Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 3
>Chapter Title: But I'm Satisfied?
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Under the blazing sunlight, the river flowed proudly onward.
Carriages rumbled across the bridge overhead, pedestrians hustled to and fro, and I found my way down to the riverbank.
“What in the world is going on?”
I leaned over for a peek at my reflection in the water.
The surface wasn’t exactly crystal clear.
The Black-White Slums’ river was a murky mix of sewage and freshwater, its very color a testament to the filth.
But it was clear enough to make out my face.
“Yep, that’s me.”
It was definitely me.
A handsome face stays handsome even in youth.
It was the kind of good looks that could make even this grimy water sparkle—not something you saw every day.
Of course it was my face.
“But... younger, huh.”
Why was that?
No clue.
There was one thing that came to mind, though.
“Fire Mark.”
A single, vivid rune etched clearly on my left chest.
It matched exactly the pattern formed when the grimoire’s ashes burrowed into me right before I blacked out.
Everything else had reverted to the past, but this alone remained unchanged—reason enough to suspect it.
“Whatever it is, the grimoire’s definitely behind this...”
Could a grimoire even do something like that? I pondered for a moment, but there was no way to know.
Grimoires were transcendent artifacts coveted by the greatest noble houses.
‘Just the fact that the lazy-ass Decullan Patriarch showed up in person tells you how big a deal they are.’
And for all their importance, info on them was scarce. Even I, who’d stirred up trouble in every noble house under the sun, had barely scraped together any real knowledge.
Ugh.
“Beats me.”
Was this a dream? Nah, no dream felt this real.
In the end, I gave up trying to figure out the “why.”
“Who cares.”
It was a good thing.
Yeah, a damn good thing.
I took a deep breath, and the stale, coppery stink of the Sail River filled my lungs.
Look at this sight.
Sure, the Sail River was filthy, straddling the line between sewage and freshwater, but I could only see it because I was alive.
“Alive, huh?”
My scrawny hand.
It looked too small to even snap a goblin’s neck, but that very frailty held infinite potential.
“A strong, mighty morning.”
Youth!
The battle-hardened cunning of a veteran who’d seen it all—save for aerial combat—now paired with the promise of youth?
This was a setup where anything I touched would turn to gold. No, it had to.
So, what did “turning it big” even mean?
I looked up at the sky.
Unlike the murky Sail River, the heavens stretched clear and blue, not a cloud in sight.
No wyverns soaring overhead, of course.
But that was fine. The sky from that day wasn’t up there—it was etched deep in this chest of mine.
“I had a dream.”
Yeah, a dream.
Before I died, I’d planned to reincarnate as a wyvern at least, live free, and torment the Decullans one by one.
But originally, I had a bigger plan.
One tied to my comrades’ dreams, too.
The real reason I’d decided to retire.
- No. 1, we’re gutter rats from the Black-White Slums. We’ve got nothing—no clothes, no food, no learning. What do you think hurts the most out of all that?
Back then, I answered:
- Starving.
But my comrade saw it differently.
- If it was just starvation, we wouldn’t be stuck here. Same with clothes. What do you think dragged our lives into this shithole?
- I’m satisfied, though?
- ...The reason our lives are in the shithole is...
- I said I’m satisfied.
- You fucker.
We threw down hard that day. Came to blows, nearly killed each other.
Naturally, I won.
“No. 1, after all.”
But what was eating him so bad? He bawled like the sky was falling, looked so pitiful I had to hear him out.
He said:
- Not learning anything—that’s the real tragedy. If we’d had knowledge, we wouldn’t be caught and forced to live like this by those noble bastards.
Troubleshooters don’t retire. But he’d told me once: if he ever did, he had a dream.
“He wanted to build a library.”
A place where anyone—regardless of birth, status, gender, nation, or affiliation—could come freely and learn.
No charge for reading, open knowledge for all.
But I’d take it further.
“I’m building a tower. No reason needed. I just like ‘em tall, so I’ll stack it sky-high.”
Location didn’t matter.
But since I was in the Black-White Slums right now, I pictured it here.
Right in the heart of the Black-White Slums, a massive tower piercing the heavens, standing tall.
A tower anyone could enter.
“I’ll fill it with books. Any kind. Doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s a book.”
I’d write a few myself to stock the shelves. Could be a diary, or a tome packed with the Decullans’ dirty secrets I’d uncovered as a Troubleshooter.
“One thing that can’t be missing, though.”
What’s that?
“The Decullan secrets!”
Heh.
Prime spot: right at the entrance on the first floor. Open the door, and bam—there it is.
Anyone stepping into the tower would spot it on the shelf. Whether they cared or not didn’t matter. See it enough times, and curiosity wins.
Picture it.
“Slum rats, bastard sons of nobles, even the butcher’s boy—everyone clutching a book.”
Just imagining it made my mouth water.
“The cover emblazoned with the Decullan crest, packed with the secrets they guard more fiercely than their lives.”
Heh.
“Heh heh heh heh.”
Couldn’t stop laughing.
“Local kids, everyone devouring the Decullan secrets. Then the next slum over, and the one after—girls and boys all learning them.”
Beating the Decullans head-on? Near impossible.
Even reborn like this, same story. Maybe after a hundred lives, but I wasn’t dying that many times.
But spread their secrets far and wide?
‘They’d love that.’
They wouldn’t dare touch me then.
Why? Because folks craving more Decullan secrets would guard my tower. Hell, they wouldn’t even need to.
‘By then, the secrets would be everywhere.’
One problem, though.
‘How do I get my hands on them...?’
I mulled it over, then shelved the thought.
A way would turn up. Play to my Troubleshooter strengths if needed.
Anyway, that was future me’s problem—not today’s!
“A sage’s revenge is never too late, even after a century. I’m no sage, but whatever.”
Hm.
I tilted my head.
Was there any reason I wasn’t a sage? Nope.
Building a tower, filling it with books for all to see—what else is that but sage-like?
“Hell, everyone reading those books is basically my disciple.”
I nodded.
“So, I’m the teacher of all mankind. Sage isn’t enough—Grand Sage fits better.”
Heh heh.
Grand Sage Aster.
“That’s exactly...”
Whack!
Something exploded against the back of my skull.
A sharp crack rang out—too sprightly to be from my head—stars burst before my eyes.
The cursing came next.
“You little shit, I’ve been looking everywhere! Told you to hold position, and you’re holed up here? Huh?”
Thwack! Thwack!
“Gah!”
A voice fresh out of puberty grated on my ears, accompanied by merciless kicks.
It was so sudden I could only curl up—the guy had nailed the art of ambush.
‘But I’m a battle-tested Troubleshooter who’s seen it all, save aerial combat.’
I balled up, shielding my face and gut, and waited for my moment.
It didn’t take long.
Grab!
“Oh? Oh ho! Blocking now?!”
I snatched his incoming kick to my ribs and looked up at his face.
A weaselly-looking slum rat stared down, panic in his eyes.
“You...”
“W-what, punk!”
“Don’t remember who you are, but from the way you’re acting, this ain’t your first time beating on me.”
I glared daggers, and his face went pale.
I’m a big-hearted guy—petty grudges roll right off.
“You just hit me seven times. Let’s make it seventy.”
“W-what...”
“You’re dead.”
I launched up, fist flying for his jaw.
A clean uppercut—land it, and his brain would rattle, senses scrambled.
He’d regret it in that moment. Wish he’d hit me one less time...
Click!
“Huh...?”
“...?”
Our eyes met.
But I couldn’t just stare at him.
I took in his shocked face, then my outstretched fist.
“Why is this...”
Snapped?
My wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Pain crept in slow.
Stars flashed before my eyes right after.
Crack!
“You fucking punk! Hitting me? Hitting me? Your big bro? The baby of the group hits big bro?!”
“Gah! Ack!”
I curled up tight.
It hurt—so much. But the blows raining down hurt my pride more.
And the beating went on until my attacker tripped.
He was so focused on pounding me, he missed the rock underfoot. Lost balance, staggered, and splash—into the river.
Sploooosh!
“Baby bro, you bastard!”
He flailed in the water, face twisted in outrage.
Looked just like a drowned rat. I burned the image into my retinas, calm as can be.
A moment passed.
“Got your face memorized.”
I gave him one last glance and walked off.
Not running.
Tactical retreat.
‘Fifty-seven hits total.’
That’s how many he landed. Noted in my chest.
I’m big-hearted with petty stuff, but fifty-seven? That ain’t petty.
So, yeah.
...Probably.
* * *
I shook off the slum rat and slipped into some nameless alley in the Black-White Slums.
“Serious issue here.”
I sat on the ground and eyed my body.
Not quite skin and bones, but my limbs were spindly as hell.
“Not like I was some desk-jockey scholar—sprain my wrist throwing a punch?”
If that were it, I could at least understand.
But I’m a battle-hardened Troubleshooter who’s seen it all, save aerial combat.
A mage at heart, but no slouch with my fists. A sprained wrist meant this body was weak as shit.
“Forget the tower—what do I even do with this twig of a frame first...?”
Tch.
I smacked my lips in frustration when a familiar rumble hit.
Groooowl.
My stomach screaming for food.
Too chaotic to notice before, but my gut was already kissing my spine.
That’s when a voice piped up from somewhere.
“Hungry?”
“...”
I turned to see a kid staring at me.
I eyed him hard.
“Not me?”
“Dunno.”
Yeah, figured.
‘Doesn’t look like a slum rat.’
Filthy, unwashed for days. Clothes caked in grime—but up close, fine fabric, not the cheap stuff.
The kind of luxury slum rats could never touch.
‘Sure, occasionally some fallen noble kid washes up in the Slums, but...’
Not my business.
‘No, better if it stays that way.’
Noble brats in the Black-White Slums never last a year.
‘Think they fell for no reason? Infighting, power struggles—they crash and burn.’
And the problem?
‘They tie up loose ends. No matter how long, they track ‘em down. Slums get hit first.’
In other words, that kid was a walking bomb.
“Hey, kid.”
“I’m Damian.”
“Whatever.”
“My mom’s Bianca.”
“...”
I was trying to shoo him off, but he just kept spilling shit I shouldn’t know.
“You missing a few marbles or what?”
“Mom’s gone.”
“...”
Kinda heartbreaking answer.
Slum kids don’t all lack moms, but it still sucks.
I glared at him a sec, sighed deep, and stood, brushing off.
“Fine, I got no dad either. I win. Now I’m off—see ya.”
Took a step to leave.
Thud.
Thud.
Footsteps echoing mine.
“Don’t follow.”
“This is my way.”
“...Fine, you go first then. I’ll hang back a bit.”
I waited for him to move. He didn’t. Ignored the path ahead, just sucked his thumb like a champ.
Silence fell.
“Not going?”
“Gonna go with you.”
“...Fuck.”
Should I smack him?
Nah, might make it worse.
Best to avoid types like him. Plan was to ditch at the first chance, so I started walking.
Then he closed in.
“But... you hurt?”
“...”
“Want me to fix it?”
Before I could react, Damian reached out.
“I’ll make it better.”
But.
“...!”
His hand glowed weird.
A flicker of light danced on his grubby palm, then seeped into me.
Started at my wrist.
Then swept through every corner of my body, rising to my head in a warm glow.
“This is...”
“Healing touch.”
I gasped at Damian’s innocent voice.
My battered, beat-to-hell body—good as new.
That light... it healed me...
“...Goddamn it.”
My Troubleshooter instincts screamed.
I’d just gotten tangled in something filthy dangerous.