Don't Meddle
Gasp for breath, Mikhail raised his sword with trembling hands. He glared at me with eyes burning to win somehow, but his quaking legs robbed him of any menace. I couldn't help but wonder just how far he could push himself. To the boy caked head to toe in dirt and dust, I said,
"Get up."
"Shut up."
I could hear his teeth grinding from way over here. The frustration boiling over on Mikhail's face. The pitiful sight of him covered in grime. It stirred pity in me—and sweet satisfaction at the same time. I could get addicted to this…
Mikhail swung at me again. His blade trembled at the end of his limits. It wasn't efficient; it was desperate, raw emotion overriding form. I sidestepped effortlessly and cracked my scabbard into his exposed side—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to make it hurt like hell.
Crack.
The brutal tearing sound echoed as Mikhail staggered wildly.
"Guh… Hraaah!!"
Watching him try to grit through it with a shout, I said again,
"Your left leg's wide open."
No sooner had the words left my mouth than I smashed my scabbard into it. Whoosh. His body launched into the air before crashing down with a heavy thud, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The thick haze blinded me, hiding Mikhail from view.
Pop. He darted through the dust, thrusting at what he thought was my blind spot—but I'd sensed his move with my instincts. I dodged lightly and called out once more.
"Right side this time—your waist."
Another vicious crack rang through the alley. The deep strike convinced me: he wouldn't be getting up. Not even Mikhail, with his unbreakable will forged from hundreds of falls, could endure the agony of aura wringing his guts dry.
Three seconds of dead silence. Overwhelmed by pain, Mikhail clutched his stomach, too wrecked to scream. Clang. His sword slipped from numb fingers. And with it, he collapsed fully into the dirt.
I walked over to him. Not fast, not slow—just steady steps toward the fallen hero of this novel.
His eyes trembled. Fear of that pain returning, mingled with helplessness from our overwhelming gap in skill, twisted his broken expression.
I looked down at him and said,
"Shall we call it?"
"I can… do more…!"
-Crunch. A red haze like heat shimmer coiled from my fingertips, tightening around Mikhail's throat. It pinned his shoulders, ensuring he stayed down, and began to gnaw at his unyielding spirit.
Teeth clenched, he fought to push through the crisis. I forced an awkward smile and whispered,
"Let's stop. Push further, and you'll wreck your body."
"Don't… pretend to care. This is nothing…"
"You'll actually die."
Infused with killing intent, my voice made his eyes shake violently.
"Don't move."
"Got it?"
I knew it too. How much he despised me. I'd tormented the girl he loved and sided with the one he hated to make his life hell. I couldn't blame him for hating me or ignoring my words.
I didn't expect his understanding. That would be shameless. Just one thing—I wished he'd grasp this much: that to me, the young miss was as vital as Yuria was to him.
This was just petty venting, childish whining. But I hoped he'd see even a glimpse of my immaturity.
I bent down and picked up the sword he'd dropped. Whoosh. Swung it lightly. Checked the edge front and back.
Countless hours of effort etched into the handle's wear marks. One of Mikhail's treasures from the novel—the sword bought by the nun who raised him. His most cherished blade, the one that forged who he was now.
Grinding his teeth, Mikhail spat,
"Don't touch it with your filthy hands."
"I washed them."
"I said don't… touch…!"
I ignored him and examined it closely.
"Nice sword."
A lie. I knew its story. Cheap junk—heavy, poorly balanced. Worth one gold at market. But to Mikhail, it was priceless. And he knew it too. A man who'd wielded hundreds of blades couldn't be ignorant of its flaws.
Because it was a gift from the nun who made him the fool who knew only justice. That's why I couldn't trash it outright.
After a casual swing, I said to the heaving boy,
"You need to learn aura fast. Or this sword won't last."
Mikhail fell silent, eyes laced with unease—Why is he saying this?—just watching me.
As a possessor, I added one piece of advice.
"It'll break soon… Better hurry."
Facing Mikhail today made something clear. His stunted growth wasn't from stolen opportunities—it was me pulling punches for convenience.
The trials of first semester: heretic raids, friends' betrayals, the young miss's madness. I'd shrunk them all, slowing his progress. Too late, I realized.
At this rate, he'd get one-shotted by Pascal, let alone clear this event. For my peaceful possession life, it was time to step back from his ordeals.
I let out a deep sigh.
"One last hit to finish."
Ragged breaths filled the air. Mikhail lay on the ground, staring at the sky, face a storm of emotions. Wronged, humiliated—crushed without landing a single blow.
I sighed deeply and sat beside him.
"Mikhail."
"…Haven't you mocked me enough?"
"No. I'm gonna tease you for life."
Despair crossed his face. I felt sorry for him covering his eyes with a heavy sigh, but compared to the tragedies ahead, this was nothing.
Yuria would keep meddling. And Mikhail would play along. Hating him stirred guilt too, so gazing at the same sky, I murmured softly,
"Embarrassing, huh?"
"…No."
"Come on… Liar."
Silence fell. Dawn's melancholy hit, and I blurted something cringe-worthy.
"Mikhail, you hate us, right?"
"…"
"I hate you too."
Ignoring his silence, I kept talking to myself. If not now, when?
"Handsome, popular, hogging all the love letters—know how jealous that makes me?"
"I…"
"Shh. I'm being serious. Shut up and listen."
I cut off his retort. Losers obey winners. Any backtalk, and I'd knock him out.
I sealed his mouth. Dawn air felt good, cooling my stuffy chest. The young miss would sleep with windows wide open. Too late, and she'd turn into a frozen noble.
I brushed dirt off my butt and hauled Mikhail up.
"Yeah, yeah. I know I'm a bastard. Can't solve it with words? Use fists. Broke? Steal wallets. Like I just did with yours."
He patted his pants pocket. Empty. "Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath with a sigh.
"Not much cash. Empire's star spending like that—what's left for scum like me?"
"…"
"Kidding."
This would be the real end. Our meetings. I'd sworn off his trials. More meddling, and even I couldn't intervene.
I could help sporadically without touching the main plot, but no more academy-style interference. Heretics noticing would be a pain.
So, my final sincere advice:
"Don't meddle."
"It's not meddling…"
"Advice from the heart."
Or you'd get burned bad.
"Just… remember my words."
Advice from a possessor who knew the original.
Leaving Mikhail in the alley, I headed home. Spotting the young miss's window wide open as always sped my steps. Smiling at her stubborn refusal to listen, I thought, No chocolate for breakfast. Heavy feet hurried on.
Passing the wall, nearing the mansion entrance. A familiar voice called from the second floor—one that shouldn't at this hour.
"Ricardo!!!!"
Choking back sobs, the young miss screamed for me, waving frantically. My heart dropped—until her words calmed the panic.
"Cockroach!! Hieeek!!"
"Eek! Time to run!"
"You bastard!!"
Grinning, I bolted to her room.