The Discrepancy - Timon von Philes
Timon von Philes. A incompetent noble stuffed full of greed, despite his neat appearance. That was the impression the reincarnated Tiny had of the lord of Philes Territory, the place he could call his hometown.
In fact, when he later returned for "punishment" after gaining power and fame, the man had ballooned with fat, his mind consumed only by booze and women. Tiny could still vividly recall those dilated pupils in unfocused eyes, the sallow complexion—the classic look of a drug addict.
He was the epitome of a fallen, ruined noble... but...
'Why... now?'
Tiny's mind went blank for a moment at the discrepancy between this man and his past-life self.
- Grrr.
Wolrang's wariness, transmitted through their soul link, awakened a new sense in Tiny. The power to smell souls. As some of that ability transferred over, secrets of the lord that Tiny shouldn't have been able to perceive at his level began to reveal themselves clearly before his eyes.
Two "circles" etched into his heart. Astonishingly, the root power wasn't mana. It was a sticky, black energy with an unpleasant feel, something not of this world.
Demonic power. Demonic qi.
That fact only deepened the confusion.
'This bastard's a black mage? No way.'
If so, his past self would have known. Maybe the man had been replaced by then. Or...
His endless thoughts shattered at the voice ringing in his ears.
"Why no answer?"
Tiny tilted his head with a dazed look as the lord's eyes narrowed sharply.
"What do you mean, my lord...?"
"...I see you don't understand. I mean the spirit you got from a stone like the one Wolf had."
"Ah..."
The man's eyes held near-certainty. No point making excuses now. But nodding along bluntly would seem suspicious too.
"...That stone! I did touch something similar in Wolf's pocket, but a spirit was born from that?"
Tiny deliberately cocked his head, playing up the ignorance of a slum rat. The lord ground his teeth and glanced at the knight captain behind him.
"Cran!"
"Yes, my lord."
Shing.
As if on cue, the knight's sword slid free at the lord's nod.
'What the hell...'
No killing intent, but the situation—from their prior talk—made no sense. Tiny couldn't just bare his neck.
- Grrr.
Wolrang manifested not as a spirit body but in small physical form, while Tiny circulated mana through his body and stepped back, ready for anything.
But fortunately...
"Truly... truly the lord of the forest. Damn it! That trash—how the hell did he guard it...?"
The lord's frustrated outburst suggested it wasn't the worst outcome.
"No helping it now. But before that..."
With a sigh and shake of his head, the lord turned back to the knight captain.
"Cran, what's this one's level?"
"1st stage... but his mana control is unusually fluid."
"And what does that mean exactly?"
"One more step, and he'll hit 2nd stage."
"Already knight level?"
"Not quite yet... ahem. Yes, given his youth, he'll reach knight level soon enough."
"Not typical, then."
"No. Unless he's from a famed martial house or noble lineage force-trained in mana from birth... he's a genius."
"Is that so?"
"Even accounting for that, not a drop of mana leaks, and the pattern is perfectly stable. This isn't some novice fumbling with awakened mana. He's been properly trained."
Cran's gaze on Tiny burned with clear wariness—not just toward the boy before him.
The lord, grasping the implication, let his eyes chill once more.
"Famed house? Ridiculous... and at that age, even less likely a master with his own secret art..."
His piercing glare fixed on Tiny again.
"I see. So, little one, time to answer?"
As killing intent laced the lord's words, Cran's hand gripped his sword anew.
But...
"Well... hm."
Tiny just looked mildly troubled, no seriousness on his face. He'd expected the question.
Mana circulation method. Mana circuits. Two ways for non-mages—mana users—to build and utilize mana. The former gathered mana in a core organ like the heart to enhance the body and boost versatility. The latter flowed mana in specific body-wide patterns, same enhancement but prioritizing purpose and uniqueness over versatility.
Both were treasured secret arts, handed down carefully in famed martial houses, noble families, knight orders, or mercenary bands. In groups where personal might equaled status, they defined identity.
In short, the lord was asking if Tiny belonged to some noble house or equivalent power.
'Fair enough.'
More rational than assuming a 13-year-old slum kid devised his own genius art. So Tiny had a matching excuse ready.
"I learned it from my dead parents, before coming to Philes."
"What?"
"A breathing method I've done unconsciously since infancy. Recently, as my power surged, I realized it was special."
"What kind of...?"
The lord looked baffled, but Tiny's expression didn't waver.
In his past life, two opposing rumors defined his character: The mighty knight stakes his life on promises. The mighty knight lies constantly. Evaluations split extremes, but both were true.
More precisely: The mighty knight stakes his life on promises to people, but cares nothing for words to non-people. His subjective "people" test drew critics, but most agreed his life earned the noble title "Knight."
No shame, thus bold even in lies. No one could read truth from his face.
'Well, partly true anyway.'
He was a refugee orphan. Plus, Philes had taken refugees indiscriminately for over a decade to boost invaders revenue—thanks to the lord and Wolf's gang. No records to trace him.
Doubt would linger, of course.
"...You expect me to believe that?"
"Isn't my standing before you proof enough, my lord?"
"What? Ah..."
Without knowing of reincarnation, any observer saw Tiny as a once-in-a-generation genius. Mature 1st-stage mana user at 13—leagues beyond his past self. Slum origins meant nothing against such talent. Even if someone vouched for his background, it'd fit.
And such a talent harmed the lord's interests... yet stayed, even came forward.
'We'd have tracked him anyway.'
Tiny's real goal—protect allies, smash the lord—unimaginable to him. That line hit home. No other fix for issues in their absence.
So...
"Hmph... fine. I'll believe you for now."
"My lord! So easily...?"
"Cran, my decision."
"...Yes, forgive me."
"Besides, no noble house would bother sending a spy to our territory."
Cran flinched, words unspoken, but the lord's cold gaze silenced him.
When it shifted back to Tiny, it had softened considerably.
"So, you want to be my hidden blade?"
"Hm... I'd prefer a visible sword, if possible."
Perfectly reading the tension between lord and knight, raising his value. The ambition drew a faint smile to the lord's lips.
"Good. Stay at the manor for a while. As an honored guest."
"Me?"
"You wouldn't know, but killing Wolf threw a wrench in big plans. I need an excuse too."
Unyielding tone brooked no argument. Tiny tilted his head but caught two telling clues.
Big plans derailed? Excuse? Derailed meant his cleanup caused issues...
'Someone the lord must excuse himself to? Wolf's "organization" was real?'
Why unseen in his past life? The three-year gap's butterfly effects hit home anew.
Plus, those black circles still vivid via Wolrang's senses stoked curiosity.
But...
'Getting tangled now's trouble.'
He was too weak. Even one of these two would take his life to fell. He needed growth time. Tangling with unknown backers wasn't wise.
'If black mage group, I'd smash 'em all—but I'd die first now.'
This farce just needed to last until Valentia Duchy's elites came for punishment. He'd pose as whistleblower, leverage to meet the duke.
The lady's ring helped, but more paths the better.
Then another thought...
'Wait, no. If the elites take out his backers too, double win.'
Inspiration struck; a question followed.
"...I'll obey your command. But how long must I stay at the manor?"
"Heh, why ask? Luxury you've never dreamed of."
"Unfamiliar places discomfit me. And you still distrust me, my lord?"
Undermining the "believe you" line, yet it satisfied the lord.
"Exactly. That's why I'll keep you close. One week."
One week close? If just testing loyalty, fine... but...
"Understood. Any at the manor I must especially mind?"
Any backers here now?
The lord's reply diverged.
"Ha, clever one. You seem etiquette-trained somewhere."
"...Just thorough preparation."
Caught off-guard, excuse slipped out.
"Whatever. That one will judge."
...That one?
Ominous chill down his spine.
"Sir Cran here will name the knights—heed him. Oh, and an honored guest will arrive in a week. Show him more respect than me."
...Fuck. Backers arriving in a week.
Distance to Valentia: His tip wouldn't reach for days.
'Best case...'
Three days reviewing ledger, verifying truth. Three more forming punishment squad. Ten to arrive.
'Optimistically, half a month more.'
Backers first. Plan change inevitable.