Don't Meddle, Mikhail

Don't be nosy -3- Mikhail. Silver hair. A petite 168cm frame. Porcelain skin. A beautiful boy with a righteous personality, handsome looks, and a thin, clear voice like a boy's soprano. Mikhail was the essence of everything female readers loved—a character who exuded a charm utterly opposite to the domineering appeal of the crown prince with his sturdy build or Ruin's thuggish vibe.

Unlike the crown prince's overwhelming charisma or Ruin's street-rat edge, Mikhail embodied the belief that "strength exists for the weak," a righteous soul who couldn't tolerate injustice. He was a key character who delivered satisfying payoffs while also serving up frustrating twists in the novel. The guy who forgave the villain trying to kill him, blackened his friend in the latter half out of misguided meddling, and even put the heroine in danger with his pointless interference—a cancer-inducing character who only knew honesty and justice.

That was the Mikhail I remembered, my assessment of him. I had no idea what Mikhail thought of us, but one thing was certain: I didn't like him, and he didn't like me. The young lady and I had ruined half ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his first year at the academy, and Mikhail had wrecked the young lady in return. Mutual dislike. That was our relationship.

"You bastard…."

Mikhail spat the curse. Would he really greet an old friend like that after so long? No pleasantries, just cold hostility. I sighed at his icy demeanor and flung a sword beam at the escaping vagrant. Had to settle the score properly.

'Kyaak...'

A scream echoed from beyond the alley. Mikhail gripped his sword hilt, poised to charge at any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moment—it was obvious. He yelled at me as I emotionlessly swung my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blade.

"What the hell do you think you're doing right now?!"

"Be quiet."

"What are you doing?!"

"It's late, isn't it?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. Why was Mikhail here? What was he thinking? I could guess, but to know for sure, I decided to ask him directly. Better to hear it from the horse's mouth than speculate alone. I shook the blood from my sword and said to him,

"Mikhail, calm down."

"Calm down after seeing this?!"

"I could be the victim here."

"Don't talk nonsense."

"I'm really hurt. I'm such a fragile person."

Cold glares passed between us. I hate you. I hate you too. Our silent exchange filled the quiet alley. I asked Mikhail,

"What brings you to a dump like this? Can the empire's busiest celebrity really afford to slum it here?"

"I didn't want to come to your turf either... but I heard screams begging for help. So what are you doing here?"

"Hm... cleaning?"

At the word "cleaning," Mikhail drew his sword with a shing. He didn't like me likening people to trash, apparently. I'd softened it as much as I could, but seeing him unsheathe his blade still stung. I warned him, laced with threat,

"Think you can handle it?"

He froze. Mikhail halted mid-draw and looked at me. He knew what I meant. No people around, no young lady to mediate. Not the academy that cherished peace and order. Just Mikhail and me in the silent alley.

My question carried layers: a taunt on whether he could win, a threat that it wouldn't end in a simple spar. I wasn't in a good mood. I might accidentally hurt him bad. Going all-out against someone who couldn't use aura wasn't knightly, but right now, with my foul temper, it was entirely possible.

Seeing Mikhail just reminded me of the young lady. The image of her lying in bed. The memory of how callously he'd treated her back then flickered before my eyes. I couldn't hold back my anger. Truth be told, my mental game's weaker than it looks. I could shrug off pad-lip or personal insults like a champ, but if Mikhail's mouth spat the young lady's name, sub-male lead or not, I'd smash him.

So I asked if he could handle it. If we fought now, I wouldn't hold back out of any sense of propriety—I'd beat him mercilessly. Honestly, his face creeped me out, and I wanted to bail right then, but running would just make him report to the guards or pile on more misunderstandings. We were already hated by the guy who'd end up the world's strongest; I dreaded the backlash at the story's end if I poked him wrong. That's why I stayed, swallowing my rage, humoring his clumsy provocation.

Mikhail drew his sword.

"Think I can handle it?"

My genuine concern didn't land. He advanced slowly, his blue blade gleaming. His mutter reached my ears clearly.

'Body acceleration. Muscle enhancement. Protection barrier.'

I gripped my sword tight as he prepped his combat buffs. 'Just go away quietly...'

Mikhail's body glowed faintly. His hair stirred from the ambient mana, and he drew a ragged breath. It all felt so pathetic. Disappointing, maybe? I was let down by his lack of growth. By now, I figured he'd cast reinforcement spells silently, but he couldn't even manage that—excitedly scanning around like a noob. At this rate... he'd fail this event.

Mikhail pointed his sword tip at me.

"You haven't changed. Still bullying the weak, killing like it's breakfast…."

"People don't change easily. And you gotta live with backbone."

"That kind of backbone's unnecessary. Stubbornness that torments others without forgiveness is just evil."

"Who'd mistake you for a priest? All that 'forgive, forgive' talk. So, have you forgiven us?"

Grind. I heard his teeth clench.

"You've crossed the line."

"Even if we did, forgiving us is what Mikhail does. It's not like we're discriminating by race."

"Quit playing word games."

"I'm not in the mood for games either."

Mikhail pressed me accusingly.

"You called it 'cleaning'... Tormenting those poor souls is 'cleaning' to you?"

I nodded.

"Yes."

'Crazy bastard,' he muttered. He glared at me with pure hatred. That look from the academy. The eyes from the day our rift truly began. Filled with disappointment, like he was saying you weren't supposed to be like this.

Bad memory. Mikhail grilled me the same way, his voice still icy, brimming only with hatred and resentment.

"You've always been like this... Kill anyone who rubs you wrong, then crush them so they never rise again."

"There were circumstances."

"No, you're different. No sense of proportion, always crossing lines."

To Mikhail's judgment, I gave a small smile and said, mixing sincerity with provocation—waiting passively felt too risky.

"Then have you ever even listened to my side, Mikhail?"

"What?"

"At the academy, and now—same thing. You never ask why, just condemn what you see. If I'm gonna look bad anyway, might as well live wicked, right?"

"Again with…."

I glanced at the deep alley where the vagrants had vanished.

"Do those guys look like good people to you?"

"Maybe not good, but they're pitiful."

"They might've killed someone. Or worse."

"They could have their reasons."

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Pitiful? You don't even know them."

"At least ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠more pitiful than you, tormenting the weak."

"What if Yuria had gotten hurt by them? Could you say that then?"

"What?"

"Didn't Yuria tell you?"

Mikhail gripped his sword tighter. I chuckled at him ranting about bullshit. Same old selective-blind idiot. Looked like clearing the misunderstanding was hopeless. He wouldn't listen no matter what. With his head full of justice, pity, and forgiveness, talking more would push me over the edge.

I looked at the yelling Mikhail and said,

"Shut up. You're noisy."

The moment red aura enveloped my sword and suffocating pressure crushed down on Mikhail—his vision went black.