Our Family -4- When I First Fell Here

When I first tumbled into this world, I possessed the body of a starving child in the slums. A skeletal frame, so frail that the slightest movement set my empty stomach rumbling. That was the body into which I awoke.

What the hell. Fuck. Same face as my past life. Just the hair color's different. The body staring back at me from a puddle was identical to my old self, brimming with memories that were anything but welcome. Born to a whore and abandoned. Starved to death in the end. Those were the grim recollections packed into this vessel when I took it over.

At first, I wandered in confusion, cursing whatever god had dumped me here—If you're gonna reincarnate me, make me a noble, you bastard! But human survival instinct burned hotter than any bitterness toward a shitty life. Screw possession or whatever. First, survive. So I started begging.

"Pretty eyes! Your future husband's waiting~"

"Hohoho? Did you just call me sis? I'm over 40, kid."

"Oops, my bad—miss, then!"

"Hohohong. This one's got a mouth on him."

Nothing special about the body—just average. But drawing on my past-life hustling at Seoul Station for pocket change, I slowly polished up my existence. Whatever the case, I was a pro at this. I lived like a total loose screw. While shy kids rattled empty cans, I'd snicker lame and flaunt my full one to tease them—a madman prowling the alleys.

What're you staring at, you beggars?

Even by my own reckoning, I was nuts. If some big lug snatched my haul, I'd grab a rock in the shadowy night and pay a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠house call.

"Eat well on my dime, orc?"

"H-Hey... let's talk this out—"

"It's Excalibur, bursting with love. Punk."

About a year into alley life, I naturally became king of the roost. Not some big-time crook dipping into drugs or crime, but ruler over the slum kids abandoned by their parents.

"From today, call me 'Boss.'"

"But I'm older than you."

"Tough shit. Out-earn me, then."

"...Fine, if you make bank, you're the boss. Got beat plenty, too."

I took enough thrashings to think I might die here, dragged off for group beatdowns by rival brats. But I clawed through, emerging a hero to the slum kids. Maybe projecting my own orphaned past onto them. Seeing those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠withering little bodies soured my mood—they echoed my old struggles. I knew better than anyone how brutal life was for an orphan.

First time I'd ever volunteered, I guess. And I needed to fill my own gut, too.

That's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how I lived until I met the young miss—and until she pulled me from the slums. Begging. Fighting. At dusk, splitting bread bought with our beggings among the kids while preaching hope against a bleak future. That was the daily grind of the possessor once called Lee Min-hyuk.

Then one day, a silver-haired boy lay discarded by the roadside. Covered in bruises. On death's door.

"What the—why's this kid here?"

"Know him?"

"Nah, first time seeing him."

"...?"

"Take him with us for now."

That was my first meeting with Mikhail. Though he doesn't remember me...

*

Kyle fixed me with cold eyes, cigarette in hand. He drew on it amid the winter chill, blue eyes flickering with rage as white smoke billowed out.

"I sent you a letter a year ago."

"About Mikhail, right."

"You know it well."

A year back, Kyle had fired off a letter seething with fury. Demanding the full story on why the young miss turned to black magic, and every detail on Mikhail without omission. Though the incident stemmed from her mistake, it was a brother's plea to pin the blame on a commoner who ruined a noble. The letter insisted on malicious dirt: relationships, weaknesses, even his cherished ones.

In response to Kyle's demand for accountability from a Desmont servant's tormentor, I'd sent a curt "Apologies. Can't disclose."

Now Kyle probed its truth. His calm tone masked the heir's unimaginable wrath.

As silence stretched, he incinerated the cigarette butt with magic, reducing it to ash. Thick white smoke weighed heavy on my shoulders.

"Why didn't you send intel on that commoner scum?"

"My apologies."

Kyle's voice grew grave.

"Unacceptable."

Exhaling deeply, he pressed on calmly. "I dug into his background myself. From before the nun convent adoption to now—everything."

"..."

"Tougher than expected. Cost a fortune and ages to crack one commoner's file."

"You worked hard."

"Yeah... but the deeper I dug, the less there was. Orphaned at the convent, then academy. That's all a year yielded. One last tidbit, though..."

He pulled a small photo from his pocket. Smiling kids under a "Free Soup Kitchen" banner. A sullen redhead hugged tight by a silver-haired boy beaming brightly.

"That sword-wielding commoner shares your slum roots. Comments?"

Silence dragged. Kyle demanding answers, me unable to give them easily. I had no desire to dredge up that melancholy past. Just silence.

Kyle sighed deeply. "I don't think you're scheming against Desmont. I'd have caught it by now—Father would've ended you."

"No such intent."

"What I want to know is this." His blue eyes flashed sharply. "Tell me what you know about him."

"May I ask why?"

"To hold him accountable." His voice turned chilling, stripped of prior warmth—pure vengeful ice. "I'll wither his precious ones first, make him pay slow for what he did."

"Pointless."

"You calling my sister's suffering pointless?"

"He hurt Olivia."

"The fault's ours."

"Result: Olivia's hurt."

"Mikhail suffered because of us, too..."

"Whose side are you on?!"

His fist clenched, roar echoing—my inner worries deepened.

"Ricardo. You think it's okay for a commoner to harm a noble?"

"No. Just... he's my friend, so I said that."

"Friend? Heard you two clash at the academy. That's friendship?"

"..."

"Hit the mark." Kyle pressed. "I'll teach that commoner the weight of Desmont."

"The young miss won't like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it."

"..."

Mention of her halted him. Seizing momentum, I overstepped. "Someone she once loved, right? Even if feelings faded, she wouldn't want him hurt over her."

"Insolent. She'd probably love it."

Gazing at the mansion's third floor where she slept, I told Kyle, "No. You know she likes beating people but hates killing."

"..."

"Even if she wished it..." I met his eyes squarely. "I can't share his info."

Spilling on Mikhail would endanger Yuria, too. No need to heap Kyle's colossal villainy on those mid-novel dust-eaters. Mikhail could rot, but not her.

Kyle lit another cigarette. "Haa... Figures."

Nodding like he'd expected it, he pulled something out and offered it. "Wear this till tomorrow evening."

"A year ago, I'd have killed him."

"..."

"But Olivia's grown a bit. We'll call it a light warning. If it happens again..."

"I'll handle it then."

"Didn't you call him friend?"

"Now he's the enemy. That lolicon bastard."

"Loli?"

"Dangerous talk—Imperial Army might nab you."

Kyle clamped his mouth shut. "Gotta watch it."

Handing over the wooden plaque, he dusted his hands and turned toward the mansion. Then—

He paused. "Thanks for guarding Olivia."

A gentle thanks, laced with care.

*

Next morning, the young miss scowled at the corridor corner where she'd been punished yesterday.

"What're you doing?"

"Taking my punishment."

"I was like that yesterday?"

"Yes."

Her face twisted. "Eeeeek!!! Brooooo!!!"

Seeing reality hit her, I chuckled softly.