lowly space within the capital, under his county’s jurisdiction, seemed to offend him. So, rather than dirty his hands, he enlisted others to handle the matters he found distasteful. Educated gentry from among the commoners, or noble collateral relatives who hadn’t inherited titles, were sponsored by him and tasked with dealing with these “unclean” things. This effort grew into a notable event, closely tied to a longstanding tradition of the count’s family: the “Tea Party in the Rose Garden.”

Aeroc’s father, always a nervous man with fragile health, frequently fell ill. By the time Aeroc turned nineteen, he had taken over as the host of the tea party. The young man, old enough to shed any boyishness, greeted guests with a subtle smile, dressed in a dark blue suit that set off his blue eyes and dark blond hair—features typical of his family.

To those around him, he appeared charming and capable. In truth, it wasn’t difficult for him at all. Regardless of what the other person said, all he needed to reply was, “I see.”

The young attendees, most of them several years his senior, were eager to earn his favor and sponsorship. They flattered and groveled, desperate to secure his attention. Aeroc, however, inwardly scorned them.

“Idiots with no self-respect,” he thought.

He knew there were far more important things than money in the world. Those who had experienced soul-stirring melodies, heart-throbbing words, masterpieces that cleanse the spirit, and the endless depths of classical art would never rush to sell themselves so cheaply.

He wasn’t interested in any of them. Still, Aeroc maintained his graceful smile, unable to shake off his father’s expectations, even though the man had passed away the previous year.

The vulgar labor market masquerading as a Tea Party had never truly interested Aeroc, and whatever sense of noble duty he once felt to host it had long since faded. Using a fictitious cousin as an excuse to brush off the guests, he escaped from the garden, where the overwhelming scent of roses hung in the air.

He slipped away to his favorite spot, taking a shortcut that only those familiar with the great mansion knew of. The path led to a road lined with cedars, towering straight into the sky, their shadows stretching across the well-paved ground beneath them.

The trees, aligned in a row along one side of the well-paved road, stretched upward toward the sky. These massive cedars had been planted by the first Earl who built the mansion. They hadn’t always been so tall, but over time, like the family itself—once a humble Hanmihan clan and now standing alongside the royal family—the trees had grown into towering giants.

A cool breeze whispered through the leaves, the sound of their rustling calming Aeroc’s irritation from earlier. He strolled leisurely along the path, inhaling the bitter, earthy scent of the wood. This road had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could enjoy solitude without interruption. The servants were well aware of this, and the butler ensured that no guest ever “accidentally” intruded upon the count’s private retreat.

But now, someone was standing ahead, far down the path, watching him.

As the master of the mansion, turning back to avoid an outsider was unthinkable. It was more fitting to confront this unwelcome guest who dared to intrude. Aeroc felt a smirk tug at his lips as he approached. He planned to humiliate this intruder—probably another pretentious sycophant hoping to secure an investment. He could already imagine calling out the stranger’s name, laced with mockery, and watching the man squirm in disgrace. Aeroc closed the distance, already thinking of the insults he’d hurl.

But as he neared the man, his expectations shifted. The figure stood tall, even taller than most, shoulders squared as he gazed confidently in Aeroc’s direction. Dark auburn hair framed his face, his skin slightly tanned and healthy.

His forehead was broad, and his nose and cheekbones were strikingly strong, complemented by a jawline sharp enough to look carved from stone. His mouth was tight, set in a way that perfectly matched his firm, dignified stance. Yet, despite the sternness and pride in his expression, his deep eyes held a purity, an uprightness that was entirely unlike the sycophantic guests who polluted the rose garden.

As Aeroc drew closer, he found the desire to humiliate this man slipping away. Something about the stranger, standing there with the massive cedar trees towering behind him like a warlord commanding the field, struck him silent. Even when the distance between them had closed enough for words, Aeroc remained quiet, locked in the gaze of those dark auburn eyes.

Aeroc was momentarily taken aback by the awkward tension, but his father’s strict discipline helped him keep his composure.

“You must have lost your way,” he said.

“Exactly.”

Even when responding to a polite question, the man offered only a blunt, no-nonsense reply without further elaboration. Despite the brevity, Aeroc found the man’s voice surprisingly appealing. It was deep, resonant, and serious, perfectly suiting his appearance.

“I’ll show you the way,” Aeroc offered.

“I’m looking for the rose garden, but it’s hard to find in such a large estate.” The man’s tone softened slightly in response. It seemed he, too, was a guest at the tea party. However, unlike the usual crowd, his demeanor was different. He didn’t fawn over Aeroc, nor did he look at him with an overly familiar or interested gaze. Instead, he bowed his head with a restrained courtesy, almost indifferent. He didn’t introduce himself, nor did he ask Aeroc’s name.

It was a first for Aeroc. Most people, especially strangers, acted as though they had discovered a long-lost sibling when they saw him—a young count in elegant attire, with bright blond hair, blue eyes, and aristocratic manners. Aeroc couldn’t remember the last time someone wasn’t enthralled by him. This man’s aloofness piqued his curiosity.

The two of them walked in silence, taking a shortcut toward the rose garden. The man kept a respectful distance, saying nothing, merely accompanying Aeroc. After some time, curiosity got the better of Aeroc, and just before they reached the cedar wall, out of sight of the other guests, he decided to introduce himself.

“My name is Aeroc Taywind.”

The tall man lowered his eyes to the hand Aeroc extended, taking a moment before he shook it. His grip was firm but measured, and his response came in the same curt manner as before.

“Kloff Bendike.”

It was a name that suited him perfectly, almost as though it were more a designation than a name. The resonance of his voice, the simplicity of his reply, and the subtle meaning behind it all felt harmonious. Kloff’s hand, large and rough, enveloped Aeroc’s soft, aristocratic one. Though the grip was light, Aeroc could feel the strength hidden within it, like the steady core of a flame.

Aeroc glanced up, meeting Kloff’s unwavering dark eyes, and in that steady gaze, he saw the person behind the quiet, composed exterior.

And then, Aeroc laughed. The smile that spread across his face wasn’t forced or contrived. It was genuine, overflowing with an unexpected joy and excitement that filled him as he met someone so different from the rest.