Chapter 5
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Attack
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My memory was hazy, but according to the old man who'd taken me in, I'd been bedridden for a full four days.
Even though the people around insisted it was ominous and I should be thrown out right away, he'd ignored them.
The benefactor of my life.
There was no other way to put it.
The old man had a rugged look about him, but whenever he gazed down at me, sympathy flickered in his eyes.
"Doesn't it bother you?"
When I asked, he simply shook his head without a word.
A favor received must be repaid.
Once my health had recovered somewhat, I began helping out at the old man's antique shop.
To give back more than I'd received, I had to work hard.
Not only the light chores he assigned, but I carefully dusted and cleaned the antiques that had been left to gather grime.
I also tidied up all the unhygienic spots.
Like the bathroom, for instance.
The old man panicked and tried to stop me, but I insisted on doing everything I could.
About three months passed like that, helping at the antique shop.
Before I knew it, we'd grown comfortable around each other.
"Grandpa, uh... tidy up a bit."
"You used to have this cute side just a few months ago. Now it's nothing but nagging..."
Expecting cuteness from a grown man seemed a bit much.
I planted my hands on my hips and stared him down shamelessly. With a light click of his tongue, the old man began sorting the scattered items.
I sidled up to help, and he stared at me intently before reaching out to pat my head lightly.
In those three months of living together, I'd picked up all sorts of knowledge.
For instance, my Gloomy Aura only fully takes effect with direct eye contact.
I learned that because the old man had tried to pinpoint its source.
So when customers came by, I'd keep my eyes fixed on the floor to avoid stirring up trouble.
As long as I did that, they might feel uneasy around me, but it never escalated to outright revulsion.
And I finally had an answer to the most basic question: where exactly was I?
The city kingdom of Diran.
Its Outer City Residential District.
Beyond the outer walls lay the slums, the outer city held residential zones, and the inner citadel housed the elite and the king.
"You worked in the inner citadel once, right Grandpa?"
"...Yeah."
The old man kept it brief.
Glancing at the shelf, those medals hanging there weren't purchases—they were his past, badges of whatever feats he'd earned.
Among them, the one etched with a shield meant he'd fought in a defense and merited recognition.
Sidling glances while staying by his side had taught me enough to recognize that much.
But for whatever reason, they weren't memories he cared to revisit. I sensed that intuitively, yet I had to broach the subject anyway.
"Could you train me up a bit?"
"...Outta nowhere?"
"The world's... harsh. I need to at least protect myself."
This world was savage.
And I had no power to defend myself.
Besides, this was a game at heart.
Which meant chaos would inevitably erupt someday.
No chaos, no progression.
Before it hit, I wanted the strength to stand on my own.
"...Fair enough."
The old man nodded, convinced, and went on.
"You look young enough most folks wouldn't bat an eye, but you're pretty striking—pervy weirdos might come sniffing around."
I scratched my cheek with an awkward smile.
Praise for my looks felt off—it wasn't my real face, after all.
"You won't stick around forever, so yeah, prepping for later makes sense."
"...You sure?"
"You ask for help, then question if I'm sure? Come on."
"You never talk about the past, so I figured you'd hate dredging it up."
"Honestly, not memories worth reliving."
The old man spoke evenly, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
"Just cause or not, it's still killing. Unavoidable, sure—but medals? Nah."
"Really...?"
"Don't mean I'm right. Just soft, is all."
As he reminisced, his hand drifted to his missing eye.
His gesture made it clear how he'd lost it.
"Thank you."
"Thankful? Then quit the nagging."
"But dirty's dirty."
"...Didn't pick you up for maid service."
"Picked me up, so own it to the end."
To my cheeky retort, he sighed, vanished into the storeroom briefly, and returned with a sword.
"Mine once. Hold it—no drawing."
"Got it."
I took it, hoisting the sheathed blade high.
It had real heft.
Fine for carrying, but swinging? Tough.
"...Roughly 4kg?"
"3.1kg bare. Bit heavy for you, yeah."
He pondered, then fetched a shorter, slimmer blade from storage.
This one was heavy too, but lighter than the first.
About 1kg, give or take.
"Swinging this'll be tricky, but doable—not like the last."
"First was two-hander, this one's single. Obvious weight gap. You're tiny, so even this might need both hands."
Like he'd nailed the right fit, he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Alright."
"Sword training now?"
"Body's frail as hell—what sword training? Handing a blade to an untrained weakling's the worst risk."
Solid point, but deflating all the same.
My sulky look earned a flick to the forehead.
"Can't train when folks're about—they hate your vibe. Dawn it is. Up early."
"Yes..."
From then on, early dawns meant stamina drills under his watch.
Two months flew by before I could grip a sword.
Another month later.
One realization hit.
"......Talent, huh."
"Subtle, right?"
He nodded, smearing salve on my blistered palms.
I felt it too.
Wild that this could even happen.
I suspected the reason.
Silent Steps.
Silent Steps C
You are a filthy slum orphan—no one welcomes your presence striding boldly into view. To escape hateful stares and suffering, you mastered silent steps.
Under his guidance, my stances and footwork were utterly silent.
No sound meant no easy presence detection.
Even right in front.
But calling that talent? Nah—I had zero gift for swordplay.
Not just swords; zilch for any weapon arts.
Not hopelessly inept, but slow on the uptake.
"Subtle."
"Effort'll fix it."
"Yep. Practice makes perfect."
He took it as me cheering myself up, but my faith wasn't blind.
My status window proved it.
Traits: Autonomy B, Silent Steps C, Gloomy Aura D
Skills: Military Swordsmanship F
Military Swordsmanship F
Your slight build and muscle-resistant constitution aren't cut out for swordplay, with talent shallower than most—lagging across the board.
The brutal verdict stung, but in a game world, ranks could climb somehow.
No giving up on talent yet.
Fist clenched, I flashed the old man a bright smile.
"What'll you have today? I'll cook."
"Fry up some chicken then."
"You got it—delicious as always."
His cooking was good but repetitive; lately, I'd taken over.
He seemed content enough to let me handle meals.
Thoroughly peaceful.
Or so I thought.
"Oh, Rie. After dinner, quick errand—the smithy's sword restoration should be done. Grab it."
Simple enough.
Keep eyes low, no issue.
But my mouth wouldn't move.
Time froze.
Choices appeared.
1. Talk.
2. Accept.
3. Decline.
4. Attack.
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4. Attack.