Chapter Text
Part I: The Birth
The harsh, interminable winter of this land was, at long last, gasping its final breath. On the cobblestone boulevards of Snezhnograd, only the soot-stained remnants of shoveled snow clung to the curbs. Fresh drifts had become a rarity, and thanks to this thaw, the sleek, obsidian carriage moved with a light, effortless grace, its wheels no longer hindered by the slush. It glided toward its destination: the sprawling estate of a certain high-ranking nobleman.
Inside the mansion, ablaze with blinding light, a lavish gala was already in full swing. To mark the close of the social season (and the end of winter) the hosts had poured an almost preposterous sum of mora into the festivities. To him, it was a display as gaudy as it was meaningless.
Once the season concluded, the aristocrats, with their scattered fiefdoms, would be forced to flee the capital of Snezhnograd and return to their ancestral lands. There, they would have to fret over the management of their estates, overseeing the serfs who were their "property."
Serves them right.
He allowed a thin, knowing smile to touch his lips as the carriage swept through the unnecessarily vast forecourt, waiting for it to come to a halt at the grand entrance.
In recent years, the number of serfs fleeing their lords for the burgeoning cities of Snezhnaya had grown like a rolling snowball. This mass exodus was the indirect result of his own handiwork: the meticulous restructuring of the nation's economic foundation centered around the Northland Bank, and the establishment of trade routes with foreign nations. Along with foreign currency and luxury imports, advanced ideologies from abroad had flooded the country. The "petite bourgeoisie" had become intoxicated by these new thoughts, beginning to cry out loudly for "Serf Emancipation." Furthermore, the realization that city life offered far more lucrative and less grueling work than the thankless toil of a serf's life had encouraged many to desert their lords.
Who was it that had created those opportunities, those sanctuaries of labor? That, too, was his doing.
Once a single soul succeeds, envy drives the rest to follow. The total collapse of the manorial system felt like a future no longer distant.
The nobles gathered at this gala had all, to some degree, begun to sense the shifting tides. And so, they threw themselves into fleeting pleasures, desperate to outrun the creeping anxiety nipping at their heels.
Go on, then. Turn your eyes from reality. Rot slowly within your own gilded illusions.
As the carriage stopped, he did not wait for the footman to descend and open the door. He unlatched it from the within and stepped out into the cold air. He wore neither a military uniform nor a formal tailcoat. His attire was a suit of the finest weave, stripped of all frivolous ornamentation (austere), sharp, and black as a winter's night, with a matching coat draped over his shoulders.
The estate's butler, noticing his entrance into the grand hall, accepted the invitation with a deep, reverent bow.
"A most esteemed welcome to you... Lord Regrator."
The butler reached out to take his coat, but he dismissed the gesture with a slight, cold wave of his hand. He had no intention of staying long. Nor did he have any intention of joining the gala. His business tonight was simple: to demand the repayment of a debt that had long since passed its due date.
Declining the offer of an escort, he strode down the corridor toward the ballroom with purpose.
The Regrator.
The Ninth of the Fatui Harbingers.
Pantalone.
Let them call him what they wished. After all, those were merely the labels pinned to the man he had become.