His plain brown hair had matted with streaks of blood.
He stared cautiously toward the gates in the distance.
His sharp gaze suggested that whoever—or whatever—it was might pose a threat.
Following Philip's lead, Sylas leaned out of the carriage window to get a better look.
Sure enough, someone lay sprawled in front of the annex gate.
The blood is already pooling around his motionless body.
"Is that… a Beastman?"
The normally composed Philip forgot himself for a moment, muttering in surprise.
It was difficult to see clearly from a distance, but upon closer scrutiny, the figure appeared to have animal-like ears atop his head.
Judging by the circumstances, it was likely the same Beastman slave who had escaped during the earlier conflict.
How unfortunate, Sylas thought, for the poor creature to collapse right outside the gates of the Di Malvento estate, of all places.
Still, the gate in question wasn't connected to the main house but to the annex—where that detestable younger brother supposedly resided.
If it was the annex's gate, then Sylas had no obligation to intervene.
The matter of the Beastman slave's disposal could be left to the people in the annex, Sylas thought dispassionately.
However, his musings were abruptly interrupted by Philip's startled exclamation, which made Sylas momentarily freeze.
"Young Master, your so-called brother just came out!"
Sylas quickly composed himself, turning his gaze in the direction Philip was pointing.
Near the bloodied Beastman slave collapsed by the gate, a small figure was indeed approaching cautiously.
"It's the first time I've seen him. So your brother really exists, huh…"
Sylas said nothing in response, but Philip continued his excited observations.
"Doesn't he look just like you, though? He's so beautiful and looked adorable!"
Philip's professionalism was entirely discarded as he began babbling in awe.
Sylas, irritated by his subordinate's behavior, gave him a swift knock to the head to quiet him.
Then, leaning closer to the window, Sylas focused his attention on the figure by the gate.
Sure enough, there was a resemblance.
The boy's appearance echoed Sylas's reflection in the mirror, though there were subtle differences.
The same silvery hair, though softer and more delicate than his own.
The same amethyst-colored eyes, though with a drooping, sleepy quality that added a childlike innocence to his face.
"So that's her child…" Sylas muttered under his breath, his tone laced with complexity.
Sylas could never bring himself to call that boy his brother.
To him, the so-called brother was nothing more than the biological child of his despised stepmother—a target of his resentment.
That arrogant stepmother's own offspring.
There was no need to imagine what such a child would do when faced with a lowly Beastman slave.
It was obvious.
He would surely inflict some form of torture upon the Beastman.
With that assumption in mind, Sylas cast a disdainful glance toward the small figure.
But what the boy did next completely shattered his expectations.
"What… is he doing?"
The boy knelt down in front of the Beastman—a gesture Sylas never would have predicted.
Then, without hesitation, the boy hurriedly scurried back into the annex, his small frame bustling with urgency.
When the boy returned with a group of strong subordinates, Sylas's initial thoughts returned to the image of torture.
Surely, the men were there to carry out whatever cruelty the boy had planned.
Yet again, Sylas's expectations were overturned.
Instead of torturing the Beastman, the subordinates carefully lifted the injured figure and carried it into the mansion.
Throughout it all, the boy stood nearby, glancing at the Beastman with what looked like genuine concern.
His small body trembled slightly as if he didn't know what to do.
There was no sign of greed or arrogance in his expression.
The subordinates, rather than treating the boy with condescension, seemed deeply devoted.
They took great care to keep the Beastman's blood away from the boy, even going so far as to lift him into their arms protectively.
They clearly regarded him as a master worthy of reverence.
"That's… my brother?"
The words slipped from Sylas's lips in a stunned murmur.
The ugly image of his brother—the cruel image Sylas had built in his mind—was nowhere to be found in the scene before him.
Since the day Sylas first laid eyes on his "brother," a noisy unease had taken root in his chest.
He couldn't stop thinking about the boy who bore such a striking resemblance to himself.
The brother had hair of an exquisite color, even more lustrous than Sylas's, and amethyst eyes that shone with an intensity greater than his own.
His unruly bedhead, his small, frail frame that couldn't be called strong by any stretch of the imagination—all of it lingered in Sylas's mind, stirring his thoughts.
Why did simply recalling the boy's image make his chest tighten like this?
Someone so small, weak, and fragile would usually be the kind of person Sylas despised.
After all, he had been born into a mafia family.
Strength and resilience were necessities; anything less would invite mockery not only from other families but also from his own.
The boy's body seemed so delicate that a single punch might shatter him.
If that Beastman slave from the other day had bitten him, there was no doubt in Sylas's mind—the boy would have died on the spot.
He would have died so easily…
"Philip."
Before he realized it, the pen in his hand had snapped cleanly in two.
He didn't recall gripping it that tightly.
Letting out a sigh, he chalked it up to faulty craftsmanship.
He turned his head to the subordinate standing quietly nearby and called his name softly.
"Yes, Young Master," came Philip's brisk reply as he stepped closer.
Sylas interlaced his fingers restlessly before asking, his voice unusually hesitant, "What happened to that Beastman slave?"
Yes, that's right.
All he cared about was the status of the Beastman slave.
He wasn't asking indirectly to check on his brother's safety.
Certainly not.
Repeating this justification in his head, Sylas forced himself to focus, shoving aside the inexplicable unease that clawed at his thoughts.