The Allure of Smoke and Ducal Blood
The Nebla Duke family's cigars were good. No, it wasn't the tobacco or nicotine itself—it was the smoke. That whole process of inhaling the tobacco, holding the smoke in my mouth, and exhaling it again. Watching my grandfather do it as a kid, it looked so fascinating and fun to my young eyes. Like his soul was being drawn in and released? But I didn't touch cigarettes right away. Even as a child, I knew well enough they were bad for the body.
Time passed like that, and I held out through the typical high school rebellion that most kids try, waiting until I was an adult to smoke my first one. Inhaling the smoke, swallowing it down, exhaling it. Just that simple act was so damn entertaining. That's how I started smoking. Of course, it wasn't just any cigarettes. There were all kinds in the world.
Trying every variety made my parents pretty worried. Honestly, I get it. If I had a son who, upon turning adult, skipped straight to not just cigarettes but vapes, cigars, pipe tobacco, and all sorts of smokes, I'd worry too. Nicotine addiction? Weirdly, that never happened. When my parents fretted so much that we made a bet, and I quit for about two years, not a single withdrawal symptom showed up. A hospital check confirmed it—I had an astonishing natural resistance to nicotine addiction, they said. Or something like that.
It wasn't addiction driving me; I just loved exhaling smoke from my mouth like a cigarette. Any heavy smoker hearing that would probably scoff, "What kind of ridiculous reason is that to smoke?" And that same quirk carried over perfectly after reincarnation.
"Oops, sorry about that, Master. I dirtied your floor."
The man's corpse, crushed to death under immense pressure bound by my smoke. No matter how you slice it, it wasn't a pretty sight.
Crunch.
"It's fine. I expected this level of mess from the start."
"Heh, as expected of you, Master. So cool—love that about you."
With that, I downed the rest of my cocktail and handed over a pouch of coins.
"For the dirty floor and the drinks. The rest is tip."
With a cigar clenched in my teeth, I stepped out of the bar, dumped the body in a suitable back alley, and leaned against the outer wall of a nearby building. Hiding a death in these alleys was surprisingly easy—no need for cover-ups.
"Not that they'd catch me even if they knew."
I was already plenty strong as an individual. If the Empire wanted me, they'd have to swallow massive losses. Simple reason: the effort to catch me wasn't worth the hassle. Plus, I never touched civilians—only those who came at me—so even more so.
"..."
I calmly puffed on the cigar, savoring its aroma while scanning the surroundings. Streets filled with ornate Victorian-style decorations in every style imaginable. But this wasn't the Victorian era. The people walking around weren't just humans, after all.
"Any good tea leaves today?"
An elf noblewoman with pointed ears and vibrant green hair lingered at a tea shop.
"Damn, won't hit quota again today."
A wolf beastkin in shabby clothes trudged past, ears twitching. Scenes you'd never see on Earth. This wasn't Earth. It had a modern, industrial vibe like late 19th- or early 20th-century Earth, but with other races and mana—a full-on fantasy world.
Yeah, I was a reincarnator dropped into this chaotic mess.
"Never gets less weird, no matter how many times I see it."
I still couldn't wrap my head around this world. Steampunk fantasy? A fantasy world that evolved over time? Or the era before modern fantasy kicked off? The questions started the moment I realized I'd reincarnated here, and no clear answers yet.
Fwoooo.
All I could do was kill time with cigars, just like my past life. The citrusy tang filled my mouth—refreshing like oranges, unique to this cigar.
"Ah, smoked it all... and relit it."
Instinctively, I'd clipped the end and relit it. One per day—that was my limit. I loved smoking, but moderation was key.
"Eh, but I fought today, so maybe it's fine?"
I stared blankly at the smoke drifting from my mouth. Reborn into the worst trifecta—back alley orphan beggar—thanks to some divine mercy or prank, I got this power.
Fwoooo.
I exhaled the smoke in my mouth like a donut ring and started playing with it slowly. The ring morphed into cars, canes, stars, flames—endless shapes.
My ability, simply dubbed Smoke Manipulation.
"Haha."
This time it turned into a gag character from some old anime I loved, and I couldn't help but chuckle. I could shape the smoke however I wanted, and it gained physical form, affecting real people. That smoke had just killed the guy trying to murder me. And to regular non-awakened folks without mana? Completely invisible and odorless—extra deadly.
"..."
I puffed more smoke and looked up at the sky. Magic and steam engines made it hazy, probably from the city's smog. Gazing at that sky, I thought about the guy who'd tried to kill me today.
Come to think of it, assassination attempts had ramped up lately. About a year ago, they started—varied types. Amateur civilians, gamblers lured by cash, even pro assassins mixed in.
"But why?"
Assassins? Not bragging, but with this power in the alleys, I'd racked up plenty of grudges. Plenty who'd pay to see me dead. But none with the cash to hire hits this persistently. Assassination costs money—you don't starve yourself for it. I hadn't built that deep a grudge with anyone. If I had, I'd have killed them first.
So it was weird. Felt like, "Some rich noble's doing, right?"
The presence that had sidled up to me since leaving the bar spoke up. No attempt to hide it—just a normal person's vibe.
Click-clack.
Spreading smoke thin across the ground let me distinguish footsteps—one of my few tricks. A woman's silhouette emerged, stepping through it.
"Hm?"
I took a calm drag on the cigar and frowned at the woman before me. Black skin, icy expression. But it suited her perfectly—like an ice princess beauty.
"A maid?"
Not the skin—I wasn't some racist prick. Just, in a back alley? A pristine maid outfit didn't fit.
Ignoring my confusion, she bowed politely—noble grace, even to my untrained eye.
"Pardon the interruption of your valuable time, but could you answer one question?"
Obvious noble's maid, and this deferential? Weird.
"Sure."
Info first. As she straightened at my nod, I wrapped smoke around her ankles—just in case. Ready to kill if she attacked or spouted nonsense.
She glanced at her ankles, saw the smoke, but stayed expressionless. Pro. Awakened at minimum—mana user. Back-alley born and bred, I didn't know the world, but mana awakening was rare. Commoners rarely got it unless exceptional. Elites and geniuses only.
And she's a maid? What rank of noble was this?
"May I have your name?"
"Name? Why the sudden ask?"
"It's important."
Her blank face didn't waver at my heightened guard. Fake name? Nah—high noble's maid. No point risking a slip-up. Killing without threat? Off the table.
"Abel. Just Abel."
The name I'd been given at birth in these alleys. Reincarnator, born to a whore who died right after. Orphan start, but I remembered her trembling hands and voice holding me.
Then a fellow whore took me in, gave me a crap name. Slave, I think? Fitting—she worked me like one. Luckily, at eight I awakened mana, unlocked this smoke power, got epic revenge, ditched that name, and reclaimed Abel.
"Abel—is that truly your name?"
Questioning it?
"Hmph. Yeah. Problem?"
I filled my mouth with cigar smoke, veiling my face as I growled like a wary lion.
How did I look? Demon of smoke? Lowly scum?
At my discomfort, she bowed again.
"My apologies. The matter's sensitive, so verification was needed. No intent to offend."
"...Fine."
"Forgive the repeat, but your age?"
Name and age. Scouting me? But this low posture for that?
"Twenty."
One year into adulthood, prime condition.
"So, what's the deal? Why track me down?"
I'd made a name in these alleys. Solo against orgs, but my infamy matched theirs. Hit job? Drugs? But why name and age for that?
"Your lady got a thing for younger guys?"
Heard stories: nobles contracting alley boys as playthings.
Surroundings long under my smoke control. Now wrapping her thighs fully.
Ready to kill on a whim.
"..."
But no slacking. Drop guard on a defenseless foe? I'd be no better than that dead guy. I ramped up vigilance—breath, movements, muscles, mana. Her calm in a kill-zone? Pure confidence.
Her lips parted slowly.
"I am Mist, servant of the Nebla Duke family."
Nebula Duke family. That southern powerhouse? Famous, but for bad reasons—underworld rulers building empire on illegal trades.
Ah, that explained her poise. Crunch.
She figured the name would make me hesitate. Pissed me off more—I cranked the smoke pressure. Blood flow nearly cut off. One wrong word, she'd die.
"The reason I've come—"
I focused on her with cold eyes, smoke poised to slice like blades.
"—is to serve you as head of the Nebla Duke family."
"What?"
The curveball loosened my tension. Smoke began dissipating. Mist glanced at her reddened ankles and thighs, then bowed in respect to her master.
"Lord Abel, you are the Nebla Duke family's sole blood heir."